#morja

He shivers, prickles on his bare arms, the black of his clothes sticking to his skin. Another click as his arms are pulled back, as cold metal closes around his wrists, tight. Words that should pull his attention float past, listless, in the low whine that hums in his ears, closes around him like the cuffs, like the hallway, like the two bodies on either side of him. 

All that he can feel is the wetness of his shirt, somehow, heavy and cold and clinging. It’s not his blood he should be worried about, the blood of the ones he killed, the blood of the one he carried, that’s all browning-drying-cracking on his shoes, his face, his fingernails. 

He knows he can take the spasm through his right shoulder, sharp, hot, familiar, the pucker of hidden scar throbbing when his arms are wrenched back and up as Commander Jorah bends him at the waist (knows every minute of the stretch will just be stabbing heat in the shoulder, the arm, the neck, the collarbone, steady as a heartbeat). It is best to accept it because he knows he can take it. He sways, grunting shamefully, tilted back upright by a hand, enormous, that spreads across his chest and rights him. 

Morja should be listening: he can’t think. 

…Hey, what’re you?- that’s- that’s not necessary, Jorah, right?-

Cobi, please don’t fight me on it, just get this over with so we can get back to her-

Don’t bend him like that, man, just- we’re just walking him, don’t be like that, know you’re m-mad but don’t fucking do that- 

…Fine. Fine. 

What is the use listening when it won’t matter? Understanding what they’re saying won’t change what happens. 

Morja’s chin drops down to his chest. Even not bent in half like the Commander wanted to walk him down the hall - smart, less leverage for Morja to resist that way - he is still- he can still show respect. Head down. Eyes down. Marched like a disobedient signee who has to be dragged to the pole for correction. 

Apotchía. Worthless fucking disposable, diathésimos living up to the name, garbage, what are you good for now, waste, wasted retrieval, wasted training, wasted.

Morja? What’s going on? Why did you say that-

Don’t talk to him, are you-

…don’t know that-

…convenient for him, isn’t it?…

…ould listen to…explain…Saved us-

Or led you into a trap, we don’t know…orders to follow anyway, not for you or I…decide what happens…

Each jarring thud of his heartbeat makes him colder. Blood pulsing out of the slice in his side, not fatal, not vital. The tight fold of his undershirt packed against the wound has long since soaked through by now. Will they staple it up? If they want him awake - Morja’s stomach turns again, tucking his chin tighter against his chest. 

If they want him awake for what they’re going to do to him, they’ll have to stop the bleeding. 

The Commander’s grip around the back of his neck, pinching, bruise-heavy, the other gripping his arm. His anotéro- his team- Cobi behind him, tall and towering and almost twice his size, gripping his shoulder (fingers spread over the entire shoulder), sniffs and sharp little sobbing gasps happening somewhere high above him and- how will it start? Strapped down? Strung up? Bent over? It will happen quickly, maybe, because they are angry with him. Maybe it will be quick, at least today. Maybe today will-

Why is he trying to think ahead?

No matter what, there will be pain. There will be punishment. Pain is pain. Today or tomorrow, worse or better. He will still have to take it.

His head spins and if not for the grip on him, he would stagger. Good thing Morja isn’t under his own control. Good thing they are holding him back. 

A dog is chained when it bites at a hand. 

Any hand. A beating hand. A feeding hand. It is not his to bite. 

Why did he think he could hunt on his own? 

Doesn’t he know what the chain is for? How people get hurt when you reject your own good?

His legs fail for a moment and he stumbles, only the grips of his superiors keeping him from falling to the floor and the shame-heat in his chest at needing to be held up like this marching down hallways is washed over by plunging cold as he’s taken around the corner. A place where there are no private quarters. All white metal bars, rooms that contain but do not hide, that leave anyone inside open to all who walk past. 

The brig. 

How shiny and clean this cell was when he was brought to this place, how much these rooms didn’t look like they had ever been used…as if just waiting for someone like him. 

His head spins. Hands cold, prickling, in their cuffs. The whining pitch in his ears gets louder, muffling, words on either side of him humming in and out. 

“…Pfeffer. Pfeffer.” 

“Mhmm- s-sorry, um, hands-“

Big, big fingers fumble on the cuffs, the grip on his wrist slipping off. Tries again, unlocking. Morja’s hands are numb, only feeling the touch through the jostle. He blinks fast, dryly, wrists flexing as his fingers try to uncurl from their fists to not be a threat when he’s unlocked. 

It won’t matter, he thinks, unable to breathe through the ringing in his ears. 

There is no way to brace for what is coming. 

“Fuck. Hey, Cobi? Hey? Go get yourself water, yeah? Take a breath, take a beat. Come back.”

“Okay. Okay. J- Jorah, be chill? Be chill, I’m o-okay. Um. Gonna get water.”

Heavy footsteps walk away and the grip on his arm goes so tight Morja can’t feel his blood go through it. He can hold his wrists behind his back as he is pulled into the cell. He can keep his head bowed. He can- he can obey, show that he will take it-

The pain that is coming, the punishment about to break him open, Morja can’t avoid. As his stomach rises into his throat, his eyes go dark for a moment as what is coming, the screaming, the pleas, the blood, the breaks, rolls over him. 

Obeying won’t save him now. 

~

Obey. He knows how to obey. It’s so familiar too, gun in hand, hand raised, the muzzle steady and shining and level with its target. 

Like he never left at all. 

“Very good, diathésimos. Keep the threat contained.”

The building that was supposed to be only trainees- only…only boys full of men in dark suits and calm voices and their commands echo against the walls same as they always have. 

It was so familiar, right? His hand doesn’t shake. Of all things, not on a weapon, never on a weapon. 

“You’re confused, diathésimos. That’s alright. Too long in the field can do that.” Some anótéros, the voice so sure, always so sure. Morja’s palm itched, grip on the handle tight, stance planted, sweat trickling down his neck. All of that means nothing. 

On her knees, hands raised behind her head, small and strong and she trusts him. The target- the mission- Claudia. She trusts him and she doesn’t look afraid. Jaw ticcing, fingers balled into fists, but she’s looking right at him. Right up at him and there’s no flinch. Morja’s ears hum, lips tingling, his bad shoulder throbs and his good shoulder holds steady as it should. 

“Where’s the rest of the party, dickwads?” She calls out, a drawl with no tremble. Morja is close enough to see the muscles of her fingers relax and contract. “You’re not much fuckin’ fun.” Her eyes don’t leave Morja’s face and they’re dark and round like- why is she looking at him like that? 

The footfall of shoes behind Morja - flat, soft, expensive, athletic, something a supervisor would wear outside - and an anotéros stands behind him. He is rigid and alert and still as the back of his neck is gripped, a light squeeze. Morja does not breathe and something pulls at the- at her- at Claudia’s mouth and Morja is still, so still. 

“How many are with you, diathésimos?”

It doesn’t even occur to Morja to lie. The truth falls from his mouth as fast as he can open it. Clipped and quiet. “Two, anotérós. This one and another with a car.” 

The hand squeezes, soft leather on skin, pinching. His heartbeat throbs and his flesh is pulled taut around him. Pinned in place. Fixing up. Tightening him up. 

“Have you told them about this place? Its purpose?”

Cold sand to crawl through. Hot sun to run under. Sharp wire and concrete hallways and a room where they choose which boys- which candidates will make it.

“Yes, anotéros.”

“You’ve told their superiors too, haven’t you, diathésimos.” There’s no lilt to the end of it. Flat and even and Morja’s knees twitch. If he weren’t focused on aiming he would kneel right now. 

His throat moves and his swallow tightens his answer of yes, anotéros. 

“Well, it matters very little now, coincidentally. This year’s stock was…ah, lacking. No candidates worth the shape we’d whip them into. Not every kid can be a winner, can they?” 

A soft laugh and his neck is released and Morja does not draw in a gasp. He’s too well-trained to breathe. 

He can’t breathe. 

“You sick fucks…” Claudia breathes and Morja blinks, once, twice, and the sharp exhale from waist-height is not where the second rush of air comes from, his lungs contracting in his chest, a muscle that is failing to work well. “You killed-“

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Legionare. Jesus, what kind of sob stories has this one been feeding you?” Someone snorts, smile in his voice, edge of the room, only exit, hand too loose on his gun, finger not on the trigger. No armor. “This isn’t summer camp. You pass the fitness tests or you don’t, not everyone’s fast enough to dodge-“

That gloved hand is held up and the room falls silent. 

“Well, there’s no need for a lecture, is there?” Cold and calm and with that smile in the voice. “Two of you, go sweep the perimeter and kill the other one. Diathésimos, kill the combatant.” 

The horrible thing is that Morja’s finger curls around the trigger before he thinks. His body works - what does he need to think for? Why does he need to think at all? He’s been given a command. 

The target- Claudia- the woman on her knees jerks backwards, that’s common for them to do, but stills and her eyes are dark and burning and they stare up at him like he won’t do it. 

“Morja?” 

He won’t. He won’t pull the trigger, is the thing, but his finger curled. It did. He can’t say it didn’t, is the thing that is hot in his chest, hotter than the burn in her eyes he can’t look away from. He can’t move. 

“Diathésimos.” Angry and stern and Morja wants to kneel. He doesn’t want. He doesn’t know what he does or doesn’t want? “Your corrections for attempting to contravene your indenture are already severe enough. Are you disobeying a direct command?”

He would never. 

He already has. 

“Have you forgotten how to listen?”

Dangerous. Morja knows what happens when you strain at the leash. When you think you know better about what your teeth are for. 

Remembers when nothing filled his chest up like obeying, like hearing anything close to well done. Glad to be useful. Glad to have a job to do well. 

Why can’t he move? Why can’t he point the gun away? Why can’t he shoot her? Why can’t he answer? His arms and legs are stiff, heavy, chest-deep in water heavy, his hand hurts, his head hurts. 

“Don’t gotta listen to him, Morja, you don’t have to fuckin’ listen to him.” 

Doesn’t he? 

Her lip is bleeding. They hit her in the mouth when they put her on her knees. She struggled and they hit her. 

“If you don’t want to be whipped until you wish you were dead, you miserable fucking idiot, shoot this bitch in the head right now-“

“Fuck this, it’s broken. I’ll do it myself.”

The man across the room raises his gun. 

Too slow. 

Morja is faster. 

The man’s gun falls from his hands and then his body falls to the ground a moment later, blood pouring out of his throat, red hands clutching at the blade buried in his throat. 

He doesn’t need to be as accurate with his left hand when the target is so close. Two more knives against his thigh. Two more men in the room, two guns, and Morja’s leg catches onto Claudia’s body almost quick enough. 

Almost. 

He almost pulls Claudia down to the floor, out of direct fire, with his foot while spinning. 

Morja’s gun turned to shoot one man in the head, blood spraying out of the new hole in his head even before his body drops. 

Bang, bang as one, two, bangs from his left and even as he spins on his heel. 

He curls his body to arch over Claudia. 

Tries to block the bullets and even as a blade flies from his hand towards the threat, he isn’t fast enough that the familiar scar-pain twinging through him knocks his aim off by a half an inch. 

Not fast enough that one shot does not catch him, kevlar catching the bullet with a blow like a kick slammed into his middle. 

Not fast enough that when she rolls to the floor, she misses the second shot that the handler man got off. 

Red pours from Claudia’s head as she falls and that gun is tumbling in a moment from the hand that shot her as it is pinned to the wall by a blade through the palm. Pain means nothing to Morja and he doesn’t need breath in his lungs to aim. The anotéros, the handler, the man, screams.  Morja’s knife in his throat silences the scream. 

The anotéros bleeds out just like any other body would - gargling, clutching at his neck, sliding down the wall to the floor and, after a few wet noises, going still and then quiet. 

Body. 

Claudia. 

The other bang catches up with Morja in the moment he thuds to his knees beside Claudia - oh, that is where the second shot went - and one hand presses over where the blood pours out, hot and red and so much, one hand pressing against the gash along the back of her head. A choked sound comes out - is that from his mouth? - as he puts pressure on the wound. 

No. No. No. 

Her dark skin is pale and cold, no warmth at all, and she is so still under the sheet. How can there be no movement at all? How could they not see she should be saved? 

No. No, that’s not her- this is Claudia and she’s warm and shaking and alive and her eyes flutter, gleaming up at him. Her weight falls against his shoulder, solid and small, and he catches her. Blood gushes between his fingers and he presses hard, hard, keeping it inside her, he has to keep it inside her. 

I’m sorry, Morja wants to say. I shouldn’t have let this happen, he should admit. I failed you, he should confess. 

“Gn- Mo’a…?-“

“I’m sorry,” Falls out of, choking that useless word, over and over.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry?-“

“Ge’ me outta here?…”

Dark eyes look up at him without accusation - how? - and her curled-up fist presses into his shoulder. Morja’s breath whispers out of him, like a sob if he were capable of that, and her blood-slick knucles brush up against his cheek. 

The friend-punch that she does. 

The light in her eyes is dull but it’s there, still there, and her breath puffs hot against his cheek, lips pale, as her head dips, flops against his chest, close enough that he can barely hear. 

“Ge’ me…home…”

Get me home. 

Claudia goes quiet in his arms and her fingers slide slickly away from his face but she’s alive. Morja’s arms tighten around her, pressing against the gash until the pulse of blood slows. Rolling his shirt, binding it around her head, stopping the blood. 

He counts the six bodies between him and the exit into the tunnels, counts the bullets in his gun (ten) and the guns (two) he takes off the bodies in the room (fifteen per magazine), counts his knives (four) still strapped to his thighs. 

Yeah - he can do that. 

She’s alive. She is going to be fine. This time, she will be fine. Morja will make it so that, no matter what it takes, Claudia is fine. 

…

A horrible rush of air pushes out of Morja’s lungs as his chest hits the edge of a table. 

Dull heat throbs from his wound and then all through his body, driving the blankness from his mind. Fog tries to roll over him, darkness scattering under the edge of his lids, and is wrenched away again as two kicks to his ankles make him whimper. Blinks and sees, he has slipped into darkness in the moments between the open door and ending up across the tiny steel ledge, a crude desk, in the wall.  

“You’re not getting away that easy, you rat fuck.” 

Oh. Yes. He forgot for a moment that he’s about to wish he was dead. 

“Don’t fucking pass out on me yet.”

Familiar sharpness pulses through his scalp as the Commander’s hand yanks his head back until his back arches. Even through the water burning in his eyes, Morja can see a twisted mouth, slitted eyes, an expression impossible to be anything but a rage that hollows him out inside. 

“You shot her? Huh? You shot Claudia?”

No, no, no and it must come through his mouth because the Commander grips his neck so hard Morja feels nails cut into the skin before his head is slammed, driving the air out of him again, into the cold of a steel table. 

“I’m gonna get license to blacksite your ass for this, Asset,” Jorah hisses against his ear, hot and close and quiet. “You hurt my team, my fellow soldiers. You hurt my friend. You’ve never been hurt before, you traitorous fuck.” 

“‘Msorry-”

Fuck, Morja thinks he’ll be sick. He doesn’t have the focus to gag, dizzy and reeling. The tilt of his stomach, the cold that stretches out and out inside him, swells up, clogging his throat and his chest. That fear and the throb of his ribs pulls another whimper from him as he opens his mouth, breathes through the urge to vomit. 

As if he should give them another reason to punish him. 

“Hands up on the table and don’t fucking move them.”

Morja’s hands press to the cold steel, obeying, fingers curling around the edge like he’s holding on. What could he hold onto that he won’t be dragged away from? Feels the Commander’s hands drag up his inner legs, feel at his ankles, press over the waistband of his pants, a harsh crackling sound echoing against the walls as the fastenings of the vest are ripped open, wrestled off, tossed to the floor - the blood on it is dry. 

Each throb of Morja’s side is a sickening pulse in his head now and even that can’t drive out the thinking about it. It doesn’t ever, ever help to think about it. But- but he can’t help but think about it, breath fast and fogging up the steel beneath him as his hands are jerked one wrist at a time behind him again (cross them and if you make a move, I swear to Christ, give me a reason). He’s a coward, he is a coward who can’t help but not want it to happen when he deserves it and he can’t stop thinking about how pain hasn’t started yet. 

His ankles are open wide…will someone step between them? Will it be right away, how many, will the Commander, will Cobi, will others? 

Will he be strung up from the bars in the ceiling, swinging from his wrists as his back is split open by blows, as his legs and chest and stomach bruised and then welted and then bleeding?

With the stun batons surge fire through his skin, again and again, leaving him twitching, soiled, blistered? 

How close to death will they bring him for failing, for failing an anotéros? 

Morja’s cheek burns against the desk, head turned to the side, eyes blurred and pitiful noises jerked out of him. His head is thick and buzzing, can’t think, as he feels his boots yanked off. Hears the snick of a knife being drawn. Cold air bites his legs as his pants waist band is cut through, the buckle of the belt hitting the floor with a clink that rings so loud he jerks in a flinch, making the knife knick his back as it glides up, up the back of his shirt, up the length of each sleeve. 

He doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t mean to, but he feels so sick and so dizzy and his ribs already hurt so much before they have even been hit, but seeing the big, so big, he’s so big, shape of Cobi through the bars, his breath wheezes out higher and thinner, faster and faster and faster and faster.

He won’t struggle, he won’t struggle, he will hold still and he won’t struggle, he won’t beg them to stop, this is a punishment, don’t cry now, don’t whine now, don’t even think about struggling, nononopleasepleasepleasesorryplease- 

“What are you doing?!-“

“Strip-search, what’s it look like?” 

Nopleasesorrypleasesorryplease-

“It’s okay, Morja, it’s okay, don’t gotta be sorry- what in the hell, Jorah, we don’t do that?-”

I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry-

“We? No, Cobi, this is my job, I have to determine if he’s a security risk before-”

“Before what?! He- he’s not armed, we dunno if he did anything yet-”

“This is protocol.”

“Who cares, you’re scaring him, being a dick for no reason, Jorah, this isn’t you-”

Pleasepleaseplease-

“I’m trying to keep us safe-”

“By taking his clothes off?!-”

Every fast breath is a knife stabbing his middle, grinding his cheek into the steel, sob-breaths, can’t get air, dizzy, going to be sick, nononono-

“Jesus Christ, Cobi, it’s so he doesn’t try and choke us out with a shirt, you want that?”

“You know he’s not gonna do that, move, man, he’s having a panic attack-”

“So you don’t wanna keep everyone safe?!”

“Jorah, Jorah, you- you’re being nuts right now, not thinking clearly, how does this help Claud- oh- oh, shit, his side- oh, fuck, Morja?”

Morja hears his own name, blinks up to tunnel in on a hand as big as his head stretch out towards his body, and at the thought of a fist that size slamming into the sharp fire of his ribs, Morja heaves, vomits, and, in the only mercy he will get today, everything goes dark. 

~

i hope the update was worthwhile!! don’t worry, morja will get everything he deserves (not just what he thinks he deserves) 😩😩😩

taglist: @whump-tr0pes @wolfeyedwitch @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @i-eat-worlds

@redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @whumpzone @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpthisway

@whumpster-draganies @whump-me-all-night-long @liliability @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

It’s been long enough now that the bright red of the blood has turned brown on his palms. It leaves streaks on Morja’s pants as he rubs his hands over his throbbing knees, working bloodflow into the tingling numbness. Avoids touching where the blood sunk into the fabric, where there is a crust of dried vomit where she threw up on him. 

Morja will be corrected for staining his clothes. 

That thought is far away right now, only able to focus on how Roe will be fine. She will be fine. Morja’s hands twitch in his lap, fingers trying to clench. They can’t, really, the shuddering makes his hands stiff and unreliable and he can’t even dig his nails into his palms. No pain-spike-sharp to make him focus. His skin itches, the brown-red dried and crumbling, falling off in flakes whenever his fingers curl and clench. She will be fine. 

“…Have you tried the grapes yet?” “Oh, are they still in season?” “Some of the markets are still selling but you need to know where to look-“ “What sort of cheese do you think they’d best pair with for the lunch-“

A flutter of silk skirts drift past his eye level, musical chatter up above as though through a high window. Morja clasps his stained hands behind him, bowing his head, bending low, and they do not notice him at all. Morja sinks down on his heels again, kneeing between the pots of shimmering green plants that decorate every pillar. 

The shadows swallow him up again. 

He has been waiting for hours to see an anotéros in charge of rankings here, kneeling just outside of his office. Morja has to see the anotéros in person, has to make sure, to make sure that the Medici know that Roe is promoted high enough, has earned today any treatment she needs. Of course she will, Morja has no doubt. It’s only that- this will all be fine, of course, but it was so sudden. Morja just- just must be responsible for making them know. 

It was supposed to be easy. 

It was supposed to be an easy assignment. Guard the anotéros on a simple, simple, simple trip up to his summer house. Just a formality. Just some extra security while the Senator was away from home, a little trip to the country. He wasn’t important enough to attack. 

No- all anotéros are important, just…it shouldn’t have happened. 

It just- it just shouldn’t have happened. 

Her outfit was ironed perfectly when she left two days ago. Black and crisp, the golden eagle stitched shining over her swelling chest - allowed to wear a uniform. The polished barrel of a Glock 34 holstered at her hip. Morja had never earned a service pistol that young. But then Roe always had better aim with a gun than he. 

Inside his chest there is something sharp and loose that catches as he breathes fast and he swallows, again and again. 

She was fine. 

Morja heard that she didn’t even take any returning fire, quick and clever enough to block her anotéros from the line of sight. She had shot down the gunman from fifty-seven yards, over the effective firing range. She had eliminated the threat efficiently, taking down three men. She had not been taken out, as intended, and she did not let the kidnappers harm the Senator. Did her duty with just an empty cartridge and a single short blade. 

Thought they had me pegged as an easy fight she slurred and Morja had thought it was just her swollen tongue, speaking through a mouth full of blood. Sure showed those fuckers, huh? she had snorted, even with one eye swollen shut, knuckles torn, lower lip nearly split in half when she twisted her mouth into a red smile. Bruised and bloodied and staggering but fine. 

No bullet wounds. No stab wounds. No strangling, no limb loss, no fall. Someone only tried to hit her over the head - she didn’t even drop unconscious, that’s what is stupid, what is wrong, what is not making sense. 

Roe should not have fallen, seizing, from hunched over, vomiting, into collapsing to the tiles. Should not have dropped in her own sick in his lap, tumbling limp, nose streaming, as her muscles jerked her again and again and again across the floor. Her eyes should not have rolled back as Morja had to grip her tight, hold her head against his chest as her body tried to thrash. 

Eleven hours and fifteen minutes. 

Morja’s finger has not stopped tapping his leg, keeping count, a reddish print streaking his pants. Glances down into the stains on his lap. His throat clicks and he has to turn his eyes away, just in time for the door to his anotéros’ office to roll open, heavy wooden doors pulled aside as Morja stands carefully, bows deeply, only long practice at keeping him from a stagger as the familiar bolts of heat at movement shoot through his calves. 

“Oh, diathésímos, you’re still here?” Brushing his sleeves down over his wrists, the bright stones of his cufflinks flashing, crumbs falling from his fingertips onto the marble below, red specks of jam glinting on the corners of his mouth that curls down in a frown as he barely glances sideways. “Someone said you were waiting for an audience this morning. Curfew’s close, isn’t it?” 

Morja’s legs almost buckle, don’t buckle, stiffen like the rest of him as he hurries to keep up with the anotéros’ quick walk through the stabbing sharpness in his thighs, his feet, limbs waking up painfully, cramping, not something that’s on his mind right now. 

“Yes, anotéros. Forgive me, anotéros, I need to- I am making sure that m- a diathésimos is priority in the Valet- the Valetudinaria? This one was wounded in service and only- only honored with a uniform a week ago, anotéros, I need to make sure that the doctors there know that-”

The anotéros sighs, buttoning his waistcoat as he moves through the building and Morja barely remembers to not be too close, not hover at the elbow, keep his distance while trying to say something important. 

“And this involves me, why, exactly? Can’t you ask the Medici those questions?”

“Forgive me, if I’m not called or wounded, I’m not allowed there? I don’t know what happened-“

“Sorry I was late, honey,” The anotéros lifts his hand suddenly in a sharp wave, cutting off Morja’s words that stick against his tongue, jaw clicking shut. Still trailing behind into the bright-lit marble-arched lobby, hovering close, too close, striking close, as the anotéros kisses the cheek of a woman in sweeping silk rising up from a velvet bench. 

A crystal glass of sparkling water in her hand drips beads of moisture off the stem onto the floor, fogging up even in here from the swelling bubble of heat, and it’s eleven hours and eighteen minutes since Morja heard of what is happening to Roe. 

“That stupid business with rigs in Raetea last week has meant a lot more phone calls to my business partners so I had to take lunch in my office. I hope you can forgive me?”

A bright burst of laughter and Morja’s palm feels wet inside suddenly. 

“Oh, I wasn’t waiting too long, don’t worry about it. Not your fault they don’t know how to wipe their own asses without hand-holding, is it? I had someone call ahead so we can still make our spot at the Ganymede?”

“Sounds delicious, I’m starving. They still serve that cabrito there, right?-”

“Anotéros?”

Morja folds to his knees even as the words spill out, cold inside, even though this is important enough to earn a correction from, bending low until his forehead hits the ground. A beat of terrible silence stretches out and if Morja could feel anything but tight-chested he would feel sorry, so sorry, and he shudders with tension, not fear. 

“I’m talking to my wife, diathésimos, if that’s alright with you?” 

“I’m sorry.” Morja chokes out and flinches as a bead of water hits the back of his neck. “Please forgive me, anotéro.”

A higher, short clip of laughter again and Morja swallows a sound as the tip of a glittering shoe nudges his knee. “Oh, don’t be so uptight, baby, I’m sure he didn’t mean to be rude, hmm?” A little tap, too light to be a kick, hits his shoulder and the flare of heat there is swallowed up by desperate gratitude. “Get up, diathésímos, I’m sure it was very important, hmm?” 

“Thank you, anotéros, yes, anotéros, it- it is important-”

Washed over with waves of panic and relief, Morja staggers up onto his feet, posture perfect, keeping afloat by good manners alone. Knows he will wait for as long as superiors want him to wait. And even as he watches them kiss, make plans, ingratitude makes his breath tight and short in that waiting until his anotéros graces him with attention again. A sharp, narrowed glance that Morja would usually kneel under but for being gripped with command to do the opposite. 

“I’ll excuse your rudeness, for now, because it’s unlike you…also, I’ve got a nice evening planned and I’d rather not waste it reminding you of your place.”

“Anotéros, forgive me. It’s- I wouldn’t bother you for anything that wasn’t important.”

“Yes, you’ve said. So…a diathésimos, was it? You said they were shot, injured, what have you?” He waves his hand, shoulders shrugging, and Morja’s heart is so fast and loud in his ears. “I assume that was Senator Amherst’s little trouble he had yesterday night?”

“Yes, anotéros, and his guard- just now wears the eagle, the one who saved his life, by h- by themselves. S-saved his life. Saved an anotéros’ life.” Fuck, Morja’s chest is so tight it’s hard to get breath in and the anotéros’ face is blank and brow burrowed in a way that pushes more words out of Morja’s mouth, tripping over his tongue to make himself understood. “And because- this disthésímos’ station is so new that I don’t know if the Medici will know that this is a- it’s someone they should make sure is getting the- the best.” 

“Well. That is the job, isn’t it. I am very sure, diathésimos, that the guy is getting whatever medical care he deserves.” 

Something presses sharply against the inside of Morja’s chest as that face only looks confused and distant, horror crushing up through his throat as his nails dig deeper and deeper into shaking palms because his anotéros isn’t listening. 

No. No, no, Morja must- he must not be saying it right. Stupid, fucking clumsy, he’s being hard to understand, he must- he needs to explain better that he isn’t asking about himself, he’s not begging for mercy. This is earned. He is asking about a diathésímos who served well, who bled defending a superior. 

Roe is good. 

“Please,” Morja whispers, hands held outward, palm up, in offering. His throat is so dry, hours without water, that his words crack along the absence of any barrier he has before held back. “Please, anotéros, I know I overstep, I accept your anger, I only must know that…that a loyal servant is getting- getting what they deserve. That’s all I ask to know?”

Begging was never something Morja knew how to do right. But even as his anotéros huffs with familiar angered response to the attempt, it works enough. Even through narrowed eyes and a tense body that means he is displeased, the man still digs a phone out of his pocket and taps at the screen, muttering incident report and too high up for this kind of shit. Morja’s hands, not trembling themselves, start to twitch, offendingly, with his shuddering body and he tucks them behind his back again. 

A sharp sideways glance. 

“Well…h- she, it seems, fought off three at once, color me impressed.” 

Yes, yes it is impressive. Worthy. Deserving of honor. His anotéros can see that. 

“Well, that’s a shame. I can understand your interest. She seemed promising.”

Roe is promising. 

“Thank you, anotéros. And she will- will get the amount of care that she needs?” 

“Well, she’s dead, diathésimos. So…frankly, I don’t know what else you want me to do here.”

Dead. 

Morja must really be stupid. The pressure in his chest crushes, tight, can he breathe in? He can’t. It’s because he’s stupid and he’s the one who doesn’t understand. 

“It’s- I didn’t know it was that bad of an injury, anotéros.” Morja says breathlessly, out of air, feeling so stupid that his head hurts. His face hurts. Lips are prickling. “But she’s going to be fine with the right treatment to- to recover?”

The anotéros stops frowning and lifts his eyebrows in a long look at Morja that he doesn’t know how to understand, something like the teachers, what trainers, what other diathésimos look like when they are so, so stupid. 

“She died,” And the words being said are echoing, a little far away under the tinny whine in Morja’s ears. “after something happened to the head, I suppose. Swelling, then a coma, and, well, after all of the scans and tests and such to find that all out, the Medici put no order in for surgery. Weighted cost and all that.”

Morja’s lips tingle, pinpricks racing over the surface of his face. It’s so stupid that he keeps hearing dead. And he must be stupid, he had to be, because he can’t be hearing that she wasn’t saved, it wasn't worth it. And Morja can’t be hearing that, like he can’t breathe in, because those things don’t make sense. 

“Cost?”

A quiet little voice asks that and that certainly didn’t come from Morja’s mouth. His lips just moved and that came out. That’s not what he would say. 

“Diathésímos, I’m late already and I don’t make those sorts of calculations- look, you can ask Medici your questions if you need to…make a report? I’m truly not quite sure what you seem to want from me-”

Roe isn’t just any person. She isn’t new. She doesn’t cause problems anymore. She’s good. Who can’t understand that? She isn’t dead?

Dead?

Dead. 

Morja turns and he runs. 

He’s never run faster, dragged behind carts and chasing a target and resetting his own record on the track, then he runs now to the last place most would run to. He doesn’t hear voices behind him or around him, not even the heavy thud of his own steps, not the sharp drag of his own breath into his lungs. Only the high-pitched hum in his head. He can’t run away from an anotéros and he can’t run through the hallways and he can’t fail to bow to a superior and he can’t be in the Valet and he’s doing all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that he isn’t allowed in the Valet without an appointment because he can push past the bodies at the door. Grip the wrist that crosses his chest, push body against the wall, kick to the leg and there’s a cry and a crumple. 

It doesn’t matter that his sides burn from racing to the terrible building at the back of the compound, sweat-soaked from racing the length of the Castrum Stativa where it’s all steel and pain and sickness and hidden away. 

It doesn’t matter that pushing through a door is met by words like can you be back here (she is here so he has to be here), by a hand grabbing at his arm that is easily bent back, pulled off, shoved away. 

It doesn’t matter that he can’t stalk the corridors, doorway by doorway, to look inside. To look at every face, not hearing whimpers or soft cries or protests at whoever he finds inside that isn’t Roe. 

It doesn’t matter what punishment is coming from everything that isn’t allowed, the tightness in his chest and the numbness in his lips and hands that hurts in a way that numb shouldn’t, it doesn’t matter how ward after ward is empty of her. 

It doesn’t matter if he passes the mortuary to get to other rooms that will have her in them, because she isn’t dead, even if ward after ward is empty of her. 

His tingling feet carry him back to the mortuary and it won’t matter, it doesn’t make sense, because she isn’t here, but Morja can’t- doesn’t- won’t leave any corner of a mission unsearched. 

In this cold room with its bright white light above and its big steel drain below, there is a table. 

The body lying on it shouldn’t be hers. It can’t be hers. Under that white sheet, it might not be. 

But that crumpled pile of a uniform on a tray, that small uniform, is hers. Black belt so unused it lies there in a straight line. Black boots with fresh polish and streaks of dust. And on a black shirt still stiff with starch, the wings of the golden eagle are red, every stitch soaked with blood. And on top of that pile…socks folded into padding, a strip of cloth, and the safety pins that held it all together still in the shape of the chest it was pulled off of. 

Her. 

Morja sucks air in, metal and blood and chemicals, and he can breathe, now, of course, he can breathe. Of course the whining in his ears is gone and silence, so much silence, takes over. It’s his body deciding for him, again, like his feet that take him to her side. Like the hand he reaches out to touch, to curl around the shape of fingers under the sheet. 

Cold and limp. 

His body registers that. 

But the eagle? The uniform? Morja blinks, dry, looks at the pile of clothes. The Medici, the anotéros, they would have seen right away that she was promoted. They would know. 

They should know. 

What does cutting open a head cost? How much does training cost? They say it costs a lot, they say that all the time under boot and whip and needle, they should know. How much value did her skills have? How much does Roe cost? 

“I’m sorry?” 

It’s so loud. It echoes against the tiles. He didn’t yell and, still, the apology fills the room. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He reaches for her head, for the white lump that is her sheet-covered head, and- and he can’t, can’t pull back the cloth, he can’t see her like that. He doesn’t deserve to see, to see blank eyes and a still face and no smile on her mouth. To see the consequences of failing.

Did he not- Morja’s hands curl over her shoulders like he’s steadying her, like he’s giving her a lesson like she was still alive and what lesson could he offer her now, now that she’s stiff and cold? 

I’m so sorry. 

Did he not drill her hard enough? Did he not prepare her? Did he forget a lesson or fuck up some instruction? Did he hold her back, too old and past his prime to teach her well enough? Did he make the same mistakes as with the dog, crying and bloody in his arms before the knife sank deep, the consequence of not making it better? 

Morja rocks forward, whimpering, eyes burning, face dry, sobbing out the apology with no tears, no sounds. 

I’m sorry, chrisímos. I’m sorry, Iris, good boy. I’m so sorry, Roe. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. 

Morja’s knees fail him, failure, failing, even in death, fails her by letting his hands fall from her shoulders, arms falling to his sides instead of curling around her, fails and falls. Stares down with dry eyes into the drain, at his own hands, his broken and scarred hands full of so many lessons that he did not correct. They shake in his lap, stained and weak. 

Cold. Still. Empty. Roe. Dead. 

There’s no joke from the table. No bark of inappropriate laughter. No nudge of her foot against his to communicate when she should be at attention. 

Morja’s hands ball into fists. 

They already took her gun away. The gun. No.  Her gun, gone, no holster left on the table. It…makes sense because somebody else will need it now. It doesn’t make sense because she just got it. 

There’s that push on the inside of his chest. 

Dull, heavy, cold - not the sharp heat of frustration. But he doesn’t curl up on the tiles as it fills his stomach, fills his chest, but sits up. A pressure like water and his breath rushes out all at once with it. Fists so tight now they go hot, familiar sharp nails cutting into the palms. 

Roe…earned that treatment. 

She did earn it is what makes sense here. That makes sense. Roe was younger than Morja to get her first weapon and perfect in every test, perfect in every drill, every assembly of a pistol, every combat move was perfect, perfect, perfect. 

Who of any of the diathésímos but Roe could earn a surgery? Who could be worth the cost of recovery? Who- who was better than Roe?

She was their best servant, first from her barrack to receive the honor of guarding an anotéros’ life and she did her duty on a trip to a summer house. 

Roe died for a summer house. 

Morja rises to his feet. 

“I’m so sorry.” Whispered through cracked lips, it isn’t a whimper anymore but steady, even as his hands still shake. “…not your fault, chrisímos.” 

Morja’s chest heaves and the sob that is pushed out is loud and no tears come. His legs hurt as he straightens up, skin waking up with sharp pricks and burning heat and he hadn’t felt it yet before now. His stomach rolling sickly inside him, his chest aching, his bleeding palms stinging, and he knew it all before but he stands in the cold room and, somehow…he feels the pain and doesn’t just know about it. 

Not your fault. 

His hand passes over the sheet, cups over the top of her head. His chest heaves again and again, faster and faster, his fingers curling over a cold scalp that was so hot when he last touched it. The sheet lies so still and the shape of her face, brave and good, so covered, could be any other face. 

I’m sorry, Roe. 

If he remembered, Morja would think now about handfuls of saltwater to wash this body and strips of bark to dress it and a dance of swirling skirts to take joy in the life that body held. But Morja doesn’t remember any of that; he is far away from the ocean. 

I’m sorry that they failed you.

Morja doesn’t hold her in his arms because if he held her, he couldn’t let go. Morja doesn’t pull the sheet away to see her face because if he saw her, he would fall and could not get up again. 

And Morja doesn’t look back as he turns and walks from the room because if he did look back, he would stay. 

I will not. 

~

glossary:

chrísimos (greek for “useful” and is a term that some diathésímos use as a term of honor and endearment for one another; colloquially, “worthy”)

medici (doctors who upkeep the health and bodies of diathésímos)

valetudinaria (a word describing a Roman military hospital and in New Athens describes where the diathésimos receive medical care)

castra stativa (latin for permanent fortress; a term describing the fortified base for training and encampment of Roman armies and New Athens describes where the diathésímos live)

yeah, so, i broke my own heart with this one, what of it? 💔💔💔 oops, i tripped five years ago and created a character doomed by the narrative 😭😭😭

taglist: @whump-tr0pes @wolfeyedwitch @haro-whumps @much-ado-about-whumping @i-eat-worlds

@whumpthisway @suspicious-whumping-egg @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @whumpzone

@whumpster-draganies @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @stoic-whumpee @liliability @string-of-broken-hearts

The rec room on this stiflingly small base is stupid-small and doesn’t leave much room for hiding in corners, but Morja seems to be doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way, at least. Small blessings. But he hasn’t left the rest of present company alone, lingering by the water cooler and taking infuriating little sips of a paper cup. 

Short journeys, quiet shuffling steps, from the cooler to the corner. Cooler to corner. Jorah’s jaw tics. The soft drag of the tip of his shoe across the floor. Lift, absence of pressure, drag, tiptoe, mouse-step, take more water, scurry away. Fuck, can’t he just take the whole industrial jug at this point and leave well enough alone? 

Like a mosquito buzzing near his ear and never quite landing, Jorah just can’t ignore it. He’s lost a second round of Battleship to Pfeffer, inducing one of the guy’s booming chuckles in the wake of slipped curses. He doubts anyone else has noticed - it’s not exactly obvious. Whether the asset isn’t feeling very sulky today or else he’s too chicken-shit to fish for sympathy while Jorah is in the room, Morja is behaving himself. 

It’s not like anyone can see it either. It’s not like anyone knows why the little creep is dragging his heels around. But if the twinge of soreness in Jorah’s arm is anything to go by, Morja’s soles have gotta be smarting in the hours since last night. In the cool shadow of the corner, he leans against a wall to spare his stance.

His soles were that pre-bruise red, that deep shade right before purple Jorah knows well by eye, the welts in perfect straight lines over the arch of his thick skin. Jorah has to work for the break in the skin. Had to stop before it bled, before the lines broke altogether, even though a scream, hard to draw out as blood, broke in muffled echo through the rag between the asset’s teeth. Jorah is patient, he’s not some fucking brute who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows when to stop. 

Knows when to reel back, gloved hand gripping the black metal ruler firmly. It’s shimmering ricochet gleams in the low-wattage, unstained by its task. God, Jorah admires military hardware. Even tools as simple as this have many uses, such as drawing out beads of sweat from the asset’s screwed-up face, rolling down into his dark hair, in making the skin of his knuckles bleach white with clenching, making those bare feet quiver and dance to the beat of Jorah’s tune, unable to fake. 

The way those thickly callused toes flinch in their tight bonds can’t be faked. 

It's different than the spasm drawn out by the jolt of electricity across his feet. Jorah's baton can always cause that. Getting the skin tender, blistered. But some days, you've gotta hit something. And the response - the jerk, the whine at the tail end of a trailing yelp, the harsh drag of breath through the nostrils - feels practiced in a way that doesn't at all discourage the conversation.

That’s the beauty of physical pain. It might not “work” for traditional interrogation but it sure does tell you a lot of other shit. Jorah checks the bonds over, the tight security of zip-ties over cloth, no grooves, no marks, good work. He watches a bead of sweat roll down the back of the asset’s calf, catching on dark hairs, a path down to land on one of the welts that match the feet. Watching the clench of his thigh when the stinging salt likely hurts like a motherfucker in the stripes across the backs of this thighs. 

Pain is a language everyone speaks fluently. The perfect fucking teacher. The highest grade in understanding. 

There’s a purpose to the shit he’s going to Morja. Mindless beating accomplishes nothing much - not unless you’ve got a lot of free reign to work with. And here, Jorah simply doesn’t, not with soft-touch attitude of everyone at hand. No. Until Claudia or Cobi or especially Brax - Captain Hutchins - sees the value of it, Jorah’s work has to stay discrete, even-handed, subtle. 

Unfortunately for this guy, he gives Jorah a lot of room to work with. 

“Never knew you beefed it so bad at Battleship, J-Man, wanna switch to Go-Fish?” 

Jorah blinks, shaking away the fucking mosquito buzz around his ear, snorts, flicks a little plastic boat at Cobi’s arm and it bounces off the skin. 

“Owwwww.” Cobi whines, his big dumb face wrinkling up as he flicks the boat back. Sticks his tongue out. “Sore loser.” 

“Grab you a soda and we’ll call it even.” Jorah drawls, drawing cheerful agreement from his friend as he stands, stalks to the nearby little fridge. Drawing out the cold cans in hand, he catches a you, uh, a fan of Go Fish, buddy, it’s cool if you join us, right, Jorah? 

Oh. Right. He’s still fucking there, huh?

Jorah straightens, glancing out of the corner of his eye, catching the asset, catching Morja, stock-still. Cobi’s head tilts back, yellow curled and shaggy, dog-like, beaming in the man’s direction like a spotlight. 

Morja’s stillness is broken by the flicker of his eyes, dark, narrowed, from Cobi to Jorah. Blink. Widen. Blank. Creepy. 

Jorah’s fingertips crack the tab of his soda, the sharp pop snapping through the air, a hiss of cool air, and Jorah’s mouth pulls up at the corners. 

Morja’s throat jumps in a swallow and those black blank eyes blink once-twice. Sways side to side on tiptoe. This close, Jorah hears a small squelch at the sway. Oh. Interesting. Putting cold water in his shoes, huh? Jorah’s eyes flick down to his feet, up again, close-lipped, and Morja blinks faster. 

“Yeah, man.” Jorah says. “You wanna sit down with me and Cobi?”

It’s almost boring the way Morja’s eyes widen. The way he lowers his weight down to rest on his swollen soles to spare his thighs the strain. It’s a little funny though. Like a dog trying its hardest not to look at you when it threw up behind the couch. 

Flick to Cobi. Back to Jorah. Back again. 

“I-“

Almost on cue, Cobi cuts in with a musical you don’t HAVE to, of course, only if you wanna. Jorah can always count on Cobi not to ruffle any feathers. And at that, Morja’s body unfreezes, doing his little at-attention routine, shoulders drawing back like a flinch of its own. 

“Thank you, sir, I have work to do.”

Right answer, Asset. 

“Hey.” Jorah shrugs. “If you have work to do, you should do it.”

There it is, that dumb fucking tilt of the head, like he doesn’t get it. Like he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. Has to be told fucking everything - what to eat, how to kneel, when to talk, where to shit, probably. Jorah’s mouth pulls at the corners again, his teeth grit and bare. Read the room. 

That sends the asset scurrying off, click-swallow-blink, the paper cup tumbling out of his hand into the garbage, squelch squelch squelch, and that awkward thorn-in-foot limp when he retreats, dragging one foot after another. 

Jorah’s body relaxes all at once, shoulders dropping down, rolling his neck. Fuck, corralling people in line is hard work. Whatever, a sheepdog is thankless sometimes. Still. It’s a nice thought that this idiot runs off with his tail between his legs, with wet shoes and a dry tongue, unable to sit or stand. 

Setting the sodas on the table with a wide grin, Jorah lounges back for the first time, guard settled, plucking a new little ship between his fingers. 

“Fuck Go-Fish, bro, I’m stretched and hydrated now, your fleets gonna sink.”

Cobi’s face beams and then frowns a little, glancing back towards the exit, the crinkle in his face making Jorah’s stomach sour again. “Man…I hope Morja didn’t feel left out. I don’t want him to be lonely.”

Jorah flicks another ship at Cobi, drawing another sqwuak. His shoulders are down flat now, hackles soothed. The mosquito has fucked off and the room is cool and calm again.

“Aw, big softie. Get your head in the game or I’m gonna sink your battleship. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

He deserves it. 

~ 

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @haro-whumps @whumpthisway

@whumping-every-day @stoic-whumpee @whumpzone @straight-to-the-pain @redwingedwhump

@wolfeyedwitch @suspicious-whumping-egg @liliability @whumpster-draganies @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

@tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @scoundrelwithboba

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet cause i was so so excited to write something new again!! 🥰🥰🥰 have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly 💖

The fallen must pay for a grave, or their families must, and graves are, they say, costly. Plots of land which could hold a house or a slot of gardened flowers or a new statue does not need to hold a patch of dirt and a stone. The ashes are poured into the wind, as disposable as they were in life. It is rare that a family, if the dead still have one, can afford to pay for the body’s return. It is rare, indeed, for one to ask. 

That doesn't mean their deaths are not marked by those who knew them. 

There is a stone, innocuous and small, where the dead are honored. Some write names down on the stone. Others don’t bother. 

There is one marking, one stone, Morja waits to visit. Part of it might be that he doesn't have to leave until he does this thing he must not neglect. 

It’s more than just the stone, of course. It would be silly to think of that only. There are places Morja won’t see again where she would go. Where she took comfort. And not seeing these places anymore will be the drag of a knife out from where it lodged. And he will pack the spot with rags to stop it from bleeding, field medicine, how well he knows how to do that. How to plug up a wound and keep walking. Don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll fall. 

But there’s…a way only she could find something pretty in this place. Like, there was a spot by the fountain in the courtyard where a stubborn plant grew. And it would get ripped out, an eyesore, nobody intended for this little purple flower to grow between cracks in the base of that marble foundation. But the dirt underneath was strong, Morja supposes, and Roe encouraged it, is the thing. She kept nudging aside the little shiny seashells that surrounded the root - decorative, ceramic, gleaming, imported from some shop to look more perfect than real shells, no sharp edges or rough surfaces. Morja remembers what a real seashell feels like. No, he doesn’t. But his maybe-memory is rougher than the shells in this courtyard. He knows this, at least, in the way he knows when an opponent is about to strike. 

But the purple stays caught in a sunbeam, is the problem. The shaft of daylight through the pillars hits the water as it sparkles and it hits the flower too. The water from the fountain falls on the patch of land bared by Roe’s hands. Somehow, it stays and stays. Somehow, it outlives her. Everything else has, after all.

This is, of course, where Roe’s stone lies. 

Where else would Morja have put it? The dead are dead, of course they are. Gone is gone and bodies are bodies, hollow bullet casings, no powder, no spark. Useless to collect, more useless to hold onto. But Roe wanted a stone. She would have wanted a stone, probably, certainly, yes. 

It is past the alcove with the missing statue where Roe perched, sweat-drenched from long training, or bleeding from a hit, tucked into the space once filled by the bust of a marble head. The space has stayed hollow, still, and on a dark night like this, Morja could imagine, if he were to try, that the black lines of her body melted into the hole in the wall. That maybe she were there, long-limbed and tiny, clambering up in there to nap. 

He told her so often not to. 

What if she got caught?

Her bright, black eyes would shine and she would say that until the statue took her place, this was her spot. 

Hers. Like she’d laid claim to it. So stupid. Nothing was theirs, she could never understand that. 

Past the alcove, still empty, Morja’s quiet steps go past the vine full of berries he was never brave enough to eat. Never disobedient enough. Of course. She got hit for taking the berries and she got more careful at taking them. Those berries weren’t hers to take, just because she watered the vines. 

The rows of women (goddesses, Morja was told) tall and imposing and cool to the touch, their eyes looking down to keep watch on the garden, on its dwellers, and Morja would shiver sometimes when he was younger, passing by them, because what if they saw him misbehave? What if their marble fingers pointed at him in accusation? 

Roe looked up and tilted her head, one foot angled like the goddess with a bow and an arrow, elbow crooked just so, Roe so good with her aim, as good a shot as Morja, even so young. Her palms swipe sweat off, passing over the flat expanse of her torso, tugging at the close-fitting training shirt, and twisting it to match the ripples in the fabric. 

It will wrinkle, Morja fretted quietly.

Do you think I could pull off a look like that? Roe asked, 

The marble’s paint is fresh and gleaming, blue cloth draped elegantly over one shoulder, baring the breast beneath the other, her body small and yet powerful, royal, gold glinting on the folds of her skirt and the twists of her sandals. 

I don’t think we could ever wear anything that…nice, Morja had answered. 

Of course she could have. That’s what he should have said. He didn’t want to raise her hopes. He didn’t- she would have looked royal and powerful as Athena. 

The huntress looks down at Morja, out when he should not be, and he doesn't shiver anymore. He doesn’t quail before imaginary eyes as he kneels at the base of the fountain, the moon shining silver on the purple petals. Other hands have pushed the shells aside since- since the stone was placed behind the blossom. The crude shape of an animal drawn with a shaky hand, white paint on a black rock, traces the outline of tiny hooves, spindly legs, the body of a deer. 

Morja doesn’t know who drew it. It’s beautiful. And he cannot take this stone. This is- it’s tradition and he has to respect it. It would feel wrong to move this stone as stones are not to be moved. 

But he looks at it for a long time. Kneeling on the cold stone, the mist of the water landing on him and wetting his face, taking the role of the tears he cannot shed. The stone and the flower blur before his eyes but that’s just because he’s tired. He’s so tired. 

Maybe…maybe the alcove did belong to her, in a way. She was the one who used it. Maybe the fruit on the vine was hers to sit under, to eat from, unafraid. Maybe this flower was hers because she’s the only one who gave a damn about it. 

Morja doesn’t want to leave the stone. The flower. The alcove and the statue. Fuck, he doesn’t want to leave this stone. What should I do? Who will- nobody will tell me to go. Nobody will, they never will, how can I go when I’m going on my own, when nobody has sent me? How can I leave this behind? How can I leave her behind?

But…she isn’t here. And Morja can’t be, either. Can he? He can’t take this stone. And he can’t stay and watch over it. 

Morja stands, every muscle in his legs protesting, sharp and tingling, at rising. It hurts as much to stand up from kneeling as it does to kneel. But he stands anyway. Leaves the stone under the fountain, behind the flower. 

Roe has gone. 

It is time for him to leave the stone and go as well.

~

oof, i hope y'all enjoyed this important piece of juicy tragic backstory, this glimpse behind the curtain. 😢😢😢💔💔💔

taglist: @haro-whumps @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @whumpthisway

@i-eat-worlds @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @wolfeyedwitch @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @whumpster-draganies @lave-whump @whump-me-all-night-long

@suspicious-whumping-egg @tears-and-lillies @kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba @stoic-whumpee

have a very merry whumpas y'all! 💖💖💖💖