#seraphites

abby x seraphite

part one

part two here

part three here

an apostate is what you are. lost is what abby is. the wind carries you to each other like two leaves in the fall.

cw: abby threatening reader with a gun at first meeting haha she's so silly

no beta we die like yara

word count: 3,099

it's raining in seattle.

the streets are wet, slick, flooded. jagged edges of the bombed roads stick upwards, water rushing through the cracks and canyons. buildings creak. creatures hidden away groan and click.

water rushes up against the areas of the coast, hitting into left-behind boats and broken boardwalks. it crashes up into the hem of your small rowboat as you jolt onto land— onto the mainland.

Seraphite!Reader x WLF!Abby

Chapter one: The sounds of the forest

wc: 5k

You had gotten separated from your group.

It wasn’t supposed to be a complicated mission—just a routine scout run beyond the treeline, following a narrow stretch of muddy road that curled along the riverbank. Gwen and Tara had been ahead of you, speaking in hushed, clipped tones and checking their weapons like it was second nature. You weren’t like them. They moved like wolves—sharp-eyed, fast, certain of every step. You still hesitated, still flinched at every sound in the trees.

When Gwen glanced back, her braid whipping over her shoulder, her eyes locked on yours. “Keep eyes,” she said in a firm whisper, nodding toward the ridge ahead.

But you didn’t. Not really.

You saw the WLF patrol too late—six of them in dark clothes, rifles raised, boots slamming into the wet ground like thunder. You froze. Not out of fear, exactly. It was something colder, deeper—your limbs locked, your breath caught behind your ribs, your legs rooted in place like the moss-covered trees.

The gunfire erupted before you could move. Gwen and Tara fired first, drawing the soldiers into a frenzy. One of them shouted, another fell. You barely heard them over the ringing in your ears. You turned to run, too late. Your boot caught on a root slick with rain, and you slipped—backward—into the river.

The world flipped.

The current seized you instantly, dragging your body like a rag through the rapids. Your bow was ripped from your shoulder. You tried to scream, but water filled your mouth. Your braid came loose, hair tangling across your face and clinging to your eyes. The river was freezing, sharp as glass, punching the air from your lungs.

When you finally dragged yourself out—coughing, choking—you were somewhere deep in the Seattle wilds. Not near the island. Not near any base. Just forest and fog and that awful silence, the kind that makes your heart throb in your throat.

You collapsed to your knees in the mud, soaked to the bone, every part of you shaking. Your coat was gone, torn away by the water. All you had left were your brown slacks, heavy with moisture, your half-laced boots, and a thin white cotton shirt that clung to your skin like a second, frozen layer.

Your fingers curled into your sides, arms wrapping around yourself as you tried to hold in your own warmth. You were unarmed. Alone. The forest around you hissed with rain and distant bird calls, but it felt like the trees themselves were watching, holding their breath. Every gust of wind cut straight through the fabric, pulling a shiver from your spine.

Your teeth chattered. You tried to move, but even that was slow—numb muscles, soaked socks squishing inside your boots. You didn’t know where Gwen and Tara were. You didn’t know if they were alive.

All you knew was that you were too far from help.

You whistled sharply through chapped, trembling lips, the sound piercing and melodic—a signal etched into your bones since childhood. The Seraphite call. High, lilting, then low. You cupped your freezing hands around your mouth, fingers stiff from the cold, breath shuddering in broken exhales that turned to mist in the twilight air.

Silence answered.

No reply. No second whistle in the distance. No rustle of movement. Just the hush of the forest growing colder, darker, hungrier.

You swallowed hard and huffed a breath through your nose, wiping it against the back of your wrist. Your damp cotton sleeve left a smear of cold against your cheek. The light was slipping fast—the sun a bleeding smear of orange behind the skeletal treetops. You couldn’t afford to wait in the open. You needed warmth. Shelter. Fire.

You dragged your boots forward through the soft earth, limbs leaden, teeth clacking with every step. At the base of a thick cedar, its roots gnarled like twisted fingers clawing out of the earth, you knelt down and began gathering what you could. Fallen branches—dry, pale, and brittle—cracked in your hands as you snapped them down to size. You remembered your father’s hands, rough and steady, showing you how to find the dry twigs under the rot, the ones that still caught flame.

You did what he taught. You pressed the black flint stones together—strike, strike, again. Your hands were numb, nearly useless. You muttered a prayer under your breath, barely audible. Another strike— A spark.

A flicker. A glow. A curl of smoke. And then— Fire.

The flames caught on the smallest bundle of kindling, eating greedily at the splintered wood. You leaned in close, pulling your knees to your chest, letting the heat lick at your soaked clothes. Steam rose off your slacks, your shirt clinging to you like wet paper, but at least you were out of the rain. The branches above gave some protection from the light drizzle still falling—a soft pattering sound like whispers from the trees.

You nestled yourself beneath the roots, the fire crackling softly in front of you, casting flickering shadows across the mud. You reached out your hands and rotated them near the flame, wincing as the warmth stung at your fingers—tiny pinpricks of sensation returning to the skin. You would dry, eventually. As long as the fire kept going, you’d make it through the night.

You had to think. How to get back.

Back to the island. Back to the others. But there was no clear path in your head.

You could barely remember the map—they never let you study it in full, never let you into the school after your twelfth year. You were twenty-two now. A decade of second-hand teachings, oral traditions, and guesswork. You tried drawing the coastline into the mud with a stick, sketching the river’s bend, the dense pines, the old tracks—but it was foggy. Blurred. Like trying to remember a dream right after waking.

And worse, you had no coat. No scarf. Your collar hung open, and the carved scars at the corners of your mouth—the sign of your devotion—were bare for anyone to see. The Wolves wouldn’t hesitate. One look at your face and they’d shoot.

You sighed, long and shaky. Drew your knees tighter, pressing your forehead to them for a moment. Your breath was slower now, the fire’s heat seeping into your bones. Your eyes burned. Your body ached with exhaustion, the kind that hummed beneath your skin and begged you to stop moving.

You laid down carefully, curling on your side in the dirt, just close enough to the fire for the warmth to reach you, but not so close as to risk a spark catching your clothes. The fire’s light danced across the underside of the cedar’s branches, the orange glow flickering like a heartbeat.

No one would find you here. You let your eyes close. The world went quiet again.

A rough, calloused hand gripped your jaw and tilted your face to the side. Not cruelly—but firm, deliberate, impersonal.

Then you heard it. A long exhale. Hot breath against your temple.

Your eyes shot open.

Morning light had spilled across the forest floor, soft and gold, filtered through a canopy of swaying pine. The fire you’d built the night before had long since burned out—only a smoldering ring of ash remained, coughing up lazy plumes of smoke into the cold morning air. You blinked hard. Your vision blurred from sleep and fear, then sharpened.

A silhouette stood between you and the light.

You gasped—a sharp, panicked sound—and scrambled backward in the dirt, boots slipping in the mud. Your pulse roared in your ears. Your breath came in shallow, rapid bursts. Sheer instinct.

She stood motionless. Watching.

You clutched your arms around yourself, body still weak from the night, and looked up—eyes wide, mouth trembling. You pushed your soaked hair from your face, only now realizing it had dried in uneven waves, matted with dirt and ash.

The woman standing before you was massive. Broad-shouldered. Towering. Built like a soldier—like the kind of woman who’d survived worse than you could imagine. Her face was hard to read, set in a grim line. A single blonde braid draped over her chest, thick and precise. She wore a leather jacket scuffed at the seams, sleeves pushed to her forearms, revealing scarred skin. Her green cargo pants were tucked into worn combat boots, her rifle slung low but ready—held loosely, but not forgotten.

You weren’t stupid. You knew who she was. A Wolf. And you were a marked girl, scars and all.

Your mouth fell open but no words came. Just breath. Just tremors.

Your thoughts twisted violently. You thought of your family. Your mother—buried in an unmarked grave. Your father—shot before your eyes in the name of doctrine. You and your nine siblings had grown up scraping what you could from the land, surviving off dried roots and spoiled grains, your bellies bloated from hunger. The elders called it divine punishment—said you were cursed ever since Edith refused the marriage pact. She wouldn’t marry that red-faced man who owned the farm by the woodline. He smelled like old blood and wet tobacco. And because she said no, you all suffered. You weren’t allowed to leave. Not allowed to learn. Not allowed to grow.

You shook your head now, a tear sliding down your cheek. Your voice cracked out like paper splitting.

“Please…”

Your hands were open at your sides. Empty. Your ribs were heaving. Your body still ached from the cold.

She studied you, unblinking.

The silence stretched.

Then finally—her voice came. Low. Rough from disuse or smoke or maybe grief. “Are you armed?”

You swallowed, jaw trembling, and slowly shook your head. “N-No,” you whispered. “I… I have nothing.”

She didn’t move at first. Just looked past you, scanning the trees. Then something shifted in her expression. A flicker behind her eyes. Not mercy exactly—more like a tired kind of pity. Like someone who’s seen too many people beg.

She let out a breath through her nose, then nodded once.

“You’ve got a minute head start,” she said quietly. “If they catch you, I’ll have to bring you back to base.”

That was it. No lecture. No threat. Just fact.

Your eyes widened. Your legs tensed.

“Go,” she said. Not unkindly, but firmly. Her grip on the rifle tightened as she stepped back, making space.

You didn’t thank her. You couldn’t.

You moved.

First in a stagger. Then a sprint.

Your boots tore through underbrush, the thorns scratching at your ankles, twigs snapping beneath your heels. The cold morning air burned your throat as you ran. But you didn’t stop. Your heartbeat thumped like a frantic drum. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t risk it.

Somewhere behind you, the woman stood still at your camp. Watching the trees swallow you whole.

Your lungs burned as you pushed through the dense underbrush, each breath ragged, shallow, and loud in your ears. Mud sucked at your boots—handmade, worn thin at the seams, the stitching long since frayed from years of use on rough terrain. Twigs snapped beneath your soles, briars clawing at your legs as you tore through the thicket. Behind you, the sound of pursuit surged louder.

They were close. Too close.

These must’ve been the same ones who ambushed you, Gwen, and Tara—striking from the treeline in a sudden burst of gunfire and smoke. You hadn’t even seen it happen. Just screams, and the wet, horrible sound of flesh tearing as bullets found their mark.

You stumbled to a halt, hand slapping against the thick trunk of a moss-slick cedar. Heart pounding, you ducked into the tangled roots and pressed yourself low, trying to silence your breath. It refused to obey—loud and desperate as your ribs rose and fell in jerky rhythm.

Voices cut through the trees.

“Which way’d they go, Abby?” a man asked, his voice gravelly, tinged with a thick accent. His boots were heavy—too heavy for forest patrol. They thudded against the soft earth like hammers on wet cloth.

You froze. They were already this close?

A pause. Then that voice again—the woman from before. Deep, low, and hoarse.

“She darted once I saw her,” the woman replied.

Abby. It had to be.

There was a low chuckle, a cruel sort of sound that scraped against your nerves.

“You should’ve just shot her,” the man murmured. “Why’d you let her run?”

A sigh followed. Weighted. Frustrated.

“Manny,” Abby snapped, her tone sharp, warning. “She wasn’t even armed. Didn’t have a pack. Nothing.”

Silence hung in the air like a snare trap, the woods going still except for the occasional drip of rainwater from the branches above.

You gripped your knee, pressing yourself tighter against the roots of the tree. Your damp shirt clung to your back. Every inch of you trembled—not from cold this time, but from the awful, suspended dread of being seen.

Then came Manny again, his voice lower now, disturbingly close. “Isaac’ll want her,” he said. “For answers.”

A twig snapped behind you.

Your blood surged in panic. Your hands twitched at your sides. If you ran now, you knew what came next. You’d be exposed. An easy target. They had rifles, scopes, range. You had nothing—bare hands and torn cotton, a body running on starvation and desperation.

Would they shoot you in the back?

Or worse—capture you?

You didn’t know what Isaac did to prisoners. You’d only heard rumors. Fingers. Teeth. Names carved into flesh. Gwen had said he never wasted bullets on information.

Your eyes dropped to the forest floor, heart hammering against your ribs like it wanted out. Nestled in the damp loam and broken pine needles was a rock—flat, wide, roughly the size of your hand. Heavy enough to do damage. Your fingers twitched. You had no knife. No weapon. Just this and the moment.

They were bigger than you. Stronger. But if you struck first, if you caught one off-guard…

You didn’t let yourself think too long. You bent low, slow and quiet, snatching the stone in your palm. The chill of it sank into your skin.

Your breath stilled in your throat.

You heard him—Manny, you assumed—his boots crunching twigs just behind the cedar’s wide trunk. He wasn’t rushing. He thought you were still cowering. Hiding. He didn’t know how close he was.

You lunged.

The stone cracked against his temple with a sickening thwack. Bone met stone, and blood spattered in a thin arc across the moss-covered bark. He screamed, stumbling back, clutching the side of his face where crimson already ran in slick rivulets.

“¡Mierda!” he barked, voice thick with pain.

Before he could recover, your hands were on his belt, fingers frantically unclipping the pistol at his hip. Your palms slipped from the blood already pooling along his jacket, but you got it— Cold, black metal. Weighty. Loaded.

You spun, pointing the pistol at both of them, your chest heaving.

You stood in a standoff now—trembling, breath ragged. Your arms shook with the effort of holding the gun steady. The adrenaline was turning to static behind your eyes.

Manny staggered back, holding his bleeding face, cursing under his breath. His gaze was wild but not panicked.

Abby stood still.

Her rifle was up, aimed squarely at your chest, but she didn’t fire. Not yet. Her face was carved from stone—jaw tight, lip curled slightly like she was… disappointed? Maybe in herself. Maybe in you. Maybe both.

You were the only one shaking.

“You’re close to our base,” she said finally, her voice low but even. “You won’t get far.”

She said it not as a threat—but a fact.

Manny took a slow step forward, ignoring the blood dripping down the side of his nose.

Your eyes snapped to him. You shifted the barrel toward his chest. “Stay back!” you snapped, voice high and cracking. The weight of the pistol made your wrist ache.

He lifted a hand slightly, palm open. “They’ll catch you,” he said, his tone strangely calm for someone who’d just been ambushed with a rock.

“You don’t know that,” you replied, sucking in a sharp, unsteady breath.

You didn’t know if you believed it yourself.

Abby’s lip twitched. She licked it once, thinking, then said flatly, “You’re sloppy. Easy to track.”

The way she said it stung.

Like she saw right through you—your frayed nerves, your soft steps, the way your panic left a trail of broken branches behind you. She wasn’t trying to scare you. Just stating what she saw. A mistake waiting to happen.

“I won’t shoot,” you said, and you meant it. The gun wobbled slightly in your hands. “Just let me go.”

Your words hung there, fragile as thread. A standstill beneath the damp trees. One breath too long, and everything would tip.

“Drop your weapon.” she said sternly. 

You shook your head slowly, defiantly. “No.”

Your voice was thin, cracking around the edges, but it still came out. Still held.

Abby exhaled hard through her nose. Frustrated. Her shoulders rolled back slightly as she tightened her grip on the rifle, muzzle trained steady on your chest. “Drop your fucking weapon.”

You flinched at the sharpness of it but held your ground. Instead of lowering the pistol, you jerked it toward Manny, whose hand was still pressed against the side of his face, now smeared red with blood.

“I’ll shoot him,” you said, your voice shaking. “I swear to God, I’ll do it.”

Your heart pounded so violently you could feel it in your throat. You didn’t want to shoot anyone. But the pistol was all you had—the last barrier between freedom and being dragged to wherever they took prisoners.

Abby’s gaze flicked to Manny, who winced as blood dripped down his jaw and onto the collar of his jacket. Then back to you. Something flickered in her expression—calculation, not concern. Cold logic.

“Manny,” she said calmly, “grab the truck.”

He stared at her for a second, confused. “We taking her back to base?”

Abby’s eyes didn’t leave yours. She studied you—mud-smeared, trembling, too thin to be dangerous for long. She tilted her head slightly, then gave a slow shake.

“No,” she said. “Not worth it.”

Manny blinked, then grunted and jogged off through the trees, muttering something under his breath as he vanished into the distance.

Now it was just you and her.

Abby stepped forward into the clearing, lowering her rifle. The silence between you crackled louder than any gunshot. Her lip curled into a crooked smile—nothing warm in it.

“I was being nice,” she said, voice dipped in venom. “I was gonna let you go.”

You stared at her, confused. Your brow furrowed, unsure if this was a trap or some cruel game.

She nodded once, almost to herself, and holstered the rifle onto her back. You watched, frozen, as she pulled a crossbow from over her shoulder—sleek, dark, and already loaded.

“You’re lucky I’m in the mood for a hunt,” she murmured. Her voice wasn’t angry. It was worse. Playful. “This time, you get thirty seconds.”

Then she lunged.

Before you could react, her hand closed around your wrist and ripped the pistol from your grip with practiced ease. Her other arm shoved you hard, knocking the breath from your lungs as you tumbled sideways into the dirt. You landed with a thud, moss and leaves sticking to your skin.

The pistol clattered several feet away—useless now.

She stood over you for a beat, then kicked the gun further into the brush. Her smirk widened as she raised the crossbow and pointed it lazily in your direction.

“Go,” she said simply.

You didn’t wait to ask twice.

Your body surged to life and you scrambled to your feet, boots slipping in the wet moss as you broke into a run. The trees blurred around you. You didn’t look back.

Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. But all you could think was: She didn’t kill me.

Why?

The stories had painted Wolves like her as monsters—merciless, mechanical. Soldiers who killed without question. So why had she let you go?

You ran like hell this time.

No more calculating. No more trying to outsmart her. Just raw, frantic, animal desperation.

Branches clawed at your face. Thorns sliced your arms. The forest was a blur of green and shadow, and still—still—you could hear her behind you. The sound of her breath wasn’t human anymore. It was a storm, fast and deep and getting closer. You couldn’t believe she was gaining, but she was. She moved like a wolf, tireless and terrifying.

You caught a flash of something ahead—a broken roofline, rotted wood, a collapsed fence half-swallowed by ivy.

A cabin.

You didn’t think. You just turned, feet skidding in the mud as you veered off the game trail and toward it. The front door groaned on rusty hinges as you shoved it open and slammed it shut behind you, the wood shuddering with the impact. Dust flew up in clouds, choking your lungs.

No time. No time. You bolted up the narrow staircase two steps at a time, hand skimming the wall for balance, boots slipping on warped boards.

You found a door. A closet. You dove inside, breath catching in your throat as you pulled it shut and crammed yourself behind a shelf of splintered coats and moth-eaten fabric. You squeezed your eyes shut, body pressed into the cold, dusty wall.

Then you heard it.

Boom. The front door shattered under a single kick, wood splintering loud enough to make your spine arch.

Her boots landed heavy against the floorboards downstairs, slow and deliberate. Not a sprint. A hunt. Every step seemed to announce her confidence, her certainty that you'd cornered yourself.

She was searching. You could hear her moving things, shifting broken furniture, breathing hard but focused.

Then came the stairs. One step at a time. Each creak like a countdown.

You tried to hold your breath. You dug your nails into your own thigh to stop the shaking. It didn’t help.

Then— The closet door flew open.

Before you could even scream, her hand was around your ankle and she yanked you out like you weighed nothing. You shrieked, instinct taking over, limbs flailing—but she was too strong. You hit the ground hard, the air punched from your lungs as your face collided with the floor.

The mud on your boots had tracked across the floor. You came nose-to-nose with the trail you'd left behind—smears of brown across the faded wood, your own sloppy failure.

“You’re stupid,” she said, voice low, angry. Not shouting. Just disappointed. Like a trainer scolding a dog that ran into traffic.

She was straddling you now, thighs planted firmly against your hips, pinning you down like it was effortless. Her weight was solid, unshifting. You tried to twist, to buck her off, but her hand came down and grabbed your face, turning your cheek hard against the floor.

You froze.

The panic swelled—but something else sparked with it. Your eyes met hers.

Close now. Too close.

Her gaze was fierce—icy blue, narrowed, feral with adrenaline. But there was something else there too. A pause. Her grip loosened slightly. Her eyes swept your face, lingering—not clinically, but almost curiously.

You trembled beneath her. Your cheeks burned.

God. You were blushing. In the middle of a fight for your life, with your face in the damn floor, you were blushing—because the woman straddling you was absurdly beautiful.

Her brow furrowed.

She grunted, jaw tight, and looked you over again. Something unreadable passed behind her eyes—confusion, maybe, or some fractured sliver of empathy. Her hand lingered on your jaw, not rough now, but firm. Almost thoughtful.

Then she sighed.

Her breath hit your cheek, hot and uneven. She closed her eyes for half a second… and leaned down.

Her lips brushed yours.

Soft. Controlled. A single press. It was over as fast as it happened, but the contact echoed through your whole body like a dropped match in dry grass.

You blinked, dazed.

This was insane. This was insane.

Your thoughts swirled into panic. You couldn’t breathe. Her weight pressed into your hips, her hand still gripping your jaw, and the sharp warning in her eyes said don’t try anything—but your body moved before reason could stop you.

It wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

You reached up, trembling, and grabbed her by the collar of her leather jacket. You didn’t have a weapon. No strength left. This was your last chance. A fuck for your life.

Even if it betrayed everything your village taught you. Even if it defiled the lessons carved into your soul since childhood—that your body was sacred, that physicality was for duty or procreation, not lust. That intimacy with an outsider was worse than death.

But you didn’t care. Not when your sister Edith was still back on the island, starving, struggling, alone under the eyes of cruel elders. You needed to make it back. You had to survive.

So you kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. A pleading pressed through your lips, through every frantic breath, through the salt of your own fear still drying on your face. Your mouth begged: let me live.

And to your shock—

She kissed you back.

At first, frozen. Then—hungry.

Her hand jerked at your jaw, holding your head in place as her mouth crushed into yours, lips rough, unpracticed, yet starved. She groaned low in her throat like the taste of you cracked something open in her, something buried and bruised.

She kissed like someone who hadn’t touched softness in months. Like a woman who’d only known blood and dirt and sweat for too long. Her thigh pressed harder between your legs as she deepened the kiss, body tense with restraint.

And then— She pulled away.

Her breath caught as she stared down at you, face flushed, lips red and parted. Her brow furrowed in a strange, conflicted pain. She looked like she wanted to say more but didn't trust herself to do it.

“Never come here again,” she gasped, voice shaking slightly—not with fear, but with restraint.

You nodded fast, frantic, as if that motion alone could buy your life. Your lips still tingled, jaw sore where she’d held it too tightly.

She flinched at the sound of the truck’s engine rumbling in the distance—Manny must’ve found it, started it up, the WLF patrol clock ticking back into motion. Abby's mouth curled downward, frustration flashing in her eyes.

Your moment was over.

She leaned down again, but this time her voice dropped to a whisper. A warning.

“You are so fucking lucky,” she breathed into your ear, cold and low. “If I ever see you off that island again—” she paused, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with you— “—I will kill you quick. On sight.”

You nodded again, nearly choking on the fear in your throat. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

She stood, rising over you like the end of a storm. Towering. Silent.

And then she was gone.

You lay there for a long time—staring up at the ceiling of the ruined cabin, heart still thudding so hard it echoed in your ears. You listened to the sound of her boots fading down the stairs, the door creaking again, then the hum of the truck rolling away through the trees.

Silence returned.

The forest beyond the cabin creaked softly, whispering through broken shutters. You were alone again. Alive. And trembling in the aftermath of something you couldn’t name.

The sets were insane and amazing

The acting was fucking perfect and at such a high level of talent

The practical effects were spot on

BETWEEN BARED FANGS: Abby Anderson x Seraphite Reader

Summary: Life as a Seraphite was supposed to be easy; second-nature. For you, it wasn’t. That’s why you had to leave.

(Reader is a cis woman, about 21 years old)

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, gore, religious fanaticism, emotional and verbal abuse, mentions of death (obv), unintentional misgendering, dead-naming (i hated including this but Y/N knew Lev before his transition, so it was for plot continuity). Support Trans rights or catch these hands. MINORS DNI

Word Count: ~1.1k (it’s only gonna get longer, folks!)

Author’s Note: I’m so excited to publish my first fic!! This is my first time sharing stuff like this publicly on tumblr so bear with me as I figure out the technical stuff. This first chapter is mostly just background/context for the story, so no Abby yet (BOOO, I know), but trust me when I say that will change very quickly. This is mainly gonna be an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers romance story, but I will probably eventually include smut because I’m a whore for women with muscles. Reminder that my asks are always open for fic/blurb suggestions. Hope you enjoy it! :)

CHAPTER 1

For the others, it was simple. Like they were born with blood on their hands and obedience in their hearts.

Patrols weren’t supposed to be dwelled on after the fact. Killing deer and other game for sustenance was a guarantee, when the seasons were forgiving and She willed it so. And the demonstrations? You were unlucky enough to have seen them firsthand, like most.

When your father’s calloused hands gripped your shoulders, forcing you to face towards the hanging bodies of Wolves, you didn’t cry. For you, too, were born into this new world, inherent with the union of violence and devotion. Even as their taut limbs kicked and thrashed, and one of the leaders used a steady hand to slice through their soft white underbellies. It was just like the animals, you thought. Only, unlike the demons, their offal was not to be savored in the literal sense. No, said one battle-scarred woman with sharp teeth, her cloudy eyes resting upon your trembling, juvenile frame. In her name, we savor their fear as proof of a cleansing.

Alone in the dark of your straw-lined bed, shamefully, you wondered if that made you worse than the hungry demons.

Now, as a young woman, you had practiced a sort of distance from it all. For a time, you slaughtered animals and Wolves alike, the bow that perched in your wind-chapped hands a vessel to prove your piety. The eagerness of your peers secretly sickened you, and when they smiled as their blades cut into rain-soaked skulls, you pretended not to notice. You pretended to revel in their suffering just as much as they did. And, truthfully, revel you did, to some degree. But on one patrol, as a soldier begged for his mother under the boot of your fellow devotee, the ghost of a fearful child behind his blood-flooded eyes, it suddenly became harder to pretend. You weren’t stupid enough to believe the Wolves were innocent, and you had heard the stories of your peoples’ slaughter in equal measure. Indeed, these soldiers were sinners, and you knew they would benefit from Her teachings. But gutting and slicing them as the demons did never felt like the correct solution. You had bravely confessed this sentiment to your father one evening, believing he would perhaps agree. Or at least, attempt to understand where you were coming from.

This was not the case. You should have known that his reverence towards Her took a different form; that his righteous anger and booming insults in response to your words was merely a reflection of his love. But it did not hurt less when he bid you to sleep in the barn that night, the cold dirt beneath your aching bones and the stink of sheep dung a steady reminder: You were defective.

It didn’t take long for the elders to notice your developing hesitation as a festering sin. When you were a child, this could be forgiven– perhaps the words of the Prophet had not yet penetrated your spirit. Your father prayed nightly for your transgressions, weeping fervently to a clutched carving of Her. You could do nothing but watch, wishing all the same that you could be different. More unapologetically cruel in Her name.

As rumors of your wavering devotion spread throughout Haven, the friends you once plucked and weaved eucalyptus leaves beside began to shun you. They turned their backs towards your greeting smiles; protested when you were assigned to their patrols. It was hard not to notice. The sudden kindness of a younger girl–maybe about five years your junior–came as a surprise to you one evening, as you wept and struggled to braid your hair neatly. Wordlessly, she took your hair into her thin-fingered hands, tucking the strands into perfect order atop your head. By the time your breathing had slowed and the quiet peace of the moment settled over you, she had finished, softly introducing herself. Yara. An unexpected lifeline in such an awful time for you. Soon enough, she became your only true friend, listening to your troubles even amidst her obvious distaste for your wavering faith.

“What of Her teachings?” You whispered to her one day, in the middle of a heated discussion. “Do you truly believe She wished for massacre, disguised as healing for this world?”

Yara shook her head, mouth pressed into a tight line. “That does not matter. You live in fantasy, Y/N, with these naïve wishes for peace. And some day, if the wrong person hears you, you will die like a heretic.”

You knew what she meant. You didn’t have to ask.

You wondered frequently why she bothered to try to understand you, to hear your doubts. Sometimes, when the two of you spoke in hushed tones over the loud sawing of wood, a younger child listened in. You later learned that this was her sister, Lily. She looked just like Yara, only with a certain degree of pensiveness not present in children the same age. It was strange, to look at her sometimes and see a similar degree of distance in her expression. She didn’t seem to need protecting, with Yara at her side and a sort of fierce independence in her own right, but you felt the need to provide it anyway.

Months later, when it had been a few days since you last saw the two, you couldn’t help but begin to worry. An array of grim possibilities crossed your mind: a patrol gone awry, the smoking guns of the Wolves, the grabbing hands of starved demons. Or maybe, you thought, they had finally grown weary of your company. It wasn’t until one rainy night that you came into some clarity, when they appeared in the doorway of your lodgings scraped-up and bloody, faces white with fear. Lily was nearly unrecognizable, hair shaved like one of the men. Her name died on your lips, and then you understood.

“Lev,” he said, downpour-soaked shoulders trembling from both the cold and the adrenaline. “It’s Lev now. Please.”

Yara’s expression was unreadable as she spoke, jaw clenched and gaze darting over her shoulder occasionally. “We need to go. Will you come with us?”

Lev and Yara; Seraphite Island.