#storhct

imari really derives no pleasure from something like this.  but he’s been lenient in the past at the cost of the people he loves.  he’s assumed the best of people too easily.  or tried to find a diplomatic solution where there wasn’t one.  that being said, imari values a certain level of diplomacy.  it keeps things in order, keeps them in this particular life for a little longer.  

               you get it --- killing is usually his last resort.  

but this witch is hellbent on tearing through amelia.  it’s not totally uncommon that a witch gets in their head that bringing about one of the blood oak deaths is going to bring them more power.  and maybe it will.  but usually they’re easily dealt with, sent away with their tails between their legs.  but this one’s more trained, a legitimate threat.   his time with the westwicks means that imari is used to a certain level, a certain kind of dark magic, but this witch exudes something else entirely.  when his fingers are only beginning to spark with a spell, imari can smell it & it chills his blood.  he has to wonder if it’s someone sent by the collector he and ciaran have been talking about a little.  it’s  just too strange an area of magic to have wandered into gloucester on  its own.

either way, imari has to act quickly because if he lets her get a spell going, there might be some actual energy.  flickering between human and more, imari plants himself between his witch and the stranger.  before anyone can react, there’s a concussive blast in the stranger’s direction that leaves him on the ground with ears bleeding, no doubt his eardrums have been blown out.  and then imari is across the few feet and a throat is torn.  it’s a quick, merciful death, even if it’s not precisely painless. 

he turns now to amelia, expression guarded.  

“Um. How come you didn’t ask me for help with this spell?”

Maybe she just hasn’t had a chance yet, is what he’s hoping for. Sunny has a hard time feeling useful on occasion, though, and that doesn’t help. It actually does the opposite of help. 

He also knows there are some things he just doesn’t grasp, and can’t remember because he wasn’t there. Imari was first and he doesn’t begrudge him that, but he can’t forget it, either. 

“ a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin. ”

The One Where Sav Strays from the Prompt and Writes Too Much.@storhct

Aaron’s old enough and has had enough questions that Ciaran’s had to explain to know who he is.  To Ciaran’s credit, he’s been easing Aaron into this idea for years.  There was never a moment in Aaron’s sixteen years where reincarnation had seemed impossible.  For him, it’s always just been a fact.  A fact that his familiar has taught him not to talk about with the wrong people.

That being said, Aaron’s relationship with his part lives is mostly in impressions.  A vague sense of what should be rather than memories of exactly what was.  Up until now, anyway.

The first memory isn’t pleasant.  It’s a moment of panic, too much noise, and a blow to the head that drops him like a stone.  The pain of it is real, he can hear his own bones cracking.  Aaron wakes up in sweat, gasping for air.  His fingers find the fur of his familiar, looking for some sort of assurance he can’t name.

The next night, he burns.  Then wakes up to find the sheets smoldering.  He grits his teeth, face pale for the rest of the day.  

When he sleeps next, three days later, unyielding teeth rip him to ribbons, pull out his throat.  He puts his head in Ciaran’s lap when he calls Lia, hands shaking violently, in the early hours of the morning to see if the same thing is happening to her.  

      “ I wish you were here, ” Aaron admits, voice raw and open in a way he never really is.  But God he’s tired.  Tired and scared.  Can hear those things in her voice too, and that hurts too.  He can feel the echoes of a life where they were closer, where they would have killed for each other.  Where they did.  Fuck their parents for ruining that this time.  

He knows he should say something to Ciaran.  But what can he?  They’ve been near silent for the last few days, Ciaran’s face grim while he watches and does his best to comfort.  But just like Aaron can’t understand what it is to lose him again and again, Ciaran can’t understand what it is to feel your own death one time after the other.

After he hangs up with Lia hours later, Aaron lets sleep take him again, resolved to whatever it’s going to be.  This time he’s stronger, power courses through him.  Despair, too.  He’s lost too much this time, is blinded by grief and rage and cornered like an animal.  When he dies this time, he’s drowning in his own blood.  Fucking choking on the coppery taste, spits words in a language he understands even though he shouldn’t.  Aaron when he’s awake is distant and cold, he didn’t know he was even capable of feeling this way.  So blinded by sorrow and fear that he damns the people he cares about while he bleeds out.  

When he wakes up this time, he’s bitten his cheek so hard he can taste a trickle of blood.  And it’s just too real, too much all at once.  A sob tears through his chest and out his mouth, and he hates it.  He’s not sure if he’s scared or sad.  Or scared and sad because he really is or because he remembers being.  It’s too fucking much.  God.  He’s just sixteen, and he’s not ready for this.  Not ready to die again or care again.  He has to bury his face against Ciaran’s shoulder while he just keeps fucking crying.  

“So you destroyed that guy and then what? Did you bathe in his blood and eat his still-beating heart?”