39Here once stood a long-winded author's note dated September 13th, 2020. Here's a different one that's dated May 10th, 2024:
As I post this rewritten copy of chapter 1, the second half of the epilogue is undergoing final revisions and will be posted within the week. If this is your first time here, welcome and good luck. I'll be your host. If you're a returning guest, welcome back. I'm still your host. (Sorry). Admittedly I started this story with zero plan aside from an ending. It wasn't supposed to take almost 4 years, but that gave me plenty of time to learn more about writing than I could've imagined. No matter how much complaining it took to get that far, I really do love this story. Its humble beginnings deserve to benefit from what I learned on the way. Balancing ongoing rewrites of this AND the prequel(s) is going to be, for lack of a better word, stupid. But I feel like I can't move on until I do this. So here we are again, back at the starting line.
And yes I'm still doing these in songfic format. I don't need you to think I'm cool. It's okay.
Obligatory disclaimer: if you're reading this on fanfiction dot net, I love your loyalty but it's time to switch to AO3. This is more fun with pictures. I'm roxy_svl on there.
CW: There is some very obvious suicidal ideation in this chapter. In the interest of handling this topic with care, I'll say it's on the same level as what's explored in first act of SLC book 3, Palace Of The Damned (I.e. Larten's artic exploration era prior to Desmond's intervention). There is also a series of events that fit the definition of self harm, regardless of whether or not the character would agree. The ensuing gore is no worse than anything in canon, but proceed with caution if that is an area of sensitivity for you. Lastly, alcohol is heavily abused as a coping mechanism here. These topics do not actively reoccur throughout the entire story. However, the events of this chapter will be referenced multiple times moving forward; this rock bottom is the launch point of the redemption arc that's yet to come.
Lfg.
Chapter 1: The Dark Don't Even Know You • re-written as of May 10th, 2024
Featuring: The Corner • Dermot Kennedy
That should have never been your road
We should have stayed there on the corner
You know I'm always at your shoulder
Take your heart out of your holster
ELEVEN HOURS POST-EXILE
MIKA
In another life, he would've laughed at how fucking absurd this was.
But in another life this didn't happen.
In any another life, Mika wouldn't have let this happen.
He's gone.
He was too busy to break. Too important to waver. Too numb to cry, never mind laugh. Still he acknowledged there was dark humour in the way Paris and Arrow tiptoed around him. They traded loaded glances as the night dragged on. They seemed to think he'd snap into a state of feral rage if they so much as breathed near him. They actually both jumped a little when he spoke up out of nowhere and offered to remain in the Hall of Princes during the funerals.
We're going to war.
Having accepted the harsh reality that he was duty-bound to be in one of those two places tonight, he made the decision with stone cold logic. He knew full well that the sight of Arra's cremation pyre going up in flames would finish off what remained of his crumbling defences. He didn't know what would be left of him once those walls fell. He had only one other concrete fact to cling to, which was that he could could delay the inevitable collapse for as long as he could keep working.
He was going to kill me.
So he got a head start drafting agendas, debriefs, shortlists, addendums, policies, procedures. A lot had changed since the last time the clan went to war. Might as well start from scratch with fresh protocols that suited the current political climate.
The climate was dark. The world had turned cold. But Mika was numb.
Just keep working. I loved him. I don't underst— You don't need to understand. Just keep working. Whatever you do, don't stop fucking working.
Paris and Arrow kept shooting him apologetic glances over their shoulders as they made their way out of the Hall of Princes. They needn't have bothered. Why in the name of the gods would they think Mika would want to set foot anywhere near that? All Mika asked was one simple favour of Arrow — let me know when it's her turn.
Arra deserved to have him there. But not as much as she'd deserved to live. And if Mika had been a better Prince to the clan and — gods, even thinking about it made his blood run cold — a better other half to Kurda, Arra would still be alive.
Just keep working. Where is he now? It doesn't matter. He sold you out. Don't look up from the page. What about Gracie? NO. Gracie will be fine. She has you. Don't stop working. Don't even blink. He would've killed you. Just keep working.
Sure enough, about an hour in, Arrow reached out to nudge Mika through their mental link.
A: It's time now.
Mika didn't respond. He made the Death's Touch sign, bowed his head and whispered to the empty dome —
"Even in may you be triumphant."
He hated the way those words tasted. So generic. And there wasn't a generic bone in her body. She deserved more than this.
"I'm so fucking sorry, Arra." He added. His voice cracked on her name and he left it at that. Back to work. The clan would go to war, that much was already certain. And there were no nights off during wartime; such would be the saving grace for whatever of him was worth saving.
So he worked. And worked. And worked. Right up til he heard the hum of the doors admitting Paris and Arrow. Arrow tried to catch Mika's eye as he approached the throne platform while Mika quickly reverted his gaze to the paper in his hand, as desperate to evade Arrow's earnest concern as Arrow was to assess his wellbeing. Arrow bypassed his own throne and instead settled into empty one beside Mika's. In his peripheral vision Mika saw Arrow's hand drifting gently towards his shoulder and intercepted the well-intentioned gesture by shoving a rolled of parchment into it.
"Proposed order of operations for the next two weeks. Look it over and feel free to edit as needed." Mika heard himself say. His own voice sounded strange. Mechanical, almost. But it was holding steady for now.
"Oh. Thanks." Said Arrow with a forced half-smile, as if Mika had handed him a rotting banana peel and he was trying to be polite about it. But to Arrow's credit, he seemed to hear Mika's unspoken plea — I won't talk about it. I can't talk about it. Please don't make me talk about it.
Naturally, Paris and Arrow were followed by a dozen senior Generals who all seemed intent on recounting yesterday's historic battle. We've moved on, Mika wanted to snap at them.
"How long til the kid's appeal?" He asked instead, glancing at Paris and Arrow without making true eye contact.
"About half an hour. You have plenty of time to get something to eat. You look like you need it." Said Paris gently. He radiated the same quiet concern that Arrow did. The volatile, irrational part of Mika's mind resented both of them for it. We have real problems. Stop looking at me. What do you think I'm going to do, fucking cry in front of all these Generals?
"Yeah. I'll do that." Mika lied, deaf to his aching body's pleas for sustenance. His throat was parched and his stomach was hollow. Both organs would take whatever he gave them and be damn grateful it got anything at all. And what he planned on giving them was hard liquor.
He got about halfway down the access corridor to the Hall of Princes when the crushing impact of a fist to his jaw sent him reeling backwards. Over two centuries of combat training kept him mentally and physically prepared for sudden attacks. Even in deepest exhaustion his reflexes didn't let him down. He delivered a swift counterstrike before he even identified his assailant, sending a jolt of pain through his hand and eliciting a sharp grunt of pain from -
Fuck. Not you. Not now. Anyone but you.
Larten. It was Larten Crepsley. Fresh out of Arra's funeral.
Mika's retaliatory punch landed like a cannonball; the force of it sent Larten spinning ass-over-teakettle. Larten never had a chance to regain his footing. A swarm of guards descended and had him pinned face-down on the floor in less than a second.
"We are so sorry, Sire! He slipped past us before we could stop him!" A guard gasped, eyes wide with shock."
"How could you do it? How could you let him go?!" Larten bellowed, tears streaming down his face. "Arra is gone! Gavner is gone! Both murdered! And you let the traitor walk out a free man! Have you no honour?!"
"SILENCE! You'll be executed for attacking a Prince!" Another guard barked, giving Larten a rough shake before looking apprehensively to Mika. "Did he harm you, Sire?"
"I'm fine, thank you." Mika heard himself reply. His own voice sounded detached and monotone. He ran his hand cautiously along his jaw to assess the damage. Larten surely knew he'd only get in one punch before the guards took him down. He made it count. Mika was confident nothing was broken, but his entire skull throbbed and he could feel the blood trickling from the side of his mouth. He wiped it on his sleeve; he hadn't changed his shirt since the battle. What was one more stain? Why else would he wear black every day of his life if not for practicality?
Larten was still struggling viciously, panting and swearing.
"What would you have us do with him, Sire?" A guard asked.
"Let him go." Mika ordered him. "No one else is dying tonight."
"But Sire —"
"Did I stutter? Larten Crepsley has been an asset to this clan longer than you've walked this earth, Patrick. Take your hands off him. All of you."
The guards exchanged uncomfortable looks, but relinquished their grasp on Larten and retreated. Larten didn't look exactly grateful for Mika's lenience as he staggered to his feet.
"What were you thinking?! Of all the times to show mercy, you chose this?!" Larten sobbed, advancing again. "She died fighting for us, and Gavner was murdered in cold blood! All you had to do was make sure there was justice served! And you failed them! How can you live with yourself knowing the traitor still breathes while they are dead?"
Seba came flying around the corner. His eyes went wide as he realized what was happening. Evidently he'd tried to keep Larten in check but had been evaded. Mika didn't know where Darren was but he was glad he wasn't here to witness his mentor's meltdown. It was ugly.
"Sire!" Seba gasped in horror, seeing the erratic Larten, the blood on Mika's face, and the agitated guards still ready to intervene. "I am sorry! He is mad with grief, he does not know what he is doing!"
Mika deftly raised his hand and Seba fell silent. Then dead-eyed Larten and took a step towards him.
"Larten..." Mika growled. "You know damn well it's not that simple. Walk away from me right now and I'll pretend this never happened."
"She deserved more!" Larten howled, seemingly deaf to Mika's dismissal. "She considered you family! Any other vampire would have tasted the stakes for doing half of what Kurda did. He betrayed you too! And you call yourself a Prince? You are the traitor, Mika Ver Leth! You failed us!"
So much for letting Larten off with a slap on the wrist. The edges of Mika's vision darkened til that incendiary red garb was all he could see. He rolled up his sleeves, preparing to finish what Larten started. Fuck it, he'd welcome with open arms whatever defences Larten could throw back at him. He longed for any pain but this.
"I seem to recall it was Glalda that struck Arra down." Mika reminded him as he took a step closer, venom dripping from his words, praying Larten would strike a second time. "And from where I was standing, it was your underage apprentice who took Glalda out before either of us had a chance to intervene. And you know gods damn well I wouldn't have given him nearly as quick a death as Darren did."
"How dare you speak Darren's name?! You would have had him executed on a technicality and not lost a wink of sleep over it! And yet a traitor walks free after openly admitting to murder? Gavner Purl and Arra Sails dedicated their lives to serving you and your colleagues! Were they truly worth that little?!" Larten paused for breath, still seething as he stared back at Mika through hateful eyes. Seba was begging him to calm down but the old man's pleas went ignored. If Seba couldn't get through to him, Mika didn't have a hope in hell.
Good.
"You really want to fight me?" Mika murmured. "Will cracking my head open make you feel better? Let's go, then. Wouldn't be the first time you thought you tried to fight me over her. This time I won't take the high road. Come on Quicksilver, let's see if you've still got it!" With every word the shadows around his line of vision grew darker and voice rose until he was bellowing as loudly as Larten had been. "What are you waiting for? Fucking hit me!"
Larten let out an unintelligible scream of rage and swung his fist again. But Mika was ready and it only clipped his jaw. He retaliated with a sharp punch at Larten's head, but he too was as fast as he'd ever been. The fight was swift and vicious. A crowd formed within seconds. Mika and Larten were both in their prime and evenly matched. Larten was out of practice but it didn't seem to slow him down; he was dead even with Mika every step of the way. They didn't land many blows on each other, but the ones that connected were brutal. It would've carried on much longer than it did, had the doors to the Hall of Princes not swooshed open as Paris and Arrow appeared.
"MIKA!"
Paris's whip-sharp voice split the air, loud enough to halt Mika in his tracks. Larten tried to take advantage of his distraction but suddenly Seba was upon him, wrestling his arms behind his back so he couldn't continue his assault on Mika. Mika wasn't ready to give up the fight either, but within seconds Paris stepped in and grabbed him in the same manner with which Seba was restraining Larten, muttering "Enough of this foolery, you hear me? Has this night not been dark enough?"
The four of them sunk to the floor in a tangled mess of thrashing bodies and breathless curses until the only sound in the cavern was Larten's anguished cries as he lay curled up in Seba's arms. The sound ignited a twisted, ugly feeling deep within Mika's chest that felt strangely akin to envy. How dare Larten blow his composure so publicly at a time like this? Everyone else had no choice but to push through it. What gave him the right to lay on the floor and weep like a child?
"You think I wanted this? You think I'm proud of myself? I'm sorry! Is that what you wanted to hear?" Mika snarled as he struggled against Paris's unyielding grip. Even at eight hundred years old, the man was as strong as Mika had ever been. "I'm sorry, Larten! I'm so fucking sorry." Mika's voice cracked dangerously on the third sorry and he took a steadying breath.
Seba looked utterly dazed, eyes misty with subdued grief. He was staring past Mika, straight at Paris. Mika felt another stab of guilt for goading Larten when he was so vulnerable.
"Are you quite finished embarrassing yourself?" Paris hissed into his ear, evoking a parent reprimanding an unruly child. Mika felt the fight drain from his body. Maybe he was no better than Larten after all.
"For now."
Paris released Mika and they both rose and dusted themselves off. Arrow stood a few feet away with crossed arms and a furrowed brow.
"Really?" He huffed in Mika's direction.
Mika didn't blame him. If the tables were turned and Arrow was the one at the centre of the ruckus while Mika would be the one shrivelling up from secondhand embarrassment. Nay, he would've already smacked Arrow stupid for starting a brawl now of all times.
"Moment of weakness." Mika growled back, not making eye contact.
"Come on. Let's get back to work. Maybe part of tonight is still salvageable." Arrow placed his hand on Mika's shoulder and pointedly steered him back through the doors of the Hall of Princes.
It wasn't salvageable. Not to Mika.
But there was still hope for Darren.
What if he never had to go?
What if we never knew October?
Would you run into the open?
Would you take back all they told ya?
THIRTEEN HOURS POST-EXILE
KURDA
Oh, my little light. Your sense of justice puts us all to shame.
Even over a century later Kurda still heard his mother's voice as clearly as if she was standing right in front of him. Her soft cadence was the only sound that still existed in Kurda's empty world. He couldn't even cry.
It didn't work. It was all for nothing. I lied and killed and failed.
I took Gavner Purl's life. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time to do the right thing and I murdered him for it.
Forty vampaneze, forty courageous souls are dead because of me, trapped and slaughtered.
Seven of my own brethren lost to the same senseless violence.
I didn't even manage to save Darren's life. All the risks I took to get him out and the courage he showed coming back, and it wasn't enough. They'll still execute him.
I destroyed Mika. His body remains, yet I watched him die while he stood upright and looked me in the eye.
And Gracie… she'll be left to carry with an incomplete truth heavier and crueler than any full-vampire could bear, let alone an innocent girl. Would be kinder and simpler to tell her him dead. Or better yet, to just kill me in the first place! What did you spare me for, Mika? What was the point?
For the first time since he turned his back on the mountain, Kurda's voice joined the sound of the howling wind. The air issuing from his lungs took the form of a howl of its own, bitter and aching with far more anguish than the air around him could carry.
When he could walk no more, he sought a weak semblance of shelter in a shallow hillside cavern. The wind couldn't sink its claws into him here, but he didn't feel warmer for it. He closed his eyes and curled his knees into his chest, turning his back to the elements. He didn't give any consideration to what came next. The logical thing to do would've been wait out the worst of the storm before carrying on. Carry on where? What remained for him?
Time ceased to exist. All he knew was frigid cold. Maybe the cold would simply take him if he waited long enough. Wherever it took him couldn't be worse than this. At least then he wouldn't have to make another decision. He couldn't stomach the thought of yet another thing hanging in the balance of his choices. Not even if that thing was himself.
He almost laughed in relief as his senses began to fade.
Holding, waiting for something
That'll keep you from the cold
It feels like winter follows you around
Holding, waiting for something
That'll keep you from the cold
SIXTEEN HOURS POST-EXILE
MIKA
Mika will go on record stating that even on the darkest night of his life, the smile he offered Darren upon connecting him to the Stone of Blood was as genuine as it gets. Hand to the fucking gods, he didn't have to fake it. That small act couldn't cleanse the image of Kurda's face twisted up in equal parts compassion and disgust — no fucking wonder you would've watched me die with the others. Fair enough, I guess — as he stood here in this very spot fighting for the boy's life mere weeks ago, but it did seem to put Darren at ease. Mika even let the smile linger on his face for longer than he normally would've, knowing it would be many nights til he could manage another one.
They did the damn thing. Blooded the kid as a full-fledged Vampire Prince. Mika couldn't help but think that, even as recently as a week ago, he wouldn't have let this fly. Not a fucking chance in hell, have you all lost your bloody minds? But that defiant voice was subdued by shock, leaving a ringing silence that allowed him space to remember what preserving Darren's life meant to Arra. Could she see them parading him around the Hall on their shoulders as everyone toasted the new Prince? Was she there in the room with them?
She had to be. He couldn't bear to think otherwise. Nor could he stomach the notion that Kurda was out there somewhere, wondering what kind of fate befell Darren when it was all said and done. And Kurda would be wondering. Stewing. Agonizing. Eating himself alive over it.
That was all the thought Mika could spare Kurda in this moment. Anything more would've taken him down.
With Darren's limited amount of pomp and fanfare out of the way, Mika made his way over to the pew Larten was sitting on while Darren was preoccupied chatting with Paris and Arrow. Mika left a healthy buffer zone between them, but Larten still cringed.
"Thank you for this, my old friend. I deeply regret my earlier behaviour. You did not deserve that." Larten rasped. Fuck, the man even looked pathetic and stricken without the weight of Darren's life on his shoulders. Mika quickly pushed back against his own judgemental streak as a chilling thought hit him: he himself probably didn't look much better than Larten.
"No hard feelings. Just glad I'm not executing your kid." Mika replied conversationally.
Larten grimaced, but managed a thin smile. "I too am glad you are not executing… the kid."
"We didn't deserve for him to come back for us." Mika added. "Honourable or not, he owed us nothing. You trained a good one."
"I suppose I did that much right." Larten softened as he watched Darren laugh at something Arrow and Vanez were saying. It was astonishing he could still smile after everything he'd been through. Mika and Larten sat in unspoken solidarity for a moment.
"I truly am sorry for the words I chose earlier. You are not a traitor, nor would you ever be. You were doing your best in an impossible situation. My outburst was unacceptable and it will not happen again." Larten spoke up after a minute.
It was Mika's turn to cringe. He'd hoped Larten wouldn't go there.
"No offence Quicksilver, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to faze me." Mika replied seriously, meaning it. "But if it helps, I guarantee you I'll be losing more than a few hours of sleep over Gavner and Arra in the nights to come. They should be here... and they're not."
"Darren has no idea what Gavner was to me." Larten croaked. "He has no idea he practically had a brother. I asked Gavner not to mention it. I was going to tell Darren one of these nights... that he has more family than he realizes."
"I don't know your full history with Gavner, but I know enough to know his loss weighs heavily on you." Said Mika quietly. "May he be triumphant."
"I appreciate the sentiment. Alas, I am not the only one bearing new scars. How are you holding up?" Larten inquired with a wayward glance. And that was the moment Mika knew this conversation was over.
"Thirsty." Said Mika, standing up. "Think I'm going to wander down to the kitchen and find something to drink. You interrupted my last attempt."
Larten nodded, and remained seated. Mika paused before making his exit.
"And Larten, about coping with your rage via physical assaults —"
"I cannot even begin to express how deeply I have humiliated myself."
"— I was going to say come at me any time you want. You know I'm good for it." Said Mika with a frosty smile. "Just give me a warning next time. I don't like surprises."
After the excitement died down and most of the audience had retreated to their cells to sleep, Paris insisted upon an informal celebration of their newest Prince. A far cry from a typical investiture feast — that would come later when things calmed down. Would it ever? But the old Prince felt the boy deserved something to commemorate this.
They remained in the Hall of Princes; that was the easiest way. Darren sat in Vancha's throne and was awestruck by how he could make the doors whoosh open and shut just by pressing his hand against the panel on the arm rest. The other three Princes took their usual seats. Larten, Seba, and Vanez sat on the stairs leading up to the platform. There was an unspoken sense of respite in the air; everyone needed this. At least that's what Mika observed via studying the body language of the others. He doubted he'd feel respite ever again, but supposed the others deserved a short break.
For several hours they all told stories and made halfhearted jokes. It was really just an attempt to make Darren feel a little more comfortable in the role that had been thrust upon him, and to try to find some semblance of peace. No one was without a beverage of some sort in their hand. Most sipped ale. Paris and Seba had wine. Mika started on the whiskey, which was standard for him. Albeit he didn't normally sit slumped sideways in his throne with the entire bottle in his hand. He was aware that Paris kept shooting him furtive looks of disapproval but he was well beyond caring.
Around the third hour, Mika figured he should probably slow down, maybe switch to ale or at the very least take a drink of water or eat some actual food. But the burning liquor was the final line of defence standing between him and the crushing weight of everything. so he sat with the group and just existed as best he could, until he could no longer do even that.
Kurda is in dishonourable exile. Might as well be dead. Dead to me. Dead to Gracie. Dead.
Arra is dead. Killed by the vampaneze who plotted with Kurda for years.
Kurda murdered Gavner Purl.
Kurda Smahlt, the man I raised my daughter with, fell in love with, gave everything I had to, was prepared murder Paris, Arrow, and me. And I'm only alive because of the child I was about to execute.
He planned all this right in front of me and I had no idea.
We're going to war.
And the most soul-crushing blow of all...
I have to find a way to tell Gracie all of that.
He ceased comprehending the chattering voices around him. The last of his adrenaline burned off and his weary body was in no state to produce more. When the room started to spin off its axis Mika knew he was too far gone. His head was throbbing and his body was numb and his brain was melting. Having delayed it as long as he could, he'd arrived at the point where he was absolutely certain if he stayed in this room for one second longer he'd die. He lurched up from the throne and stalked off without a word to anyone.
He didn't remember the trip from the Hall to his private suite. One minute he was passing through the magic doors. The next, he was standing over his coffin. He'd always had a taste for the finer things in life: coffin, cabinet, dresser, desk, even a mirror frame. All in the same luxurious dark mahogany. Now he was alone in his cell for the first time since prior to the almost-investiture. Suddenly there were no more clamouring voices in his ears. Nothing to distract him. Nothing but Kurda's voice echoing off the walls from all the nights spent here. That laugh like a crystal-clear mountain spring, teasing Mika about what a snob he was. Saw him lying there in that coffin, on his back with his arms folded behind his head, grinning lazily upwards. Eyes bluer than the ocean, only slightly obscured by the white-gold hair that kept falling in front of —
Fuck off. Take the knife you left in my back, and fuck off.
Mika blinked fast and hard, trying to dispel the memories. He could feel his internal mechanisms falling apart and knew he had to lay down before something bad happened. But first, water. He stumbled towards his desk but the torchlight flickering in the floor-length mirror caught his eye. He stopped and looked. But he didn't see his present-day self; swaying, dishevelled, exhausted. All he could see in that mirror was himself and Kurda getting ready for the opening ceremony of the council before this one. Both smiling. Laughing. Mika denied it for a long time afterwards, but it was the first night he asked himself if he had feelings for Kurda.
I hate you. I hate you. I fucking hate you.
When Mika finally lost control and drove his fist through the glass, it wasn't Kurda's face he aimed for, but his own. The smooth glass exploded into a thousand razor sharp pieces that tore into his flesh. His nerves lit up, shooting pain through his body. And for the first time in days he felt some semblance of release.
So he did it again, and again, and again.
So, just remember who you are
How you were never one for folding
How you never liked the corner
How the dark don't even know ya
NINETEEN HOURS POST-EXILE
ARROW
To Mika's credit, he hung on longer than Arrow expected. He definitely seemed more withdrawn than usual, but he was doing his best. They were all just running on fumes at that point. For a while Arrow thought Mika was holding up too well. Then he got into the whiskey and started to slip. Silently, of course. Nobody else noticed. Arrow kept his mouth shut and a close eye on Mika. He quietly observed his friend slowly disengage — disassociate? That's what that means, right? — more and more over the course of several hours and witnessed the exact moment Mika finally lost the internal battle raging inside him. He stood up and left the hall silently.
Paris discretely caught Arrow's eye.
"If he's not back in ten minutes... go." The old Prince murmured. Arrow nodded grimly. He knew Mika wasn't coming back, but he dutifully waited ten minutes before bidding the group goodnight and excusing himself.
One of the only things in life that Arrow knew for certain was that Mika saved him. The darkness that had followed Arrow since Sarah's death all but buried him alive. Mika had witnessed Arrow at his lowest and darkest and never wavered. Hell, Mika spent the better half of his own damn investiture party sitting on the floor of a dark, empty room beside a dark, empty version of Arrow, talking him out of another one of his downward spirals. Arrow never imagined the tables would turn. Mika had always been high above this sort of thing. He was too smart, too resilient, too damn hard on himself to fall apart.
But if anything could break him, it was this.
Arrow heard his friend's pain as he rounded the final corner to the long corridor that housed all the royal suites. Ten minutes had been too long.
"Oh gods, Mika..." Arrow croaked as he quickened his pace. With shaking hands he twisted the handle and opened the door.
Mika's treasured luxury coffin had been destroyed, torn apart entirely. The lid seemed to have been ripped from its hinges and reduced to splinters. The mirror had been smashed to pieces. All that remained was the dark wooden frame with a few pieces of glass sticking out here and there. It didn't take long to find the rest of the glass. The shards were scattered all over the floor along with the countless cracked and broken pieces of wood from the coffin, even more razor-sharp fragments of glass that had clearly been the whiskey bottle. Pools of liquor were spreading across the floor, intermingling with enough blood to be concerning.
In the centre of that wasteland was Mika. On his knees, holding his face in his hands, covered in blood, sobbing as if his heart was being carved slowly from his chest with a blunt knife.
Arrow felt sick as he took it all in. He picked his way through the shrapnel to crouch beside Mika. His tongue turned to lead as he wrapped his arms around his friend's shuddering body. What could he have said? I'm sorry? Are you alright? Or the most patronizing of all, It's going to be okay? Arrow knew from personal experience how utterly fucking worthless all those words were. Mika barely seemed to register his presence anyway.
"I'm still here, Mika." Arrow choked out. The words caught in his throat and burned. "It's still you and me against the world. Just hold on."
With difficulty, Arrow tried to assess the damage. The blood was coming from Mika's hands and arms; the mirror had put up a hell of a fight. This room would need to be cleared of all the shards of glass, splintered wood, blood, and alcohol before it could be inhabitable again. But this was not the time to grab a broom and mop. Mika was beyond drunk and seemed barely able to breathe, much less speak. Thank the gods Arrow's room was just across the hallway. He scooped Mika up in his arms as easily as he would an injured dog on the side of the road.
Arrow had never been more grateful for his couch than he was right now. What a logistical nightmare it had been getting the thing to Vampire Mountain, but how worth it. He deposited Mika on the couch and sat beside him to keep him upright. Arrow knew he needed to start cleaning the wounds to keep them from scarring. This was not a scar Mika would want to keep as a souvenir to brag to his friends over a mug of ale in years to come. What Mika needed more than anything was a medic, but inviting a virtual stranger to witness this would do more damage than any physical harm ever could. Arrow decided he'd manage on his own. At least for now.
He began his endeavour into first aid with what made the most sense — a warm blanket and a long hug. Mika was a hardened warrior with a wicked physique, yet his shivering body suddenly seemed so small and fragile in Arrow's arms as they sat there. Arrow kept opening and closing his mouth, praying for the right words to find their way there. It was futile. The words didn't exist.
When he was confident Mika could at least remain sitting upright on his own, Arrow retrieved a small wooden box in which he kept some basic medical supplies.
"Mika. Hey. Look at me, yeah? You need help. I'll make you a deal: sit still and let me clean you up, and I won't call the medics. Just you and me."
Mika neither confirmed nor denied whether he was on board with that. Arrow got started anyway. To his relief Mika allowed him to set about plucking glass with a small set of tweezers. It was slow going. Arrow moved as gently as he could but his large hands weren't used to such delicate work, and Mika was still trembling violently. He stopped crying around the halfway mark, but the heart wrenching sound was replaced by a numb helplessness that was somehow harder to watch. Arrow laboured for the better part of an hour until he was confident he'd gotten it all. Then he fetched a cloth and delicately cleaned each cut before healing the majority with a dab of spit. Some were too deep for spit to seal, and his heart sank as he realized this was far darker than drunken clumsiness. There was purpose and intent to the bloody gashes.
"All done." Arrow croaked at last. "You can rest now."
"A…" Mika murmured, swaying side to side.
Arrow was grateful for even a single syllable of acknowledgement. It meant there was something left behind those glazed eyes. Ironically it was Mika who, countless decades ago, bestowed the one-letter nickname upon him.
"Yeah. It's me. I got you. Listen, you're sleeping on my couch tonight."
"He… he was going to..."
"Don't think about that treacherous snake, Mika. He's not worth it."
In a moment of sudden clarity that was somehow more chilling than the incoherence that preceded it, Mika locked gazes with Arrow and whispered — "It was my fault... wasn't it?"
Arrow's heart dropped into his stomach.
"No. Don't you ever say that again. We did everything right. He's a lying, scheming traitor. I'll tell you as many times as you need to hear it."
"I can't… I can't do this... 'm done." Mika sagged forwards again, holding his face in his hands and breathing heavily. The smell of whiskey was overpowering, and Arrow cringed at the thought of how much worse this would be in the morning.
"You can and you will. You have to fight it. We need you."
Mika shook his head, defiance flickering in his eyes as he repeated slowly, "I'm done."
"Done what?"
"All of it. I give up. Don't want it anymore."
Arrow decided to ignore the unsettling proclamation. Mika was drunk and in shock, there was no way he'd actually step away from it. Not a chance, ever. Arrow kept him upright with one arm and sponged the blood and tears from his face with the other til exhaustion won and Mika drifted mercifully off to sleep against Arrow's shoulder. At least he'd be free of pain for a few hours. Arrow carefully laid him flat on the couch, rearranged the blankets and wedged a cushion under his head.
Only now could Arrow allow himself to decompress. He sat on the floor and reflected on nights long past. Nights he wished he could forget. Sarah's murder sent him into a downward spiral of destruction that didn't end when he ceased his rampage against the vampaneze. He hadn't yet shaken free of his most toxic coping mechanisms when he found himself sitting on the floor of his old cell here in the mountain — on the night of Mika's investiture party. The night he screamed incoherently at Mika while Mika just sat there. On the other side of the room, but at eye level with Arrow. Unlike Arrow's, Mika's time was in high demand. Arrow remembered yelling at Mika over and over again to just get out, leave him alone, for the love of the gods stop wasting your time on me and go do something that fucking matters.
And he remembered Mika shaking his head and responding with conviction so fierce it landed like gasoline on Arrow's fury:
"I'm not leaving, A. I'll stay over here, I won't touch you. I won't even talk if you don't want me to. But I'm not leaving you alone with yourself."
And he didn't. Not once.
"I'm not leaving you either." Arrow whispered into the darkness as one lonely tear rolled down his cheek.
Would you believe me in the car?
What if I never dropped you home?
What if we drove until the morning?
You said you never loved before him
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS POST-EXILE
KURDA
What a beautiful day this was. The sun was low enough in the sky that Kurda could sit and admire it without a care in the world. He'd enjoy the sight of the golden fireball sinking slowly into the sea. He was on a beach. Not any particular beach. Just a beach. He felt as though he'd been sitting here since the beginning of time. He was so comfortable he didn't see much point in leaving. He supposed he'd stay here til time ended.
He wasn't alone, either. A familiar voice pulled his attention to the right and kindled a grin upon his face. The expression felt instinctive, as if he grinned like this all the time.
"I'll never understand why you started calling me Sunshine. Look at that fucking thing." Said Mika. He was sitting by Kurda's side and pointing emphatically at the setting sun. "If that's not you, I don't know what is."
"Oh, my Mika… don't you worry your pretty head about it. Some things aren't for you to comprehend." Kurda lipped back, playfully elbowing Mika in the ribs. Then he exhaled a long, contented sigh and rested his head on Mika's shoulder. Mika laughed; Kurda could feel the low, hearty rumble deep in his chest as he draped his arm over Kurda's shoulder. This was so easy. Kurda couldn't even recall how they'd gotten here, although a nagging feeling suggested he should. Something was missing but he couldn't quite place it.
"Hey, where's Gracie?" He heard himself ask after several minutes of comfortable silence.
Mika glanced at him, brow furrowed in confusion. "Back at the mountain, remember? She's busy training."
"Training? For what? Why would she be there without us?"
A cold chill filled the air as the sun disappeared into the vast expanse of water. Mika said something Kurda didn't understand. His lips were moving, but Kurda couldn't make sense of the words he was saying.
"I can't hear you." Kurda implored, a strange dread setting into his core. "Training for what?"
Then Kurda blinked, and his heart sank deep into his chest. In the space of one blink, Mika had left his side and was already halfway down the beach. He was no more than a black speck in the distance. How can that be? He was right beside me. He was right here, I can still smell the cedarwood on his clothes.
Another blink and it was all gone. The dream, hallucination, vision, whatever it was, imploded into fragments all around Kurda as he gasped for air. Light was spilling into the crevice around him. He was warm now. So much warmer than when he first closed his eyes yesterday. Was it yesterday? His aching body felt like it had been cramped in here for days.
He looked around, lightheaded and panting from aftershock as he struggled to gain his bearings. The sunlight wasn't direct enough to harm him but it was plenty bright enough to warp his vision. He blinked again and again and was reminded how his body was utterly lacking in sustenance. Yet the strange dancing spots in front of his vision only seemed to grow cleaner and clearer, as if he was hallucinating half a dozen pairs of eyes. As if the thousands of eyes on him yesterday — narrowed with hatred, every last one — hadn't been enough.
"Leave me alone!" He snarled automatically, tasting venom on his tongue. He lashed out with one hand and was met with searing pain as the raw welts around his wrist cracked open again — a hideous souvenir from the shackles.
He didn't have time to dwell on that. His hand connected with something warm, and a shrill yelp of pain followed. He'd hit something alive. Something furry.
A wolf.
No, wolves.
Six of them, all clustered in the opening of the crevice like an unlikely committee designated to keep him contained. All staring at him with quiet fascination — except for the one he'd struck. She was glowering up at him with heavy reproach, albeit not contempt.
"I'm sorry." Kurda rasped without thinking about it. "I didn't mean to. You didn't deserve that. I was just scared."
They continued to survey him in silence. He didn't know what he was waiting for.
"Go away! I don't run with the pack anymore." He added weakly, referring to the vampire clan. "I never belonged with them in the first place!"
They didn't budge. An embarrassing amount of minutes ticked by before Kurda realized the correlation between the scent of damp fur on his clothes and the fact that he was still alive. Hypothermia had passed him over for now, but Kurda could take no personal credit for that. The wolves had kept him warm. They'd saved his life.
"You really didn't have to do that." He whimpered at last, barely able to get the words out.
The female wolf closest to him — the one he'd smacked in the nose, bless her heart — twitched her ears as if to shrug at him, then lay down comfortably. The others began to wander around nearby, sniffing, playing with each other, generally going about their wolfy business. But they all remained in Kurda's line of vision.
"The free food's that way." Kurda added, gesturing vaguely north; where Vampire Mountain loomed silent and frozen behind them. "Get the fresh table scraps while they're hot. They'll be throwing out the remains of my investiture feast any second now. I hope they still served it, at least. Wasting life is one thing, but they draw the line at food." He laughed at his own dark joke and regretted it. His throat felt liable to tear open and bleed.
He managed to take a meagre drink from the melting snow that trickled down the crevice wall beside him. He was grateful for it; the sun would keep him holed up here for hours yet.
Well, grateful was a strong word.
He readjusted his body into a far more comfortable sitting position. As if the movement was the cue she'd been waiting for, the brindle wolf — the leader, he decided — strolled right up to him and lay down in his lap. As if she was concerned he might get up and go for a walk in the deadly sunlight. Even when the other wolves dispersed into the trees, she stayed.
"You wouldn't have saved me if you knew who I was." Kurda murmured as he ran his hand along her back. Her glossy coat was thick enough to fend off even the harshest wind. She peered up at him out of two baleful yellow eyes. All at once Kurda was overcome by an eerie conviction that she did know who he was. She knew everything. Where he'd come from. Why he'd left. What he'd done.
But did she know there was a tiny, jagged piece of his heart that felt relieved it was over? All the tension, the lies, the dread. It was no more. Whatever came next, Kurda Smahlt no longer had a say. Gods knew he would've given anything. He tried to give everything.
A weak sob tore from his throat as two familiar steel grey eyes flashed through his mind again, seared into his memory like an iron brand. What was Mika doing right now? Was he managing his pain alone in the darkness of his room? Or worse; was he still sitting on his throne in the Hall of Princes like nothing was wrong?
The exhaustion in Kurda's body went bone-deep. He gradually succumbed to the gnawing hunger in his core and curled into a heap on the damp stone floor. The wolf stayed at his side as he trembled. Her body shielded him from hypothermia, but not cold. With only the sound of the cruel wind and his own pitiful cries as a lullaby, Kurda slipped into a painful limbo between sleep and consciousness.
Holding, waiting for something
That'll keep you from the cold
Feels like winter follows you around
Holding, waiting for something
That'll keep you from the cold
TWENTY-EIGHT HOURS POST-EXILE
MIKA
One second Mika was adrift in a slumber so deep he might as well have been dead to the world. Death would've been a reprieve from the cruel awareness of life that kicked him awake with a harsh blow to the stomach. Memories of the past three nights came crashing back to him in shockwaves of grief and despair that had him doubled over vomiting before he even opened his eyes. He had no choice but to surrender til there was nothing left to give. Til his body was empty. Til his soul itself was empty. Til everything was gone.
He's gone. It's all gone.
He dimly acknowledged the presence of a bucket directly in front of him, held up by a thick, tattooed arm and he realized he was in Arrow's room.
"I'm here." Arrow kept murmuring, as if he could hear Mika's fractured stream of thought. "I'm still here."
Arrow's arm around Mika's shoulders kept him upright as they sat in deafening, suffocating silence. Eventually Mika registered an acute pain in his hands and arms. He glanced down to see both limbs shrouded in thick strips of bandage.
"I tried to get all the glass out and I healed what I could. It was bad. You scared me half to death. But I know you'd have killed me if I called the medics so I did my best. I'm sorry I couldn't do more." Arrow broke the silence eventually. His deep voice was even more so than usual, strained and hoarse from exhaustion. "You remember… any of that?"
Mika remembered punching through his mirror just to feel his skin tear open. And when that hadn't been enough, he remembered turning his rage on his beloved coffin and tore that to pieces with his bare hands because the infliction of physical pain felt like sweet release from what lay within. He remembered hearing himself, not crying so much as screaming til he couldn't even breathe.
He managed an impartial shrug in response to Arrow's question.
"Paris and Seba have been keeping the Hall in order since last night." Arrow added. "Darren and Larten will join them shortly."
Mika knew he should be expressing some sort of gratitude here. But the suffocating black cloud in and around his mind and body weighed so heavily it took all his strength just to sit up. As promised, Arrow slipped to his desk and returned with two tall mugs, water and blood. Mika declined both.
"You in much pain?" Arrow ventured, then added as a hasty afterthought - "Physically, I mean."
Intense as it was, the physical pain was nothing Mika couldn't handle. He'd endured far worse. He shrugged again.
"Say something. Anything. So I know you're still in there." Arrow tried again. This time his voice cracked.
Mika had nothing to say. But he knew Arrow wouldn't give up til he got something. If the tables were turned, Mika would've been just as relentless and far less gentle. He inhaled deeply through lungs that felt as dry as parchment and forced one word through cracked, bleeding lips.
"Sorry."
"Say anything but that."
"I quit."
Arrow cringed. "Never mind. Stop talking."
Mika obliged him. Arrow stayed close, as if convinced Mika would topple off the couch and crack his head on the floor if left unsupported. Mika's head was already pounding so badly he didn't think he'd notice any fresh trauma.
"I know there's nothing I can do or say to make the pain go away. I'd carry it for you if I could, but it doesn't work that way. You and I know that better than anyone, don't we?" Arrow continued. He chuckled bitterly at the implied self-reflection.
That much was true. How many times throughout the darkest nights of decades past had Mika tried to bargain with the gods to just let him borrow Arrow's grief to allow him a reprieve? And how did Arrow not understand there was no comparison between then and now?
"You can sleep in here til your room is back in order. I know you don't like the custodial staff in your business at the best of times, so I'll help you clean everything up when you're ready." Arrow offered after another long silence.
"Thanks, A." Mika whispered at last. He owed Arrow far more, but even that sentence fragment left him in an energy deficit. After taking several deep breaths and waiting for his vision to refocus, he added, "You should… get back to the Hall."
"Look what happened when I left you unsupervised last night."
"We both know… I'm not our biggest problem… right now."
Arrow heaved a drawn-out sigh. He sounded almost as rough as Mika felt. "Gods know you deserve some honesty, Mika. So here it is: I'm not leaving you alone until I can be sure you won't hurt yourself. Or worse."
Mika laughed in disgust at the implication; one harsh, ugly note that was devoid of any humour. It scorched his throat on the way out.
"Ah. That's what… you're worried about? You think… I'd do that to Gracie?"
Arrow's patience didn't waver. He was so steadfast Mika almost resented him for it. The weary creases around Arrow's eyes deepened. "I don't know, Mika. Doesn't sound like you, but pain and grief like this… it… it changes you. Twists your mind. I'm not going to take chances."
"As long as we're being honest, you're right. I don't want to be here." Mika replied with a detached callousness that made Arrow wince.
"That's the shock talking, you don't actually —"
"But I'm not going anywhere. So don't waste your energy on me. The clan deserves it more than I do."
Arrow sighed again and ran his palms over his forehead. Suddenly he looked several decades older. "That doesn't make me feel any better." He murmured at last.
"Do you fucking blame me, Arrow? You, of all people?"
Mika knew his point had landed when Arrow didn't answer the question directly. He just kept his palm moving in slow circles around Mika's upper back. Mika remained hunched over with his pounding head in his hands. Minutes ticked by uncounted.
Arrow readjusted his approach. "Remember when you used to sit with me for hours when I was in a bad place, and you kept telling me that someday I'd feel like myself again?"
"That was different."
"Doesn't matter. I didn't believe you at the time. And I know you don't believe me now, but I promise someday this will all just be a memory. You're in the eye of the storm now, but water always finds its level. You'll find a new normal. I don't know how to explain it, but you'll see. Someday."
Mika's throat and chest tightened all over again and the edges of his vision began to blur and darken. The pain in his head seemed to increase by tenfold with every breath he took.
"I don't… want it." He choked out, shaking his head in desperation, willing Arrow to understand in as few words as possible. "I don't fucking want it."
Arrow's gaunt face cracked into the saddest smile Mika had ever seen. "I know you don't. It's okay. The night will come when you remember who the fuck you are. And until then, I'll want it enough for both of us."
There was no point in expending more energy on making Arrow understand how wrong he was, how there was no comparison between then and now. It was all so far beyond Mika's control. His world had crumbled to pieces all around him. There was no putting it back together. If Arrow could see those pieces, he'd know that.
Arrow did, however, possess enough intuition to know he'd reached a limit.
"I have to go back to the Hall soon. I'll tell the Generals you got a concussion in the battle and you need to rest before coming back… no one will question that." Arrow's voice trailed off and he settled for sitting on the other end of the couch like a silent sentry while Mika went horizontal once more, aching limbs and body curling up into himself. It was beyond him how there were yet more tears to be found in his withered husk of a body. He remembered how naked and humiliated he'd felt the first time Kurda witnessed him crack open like this. And he'd have given anything, anything to forget how that soft hand settled upon his hammering heart. Kurda didn't just provide shelter from the storm. He made it stop.
How do you go from that to this? How do you spend years smoothing someone's jagged edges only to cast that gentle work into the fire? How do you accept that hard-won trust as collateral damage?
How could you do this to me, Kurda?
You know me, so you know I'm feeling lonely now
Lonely right down in my heart
You know me, so you know I'm feeling lonely I'm
Lonely right down in my heart
THIRTY HOURS POST-EXILE
KURDA
He was stirred back to life once more by a warm, wet nuzzle against his cheek and the accompanying whimper. The nuzzles turned to licks when he didn't move quickly enough for the wolf's liking. And only when he was fully awake did his senses lock onto something that hadn't been there before. For one beautiful moment, all that crippling grief and guilt were eclipsed by single-minded hunger.
Meat. Blood. Fresh. Warm.
The sun was setting and the wolves had returned from a successful hunt. They had an entire elk. A young thing; far from fully grown but it would yield an ample bounty nonetheless.
The other wolves backed away from the carcass as the leader rose to her feet. She sniffed a bloody gash on the elk's haunch, then looked over her shoulder to where Kurda was staggering from the cavern on shaky legs. Get moving, we don't have all night, her eyes seemed to say.
It was all he could do to stay upright for the half-dozen steps that took him from the cavern to the carcass. He dropped to his knees, ready to feast like his survival depended on it. Tonight, it did. But even as his every instinct told him to rip into the fresh, savoury meat before him, he paused. Looked to the leader of the pack.
"I don't deserve this. But I won't forget it. Thank you."
Holding, waiting for something
That'll keep you from the cold
It feels like winter follows you around
Holding, waiting for something
Let me keep you from the cold
Regarding these rewrites, I'm gonna keep working away here but since I'll just be swapping out the original copies for the new versions, I don't think that will trigger alerts to those who've subscribed. Which is fine. Nothing groundbreaking will happen. Story's literally over. But on the off chance you have a surplus of free time and you're invested, I will be sharing progress updates on the cave walls of my various lairs. I go by m1kaverleth on Twitter and Instagram, and am fortunate enough to be mikaverleth on Tumblr and Bluesky. Stop by for a coffee when you're in the neighborhood.
Thanks for being here. Again. (Holy shit, right?!)
- roxy