Fantasy ♡ need you like a heartbeat. (starboob & ellarose.)

[ellarose]

"You traveled a long way to get here. You must be ravenous. Won't you eat something?"

Juliet stares at the long table stretching out before her. It's overflowing with a gratuitous amount of food, stacked in piles so high that she can't see the person addressing her at the other end of it. Candles of varying sizes flicker in the dim lighting of a dining hall covered in cobwebs. Three moons in varying phases float in the sky, as if they're confused of where they fit in the scene, casting silvery beams of light over the black and white tiled floors and the plush red velvet carpet at her slippered feet.

"Juliet?" Even when Juliet concentrates, she can't recognize the sound of the voice calling after her. Her brown eyes narrow, her gaze lowering to the plate in front of her. A blood-red pomegranate gleams at her. This isn't right. The voice, the entity, whatever it is laughs. "Oh, child. It's too late for cleverness. You've already eaten our fruit. A little more won't kill you! Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What do you..." Juliet pushes the pomegranate away, furrowing her brow. Is this familiar or isn't it? "Who..."

"Although I've since been informed it was unfair to tempt a child with food when she was desperate and starving... after all, what other choice did you have but to accept without a second thought? It had no bearing on your nature whatsoever." The voice sighs with the veneer of a kicked puppy. "I haven't done it since, I swear on my favorite fork!" All of the forks on the table float at the voice's acknowledgement, swaying in a dance to get their attention. "That's enough of that. Settle down, now." They fall, clattering. "Even so, there's no changing what happened in the past. Mistakes were made. What's done is done."

Juliet grips the end of the table cautiously. While she's sure she might have taken food from all kinds of unsavory strangers, she can't place any of this. Surely she'd have remembered-- ugh. Does she have a reason to believe any of this? For all she knows, it's all just a... a...

"You're here because you've been poisoned. Again." The voice mentions. "How many times is that now...? Your life is a mess. An entertaining mess, but a mess nonetheless." Juliet glares. "Don't worry, darling! We're handling it."

"This is a dream." Juliet muses, pushing back her chair and bringing herself up to her feet. She's not been threatened, not yet, but that doesn't stop her heart from pounding like a gauntlet in her chest. She whips her head around to observe the dining hall for exits. There. To the left, lined by red curtains...

"In a way." The voice acknowledges conversationally. "Anyway. You were supposed to be the thirteenth soul in our collection, but-- hey, where are you going!?"

Juliet disappears beneath the dark, curtained archway, fast as she ever was. The source of the voice doesn't chase after her, instead choosing lounge back in their chair. Kicking their feet up on the table, rattling all the fine silver, they laugh and dine on grapes.

"Oh, Lara baby. You've chosen chaos."

***​

Grace is insistent on taking Juliet into the woods. Since Dorothea and Willow don't have another place in mind, the woods is where they go. Knowing what happened to Sawyer, there's no telling how many of their usual haunts have been overtaken. As they travel deeper and deeper, the idol uses her song and persuades the elements to cover their tracks. When they feel they've ventured far enough within the woods, Willow produces a tent from her bag. Thank goodness for Willow James.

"Prepared as always." Dorothea mentions with a certain fondness as they set it up together. "We're lucky to have you." Lucky trills, though their trill lacks it's usual cheer considering the circumstances. While she can do little to disguise her sorrow, she's doing her damnedest to keep herself from drowning in despair.

Lucky assists with the assembly and Willow casts a spell to enlarge the tent, ensuring it's comfortable enough for all of them. Grace never leaves Juliet's side. Sometimes Dorothea will pause what she's doing, glancing between Willow with Lucky, Juliet with Grace. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, digging her chewed nails into her sides.

When their tent is assembled, Dorothea lifts her arms and the earth rumbles faintly beneath them. A protective dome of vines with thorns emerges around the proximity of their campsite. Flowers bloom and promise to be her eyes and ears, to alert her immediately if anyone should try to come for them.

By the time they're settled inside, the veins on Juliet's neck have faded from black to a faint violet. She sleeps soundly and fluid has stopped leaking from her colorless mouth. Whatever happened to her, it seems that the effects are beginning to wear off on their own. Even so, Grace never leaves her side, curling up beside her and curling her fluffy tail over her companion's calves.

"You're incredible. Both of you." Dorothea speaks quietly. If she talks about something, anything, maybe it will help get her mind off of... She picks through the snacks that Willow piled up in front of her, showing little interest in actually eating anything. "And your thread is... I'm happy for you, Willow. I really mean that." She looks the sorceress in the eye. "You deserve to be with someone who's as fearless as you are."

Evoking that name at a time like this... Dorothea's violet gaze becomes somber and faraway. They need to be fearless now more than ever, don't they? Juliet curls up tightly in her corner, mumbling something incoherent. She settles again before they can worry and the rain pattering over the tent softens to a faint drizzle.

"We should talk, shouldn't we? After all this time..." Dorothea hesitates, stopping and starting again as she considers what she wants to say. "Over the last few years, there were so many times I wanted to talk to you. Now we're here. Together. You had valid reasons to avoid me, I know, but... maybe now, after everything, this is our chance. If you want to, that is."

 

[starboob]

Every second they stay still is a second wasted. Jovi died, because they waited. They chose rest over rescue knowing Jovi sacrificed everything to give her companion, Dorothea Birdsong, a chance to heal. And they didn’t even succeed in that. The bruises underneath her old friend's eyes are shifting shadows, a black hole waiting to collapse. She might hold herself with poise, but Willow’s always known her better than that.

And maybe that’s why she can’t find it in herself to hold onto her anger or disappointment. Maybe that’s why she lets go of her edge and softens. Dorothea needs a friend, not a hero. (Is there room for both?) Maybe that’s all she ever needed, really.

Lucky has sprawled out on their side between the two Evermorian women. They face Dorothea, twitching and growling as they sleep. Willow sets her hand along the back of their long neck, stroking some of the raised scales to smooth them back down. In the back of her mind she sees the dragon’s skull adorning the study in the Stake manor. She sees Jovi wrapped in chains. She sees—

She crushes her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. (Do they even have time to talk? Is this respite a luxury they can afford? Sawyer’s been taken. Meredith and Kinsley are missing, but safe. She can only hope her lit candles are adding to the spells protecting the Rhode Island home.) It’s not like she can do this on her own; it’s not like she can do this without Juliet. They have no choice but to wait. Might as well talk about all the things she’s avoided. (It could be her last chance. Those bruises, her sunken cheeks…)

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Willow sighs, leaning against the tent, though it makes for a lousy backrest. She picks at her fingers. They’re clean now, but she can still see Juliet’s blood on them. “Disappointed and hurt, for sure. I wanted you to choose me—you were always talking about Saturn and then you just… You just stayed. And that’s not even my issue,” she clarifies, looking up to meet Dorothea’s eye. Dorothea leans forward, because maybe the more of this she can soak up, the less room she has for her grief. (Her rage.) Willow continues, “It hurt to see you so unhappy. To see you faking it so obviously and no one was saying anything. I didn’t know how to interact with you, knowing you were living a lie and struggling with how badly I wished you’d’ve chosen me, because I knew I could have been a safe spot for you to land. I didn’t know what to say. You were so different from the girl I fell in love with under the bleachers.”

Willow stares at her thread, gleaming and flickering like a candle in the wind. She follows it to Juliet and reaches over the small distance to move the hair from her face. It’s weird to be talking about her relationship with Dorothea when Juliet is right here, but all of this she would tell Juliet. And will, whenever they get around to it.

She leans back again then decides to stretch out on her side, propping her head in the palm of her hand so she can see her old friend over her companion. “I thought about you, even if I couldn’t talk to you. You were always my one what-if.”

“You were mine, too,” Dorothea admits without hesitancy or hint of embarrassment. “I wasn’t ashamed of you either. I would have chosen you—really, I would have, but I was scared. I am scared.” Though it’s not fear that laces through her words when she speaks. Her tone is dull. She hangs her head, letting her shoulders drop as she stares into her hands and examines her chewed up nails. “I thought I could keep you safe if I kept you a secret and it did. It did keep you safe. If Griffith ever thought we were more than just friends from drama class and our time as camp counselors, I don’t know what he would have done.”

Neither of them ever denied that their relationship shouldn’t have happened. Threads aside, they both knew who was at the end of Dorothea’s thread of fate when they shared their first kiss. Even before that when they’d stay up late, talking to each other about everything and nothing; sharing their dreams and dirtiest jokes; pretending they were only friends, kindred spirits, or something else as long as it was platonic.

Back then, Willow never would have understood what Dorothea was trying to shield her from. Now she does. Now she gets why Dorothea chose what she probably thought was the path of least resistance. Willow opens her mouth to say something, but Dorothea continues before she can. Her old friend lays on her back, staring up at the tent’s orange fabric. “He’s dangerous when he’s jealous. All our families are dangerous when they don’t get what they want. I didn’t know how to explain that to you.” She sighs. “I don’t think I really wanted to. I could just be normal with you if you never knew all that bullshit.”

“Ah.” Willow nods, then quiets. She can feel Dorothea’s eyes on her while she counts the spikes on Lucky’s spine.

“I missed you. I missed just talking to you.”

She nods again, but doesn’t say anything back.

“You’re not expendable to me.” Dorothea tries again, unsure if Willow’s silence is pointed or just exhaustion. And maybe she can’t stand the quiet. Especially not right now. Even though she knows that her old friend is listening, her silence still hurts. But maybe she’s done everything to earn this. “I know things have gotten complicated and timing’s been off for just about everything, but…” She flips back onto her back and rubs the heel of both palms into her eyes, rubbing sleep and tears both away. “My life is such a shit show.”

“That’s one word for it,” Willow agrees, finally looking over at the popstar. “I’ve missed you, too. I told you I thought about you often. That wasn’t a lie. I try not to lie.” Another silence passes between them, this one more somber. “My grandmas really missed you. Grandma Juniper especially. She’s worried about you. If things weren’t so bananas, I’d say you should come over, but I’m not sure either of us should go back there.”

“I’m sorry, Willow.” Dorothea peers over at her friend. “I—”

“It’s fine. Really, it is.” They both know she’s lying when she ends her assurances like that, but Dorothea is kind enough to not say anything. They both need their lies right now. Willow curls herself into a protective ball. “They’re tough. Survived the magician’s war, helped bridge peace, and are still kicking well into their two hundreds. They’re going to be okay.”

Why does saying that feel like a curse?

“Dorothea, what do you think you’d even do if you got to Saturn?”

 

[ellarose]

Juliet wanders through a hall of masked guests in tailcoats and ball gowns. In the candlelight their shadows strew odd, ominous shapes all over the floor. The orchestra echoes off the walls, it sounds otherworldly. The deeper she walks in, the more she suspects these people aren't wearing masks at all. Are those their faces? Are they demons? (It is a dream, after all.) A woman whose mask is adorned with an extremely long beak has an obnoxious laugh that sounds eerily similar to the bird she's costumed as. Observing this, she hastens her pace through the crowd when she notices a man in a tiger mask. I like 'em feisty. Eugh.

Passing through another dark archway, Juliet finds herself in yet another massive room. This one's made entirely of opalescent stone, with sculptures lining the sides and balconies in the wall lined with the silhouettes of the creature-like guests. There is no floor beyond the pillar-shaped platform she's standing on. Only a maze of water, which flows into yet another tunnel. Now what?

"...Not a partier?" The voice asks, bouncing through the chamber. The water froths with bubbles, which float playfully around her. "You should live a little, Jules. Have a drink!"

"I've long ago learnt to refuse strange drinks." Juliet gazes down at her reflection in the water, wobbling back at her, gears turning in her mind. She slips out of her shoes, peels off her dress so it doesn't weigh her down. "Even in dreams." Perhaps especially in 'dreams'. One of the bubbles floating idly by catches her attention. It's Willow, her green eyes full of wonder as she spins around and takes in Folklore's wood.

"But I have the perfect analogy to explain what you are--" The voice stops short when they're interrupted by a splash. Yep. There she goes. "Involving cocktails! Oh my, oh my. They can't tell me I didn't try."

***​

"Oh, I've had all sorts of ideas." Dorothea grins in spite of herself. How many nights has she spun and escaped into these fantasies of hers? For a time they were all she had. They were her longest and dearest companion next to... Jovi. The idol draws in a too-sharp breath and her eyes close as the familiar daydreams wrap around her like the warmest embrace. "I'd dance on Saturn's rings, of course. Sing songs to the stars. We'd be friends, I think, and they'd convince me to try all sorts of things... give myself a haircut like Meredith's, for instance. Or get a tattoo." She smirks. Why not entertain the rebellious phase she never got to experience growing up? All the while she wouldn't have to fret about her mother's opinion, about the tabloids and maintaining her image as a sweetheart.

"I'd take joy in living my life, Willow. Without the expectations and veiled threats. Without him holding me down... I'd fly." Dorothea tilts her head back, takes a deep breath in. Afterwards, she opens her eyes and stares at her thread resentfully. If that gaze alone could burn through it, it'd be ash. It's difficult to lose herself in these fantasies when the harsh, cold reality keeps creeping in. Jovi.

"From way up there, everything I left behind would feel so small." Dorothea sighs, grounding herself. "But like you said, I could never bring myself to leave. I stayed for everyone I loved more than I could ever love Griffith. And I tried to protect everyone. I did, but--" Her throat squeezes around the words, it physically pains her to speak them. When she draws her arms around herself this time, Grace takes notice. The fox rises from her companion's side to nuzzle against her arm. Thoughtfully, she scoops the archer's companion into her lap and holds her close against her chest, as if that might heal her broken heart. "It wasn't enough."

Even before... what happened. It hasn't been enough for a while. Hearing of Willow's disappointment in her, knowing that even for a second she made someone so near and dear to her heart feel like she was expendable? It's unacceptable. But what can she do? She loses when she plays by Charming Street's rules and loses when she doesn't. Something needs to change. Dorothea brushes her fingertips over Grace's scars, considers their history, and squeezes the fox tighter when she's certain she doesn't mind it.

"I think time away from Evermore would be good for me." Dorothea admits, blinking the teary mist from her eyes. "Maybe I need some hero training of my own." Lately, she's been trying to turn the unattainable fantasies into visions of a brighter, kinder future. One she'll stand and fight for. It won't be easy, it hasn't been, but she did promise to try. Folklore won't be anything like Saturn. More than escape, it'll present her an opportunity for growth. "I met the Folklorian princess again. Every day, I feel closer to her. It's hard to explain it, but if we reached out at the same time... I think we really could trade places."

***​

Once Juliet finds her way to the end of the underwater maze, the wall before her vanishes like smoke and opens up to one of the Folklorian seas. She only knows this because she can see the underside of a massive ship... with a golden haired mermaid alongside it, ensnared in a massive fishing net. Her hand is pressed lazily over a bleeding wound in her side. Her tiny, pink companion squeaks worriedly at her.

"Elise." Though a strange, gust-like current is insistent on pushing Juliet away from the scene, she swims against it and makes it to the princess's side. When she attempts to tear away at the net, however, her hands phase right through it, like she's no more than a phantom. "I'll get you out here. I'll find a way, I--"

"It's going to be okay." Elise waves her off gently. Her blue eyes are cloudy and unfocused. "What's a love story without a few obstacles?"

"A few obstacles? Elise, you've been stabbed!"

"It's going to be okay." Elise repeats, smiling faintly, though it fades as her consciousness does. Peaches glows in bursts as she makes another attempt to heal the princess, but wheezes when she fails to do so. The poor thing's exhausted. The net begins to rise and there's nothing either of them can do about it. In the sunlight touching the surface of the water, Juliet watches as a wobbly winged figure pulls the princess into his arms. Then the sea tilts sideways.

Juliet blinks and finds herself submerged in a ruby goblet now instead of an ocean. Rosemary and dead flies float on the surface above her head. The glass tilts again, sending her falling towards the smug, open mouth of-- Griffith?

No. Paris Brooks.

***​

There's a soft tap-tapping at the side of the tent. Based on the shadow, it's only one of the vines. Still, Dorothea's cautious when she sets Grace aside and goes to see what it wants. When she peels back the tent flap, the vine unfurls and hands her... a card covered in mushrooms and a yucky, sticky substance undefinable by texture or scent. Gross. Settling back inside the tent, she's careful to avoid touching any of the disgusting bits as she shakes a card from the envelope.

"We invite you to share our joy and support our love..." Dorothea's nose scrunches with disgust as she reads her name next to Griffith's, written in a bolt print that's prouder than it has any right to be. Her stomach twists uncomfortably as she skims the rest. "This is a wedding invitation. For Saturday, August the fifth? That's four days from now!" That isn't the date they planned for. He pushed it up.

Juliet lurches upright, gasping for breath as she wakes from her nightmare. Grace is at her side in an instant as her companion struggles to place where she is now. (For all she knows, it could still be a dream.) She shivers and takes the fox into her arms, holding her close. The last thing she remembers is darkness, the familiar smell of alcohol on his breath...

"Don't disobey me again." Dorothea vaguely registers Juliet's waking as she stiffly flips the invitation over, reading the angry red words scrawled on the back. She drops it and it flits to the ground. "...Or we kill the wolf."

It's silent. Juliet looks from Dorothea to Willow. Concernedly, she checks the sorceress up and down for signs of any serious injuries, relieved to find that she's okay. They're all still rather bruised from their battles over the last month, but it's nothing they can't heal from with time.

"The narratives may be mirroring each other. I think Princess Elise has just been captured by Prince Devlin. It, ah, came to me in my dream." Juliet ventures. They can check with the witch of the wood to confirm. "Knowing Folklorians, they'll arrange for a wedding immediately. Based on what Millie has said, the event itself may provide you with the opportunity to switch places. Also..." She pauses. "You ought to know. You can cut your thread, Dorothea." Assessing the situation, the idol's hopelessness, and can so easily envision herself in her place. During a time where it feels like she has no choice, she ought to be made aware of the choices she can make. "We have hexed scissors that would allow you to do so, should you wish it."

"...And we have time. We'll rescue Sawyer." Juliet presses her hand over Willow's to reassure her, knowing how she worries. "Knowing her, she'll give them plenty of hell on her own. Think of the not-bees."

 

[starboob]

Dorothea pulls her fists into her lap, hunching over herself as if that might help stop the tremor racking through her body. She’s already paying her respects to the wolf she’s never met, because this threat is just a promise of how she’ll be punished for the transgression of leaving her loveless life.

Her hands are permanently bloodstained.

“If I go now, I might be able…” She trails off at the mention of her tampered threat. It rattles as if to taunt her with a secret she can’t even begin to figure out. (Every night since their disastrous visit to Afterglow has filled her mind with fantasies of the ghost, who she might be, and who they might have been together.) ‘My mind is a mess. Can I even trust it?’

Those questions are flimsy thoughts; the kind she used to use to hold herself back and to choose the whim of everyone else over herself. Well, they were also there to protect those she loves. There are more still who could come to harm because of her, and no one is safe still. She could break all her bones and reshape herself into the perfect wife, for her perfect husband, and it still would not be enough. It will never be enough. Nothing is enough for a man as avaricious as Griffith.

If she’s to right all her wrongs, then maybe she needs to start by choosing a different path. And maybe that path is choosing herself.

Even so, she looks to Willow for her approval. ‘Is this the right decision?’ But the sorceress isn’t looking at her, she’s looking over her sweetheart and checking to see if the bandages on her neck need to be changed. When Willow does look back at her and registers the question in her eyes, she only shrugs in a gesture that says, ‘It’s up to you.’

“Okay. I’m ready.”

***​

They come up with a plan first. Dorothea goes over and beyond dishing out all of Charming Streets dirty little secrets—both the ones she knows for fact and the ones she only speculates. Some of what she offers has little to do with the immediate mission. Willow gets the sense Dorothea is trying to make-up for the gala and everything that has since followed.

“Griffith never leaves Elsewhere.” And apparently hasn’t since the spring term of their senior year. Though he’s always posed it as his loyalty and commitment to the state and its citizens, his fiancée suspects otherwise. “I think he’s spellbound, but what that spell is… I’ve no clue. Camp counselor’s honor.” She draws a neat ‘X’ over her heart and Willow knows she means it. "I'd thank the wizard who trapped him there if I knew."

The demigod creates vine and root dioramas of the Charming Street homes, focusing particularly on the Stake manor (though even Dorothea had been surprised to learn about the underground lair), Copernicus King's mansion, and the home she shares with Griffith. She gives a list of others who may be at risk of harm with her upcoming disappearance, as well as Kinsley’s recent one. (The three women exchange a look, wordlessly expressing hope that Kinsley and Meredith haven’t murdered each other, wherever they are.) The list isn’t too extensive, but it includes Kinsley’s sisters and Dorothea's biological father and his family. “My dad’s been threatened by Charming Street before. He knows to be careful and he’s more than capable of protecting his own, but…” Dorothea squeezes her eyes shut, holding her breath. Willow reaches over to grab her friend’s fist, stroking her thumb over her knuckles. The actress sniffs and straightens her posture, refusing to bog herself down now. 'Focus on escaping. Jovi would want that.' She clears her throat, “Just keep them in mind, too.”

She then goes over the possible places Sawyer might be held. While the Stake lair is where they’ll go first, she also mentions that she’s heard rumors of an unlisted facility specifically used to contain werewolves and other populations who have been identified as "volatile," such as cursed fae, vampires, and the possessed. “I don’t know where that is located, but I can find out.” Before Willow can ask, Dorothea holds up her hand and steals herself. “I have to go back. If this is going to work, I have to be with him and convince him that I've learned my lesson and know my place. Just for a few days, right?” Her smile acts as a fracture in her resolve; her bottom lip wobbles, but she doubles down and forces it. “I'm not going to risk anyone or anything. I can handle him.”

 

[ellarose]

A hooded figure scales the opalescent gates of a sky castle wreathed in clouds. A soft curse is whispered under her breath when she loses her slipper in the process. Briefly she entertains thoughts of the princess's fairy stories, where this becomes the moment helps her meet her soul mate. Ah! Pish posh. It's more likely to alert the knights to the presence of an intruder. Can't have that, can they? 'Don't let romance make a fool of you, cousin. Remember what happened to Juliet?' Oh, Millicent would never let her hear the end of it.

When the woman lands on the other side, she checks to ensure she hasn't been spotted and reaches through the bars to retrieve her shoe, hopping on one foot as she shoves it back on. After brushing her hands over her cloak, she treads quick and light as a rabbit to one of the palace's back entrances where another hooded woman motions her forward.

"Nettlefred, at your service." The witch takes a bow, theatrically sweeping the end of her cloak.

"...My. I thought I misheard Elise when she spoke. What a preposterous name!" Lavinia Laurence whispers back, pursing her petal pink lips. She fidgets in her hood. "What took you so long?"

"It was a bitch getting up here. Does it look like I have a flying chariot at my disposal? Or wings?" Nessa sighs. Really.

"Please excuse Vinny. She gets rather punchy when she's nervous." A third figure clad in a violet cloak steps into the light, lowering her hood and shaking out her fair locks. Celeste DeSkies pats Lavinia consolingly on the arm. "And as I've come to realize, she's nervous most of the time." The other woman pins her with a glare and the princess titters wickedly behind her hand. "What? It's true! You're only ever in an agreeable mood if you've just won a game of cards... or perhaps if you've had too much wine to drink."

"Vinny?" Nessa snorts, looking between them. Lavinia is furious, judging by her scrunched up nose, but her cheeks are red. Something's going on there. "Never mind the lady's foul moods. Do you have my shells?"

"Right here, dear." Celeste wiggles a velvet pouch. "Courtesy of Princess Elise. They're truly lovely."

"Excellent." Nessa taps the tips of her fingers together greedily before snatching the pouch. It takes everything in her not to examine the contents right then and there. She holds the pouch to her face, taking a great deep sniff of it. "Salty." "They came from the sea. What did you expect!?"

"What of Sir Flynn? Will he make it in time?" Celeste asks. Unlike Lavinia, she's entirely unfazed by the witch and her antics. Nessa thinks she's perhaps the most witch-like princess she's ever met.

"Devlin put a bounty on his head. Poor lad's been captured at least thrice by now. But he loves the girl, so..." Nessa shrugs. "If true love is real, he'll burst in when she walks down the altar." All three women sigh in unison. Romantic as it sounds, it's stressful to wait for the fallout. And these days nobody can rely on heroic knights, narratives and happy endings to cushion their falls.

"Let's get started, shall we? If Flynnigan cannot make it, it will be up to us to save the princess from her fate."

~*~*~*~​

Through scarce slivers of light, Millicent's reflection travels from a droplet of water in a faucet to a spoon on a dirty tray. She trickles down the side of the sink to a puddle and skitters like a mouse across the damp floor, exploring the halls of an Evermorian facility. She can feel herself venturing closer and closer to what she's looking for... when some fool unknowingly stomps through the puddle she's inhabiting, shattering her connection instantly.

"Brrrr." Millie buzzes like a bee, shaking her head dizzily as she reappears in the teacup Juliet and Willow set out specifically for her. (According to the witch of the wood, it's her preferred means of travel. Especially when the tea is chamomile. It relaxes her.) "She's trapped in an unknown somewhere. It's dark and leaky. Smells like cedar." She wrinkles her nose. "Indeed. Our hint is trees."

"Trees." Juliet repeats flatly. She's on the verge of collapse just at the thought... though that could be the aftereffects of the poison getting to her. "There are trees everywhere."

"Well, that's all I can do from here! I would have to be captured to get any closer. Mirror narratives and all..." Millie flaps her hand around. "And that's not happening. I'm quite safe at home at the moment. Jeffery Von Willigans is guarding the door and his swordsmanship is impeccable." She tilts her head to the side. It topples off her neck, spins all the way around, and then reattaches itself lopsided. Pursing her lips, she screws it back into place. "Dorothy, I've heard that you can speak to the trees? Why not ask them?"

"I could try." Dorothea acknowledges. Her resolve has steeled tenfold since asking the heroines about Sawyer-- learning from Willow just how much she admires her work as an artist. Though the sorceress stated she can't really encapsulate with words just how deep that admiration goes. (How she also had to take refuge in Folklore for safety after her Hollowing at the fair was blamed on wolves.) Sawyer has been put in so much danger at her expense. While it isn't her fault, not directly, it's hard not to feel responsible. Though she doesn't know the wolf personally, she's as invested in her rescue as the heroines are.

"Follow your nose if you must." Millicent advises her absentmindedly. "If you pay attention, you'll notice scents have been unusually strong lately. Tis a sign of magic in the air."

"You two stay here and rest. I won't go far." Dorothea promises the heroines as she stands. She nods at Millie before leaving the tent. Lucky and Grace rise to accompany her even so, stubbornly refusing to let her go alone.

"Ah!" An explosion booms in the background of Millie's call. She disappears briefly from frame. "Oh. I've got mail! Smells like... hugs and preparedness with undertones of petrichor. Willow James." She turns and waggles the coke bottle they sent her earlier. (They used a pair of gloves from Willow's bag to protect their hands as they stuffed the bottle with the mushrooms and mysterious goo.) "The specimen has arrived! I'll study it at once and see if it offers us more than trees."

With that, the witch of the wood vanishes as well, leaving the heroines alone in the tent. It's quiet for the first time in a long time. Almost peaceful... if not for the restless electricity in the air, the feeling that this is the calm before what Meredith would call a massive shitstorm.

Juliet takes in a deep breath, exhaling with a huff as she flops onto her back. No amount of powder could hide the dark circles forming under her eyes. She's utterly exhausted. When she sleeps, she sleeps restlessly. Whether she's being offered otherworldly food, taunted by Jayden Darling or swallowed alive by Paris fucking Brooks. She reaches for her neck, traces her fingertips over the layers of bandages, and flashes backward in her mind. Another close brush with death... and she's survived it yet again. It's kindling a recklessness in her, to gamble with a life that never seems to end.

Still. It felt notably different from the time that Juliet threw herself in front of Lavinia Laurence in the market square. Obviously she holds more affection for Willow James in her heart than the likes Lavinia Laurence. That should come as no surprise to anyone. It's the voice she couldn't ignore, the traitorous voice she couldn't silence as she closed the distance between them to shield her from harm. I hope I never lose you, hope it never ends. Her own voice, her own damned foolish heart that can never seem to learn its lesson.

"You're staring." Juliet notices in her periphery without having to look up. Some part of her is always aware of Willow's presence, aware of where she is and what she's doing. It began early on, when harm first came to her in Folklore. It started the moment she truly realized she was looking out for more than just herself and Gracie for a change. "What is it?"

 

[starboob]

Willow’s cheeks flush the instant that she’s caught, though she can hardly find the will to be any more embarrassed than the reaction she can’t help. She only mumbles an apology and averts her gaze, focusing on the space in between her criss-crossed legs. She brings her knees up, pulling them closer to her chest while keeping her ankles crossed. “It’s nothing. Really.”

And it is nothing. Really, it is.

She fidgets, stretches out her legs, decides this new position is uncomfortable and pulls her knees back up to her chest. Her fingers dig into her calves, not quite as bruising as Cedrick or Griffith had been; it’s only enough to give her something to focus on. Something other than the storm raging through her mind that pelts her with the constant reminders of her failures. ‘Jovi should be alive.’

It’s not her fault—somewhere she knows this—and yet it’s impossible to let go of the idea that she could have done something; could have been quicker; could have been stronger; could have been smarter, more ruthless, less everything that makes Willow James, Willow James.

Lately she's been coming to terms with the fact that Willow James isn’t a hero. Heroes are supposed to save people; they're supposed to protect the things they love and the things that are sacred. All the sorceress has done is helplessly watch as more and more of her loved ones are harmed. Murdered.

The only thing she is is a disappointment.

(She knows that Dorothea doesn’t blame her, but…)

“I saw it happening in my dreams.” Willow knows that Juliet is watching her, still waiting for the sorceress to open up. (Or maybe that’s just the wishful hope of the girl who wants someone to care about her and notice all her little tells.) She knows her excuse was flimsy; it hardly convinced herself. They both know that nothing is okay.

“I mean, maybe I wasn’t actually seeing it,” Willow chews on her lip, keeping her eyes pointedly trained on the floor. “But I knew something bad was happening. I couldn’t sleep. My dreams were showing me hell and…” She rubs her chest, massaging over her heart. “And it was too late. I knew we should have tried to find Jovi instead of resting and now she’s—” she hiccups “—dead. We could have stopped it.”

Maybe Juliet is waiting for her to quit. Maybe the archer would be better off without this deadweight she’s been hauling across the realms. Just looking at the state of Juliet fills the pit of her stomach with lead. ‘If I had just been faster.’ She goes over all the times Juliet has thrown her body in front of Willow like a shield—from that Lightless to the stone hydra to taking a poison bullet. All of those should be her wounds, not her wounds. (Even so, something sticks out to Willow about the nature of the Lightless bite, its venom, and the poison in Sabrina’s bullet. It scratches at her brain, some vague musing of Sawyer’s, though the details are fuzzy and lost and probably somewhere in her notebook.)

“Or maybe you could have, because you’re Juliet freakin’ August,” she sniffs. The tears are running steadily down her face now and she’s powerless to do anything to stop them. “But you keep having to take care of me, ‘cause I can’t keep up and I’m just fucking everything up."

Leif said so once. Not with those words, but she still remembers the lava flow that came from his mouth after she asked him why he didn’t like her. And he was right to say it. His family was a lot better before her. Then her parents met… Then mom couldn’t leave him, because of Willow… But then she did and maybe she would have at least taken Leif with her if Willow had never been there.

“Sawyer wouldn’t even be in this mess if she never met me a–and—” Sobs wrack through Willow and turn her speech into a garbled watery mess. All the grief she's been holding comes down at once like a dam breaking. “And you keep getting hurt, because of me.” Her fingers wind into her hair, images flashing through her mind of Juliet’s seizing body. “You almost died. You were dying.” Willow remembers it, the feeling of the poison coursing through Juliet’s veins and how it wrapped around her heart like a vise. Technically, Juliet shouldn’t even be alive. Willow is too logical to not know this, but she doesn’t think there’s a polite way to point that out. In the moment, with tears pattering to the ground, she doesn’t even think about it. “You were slipping through my fingers. I… I can’t do this without you and you were—you were,” she gestures vaguely with her hand, rolling her wrist in a figure eight pattern. “I was so scared. I could have lost you."

'I don't ever want to lose you.'

 

[ellarose]

"No." Juliet whispers, her voice stung with tenderness. It breaks something in her to see Willow this way. She repeats herself, firmer, "No. You weren't holding the gun, Willow. None of this was your fault." Her tongue flicks over her lower lip, she teeters uncertainly on the edge of moving closer and eliminating the distance between them. I could have lost you. Instead she draws her legs in against her chest, thinking back on everything in slow motion. "It happened so fast. I was only able to move the way I did because you showed me I could. You saved me first." She exhales a long, slow breath. "You saved me more than once... because that's what we do. We look out for each other. Your knowledge, your skill. That's valuable. More valuable than me breaking noses, anyway. I would be lost if something happened to you. I was lost before I met you."

The implications wrap around Juliet like a noose after she says the words aloud... but they're true all the same. Alone and tasked with curing all the Lightless in Folklore, as the only one who could, she never slowed down. Life became an endless list of thankless tasks and she was so deeply entangled in the elaborate messes born of her heartbreak. Everything changed when Willow joined her. The weight she carried lightened and she gave herself the grace to slow down, if only a little, to see the wood anew through the eyes of an outsider.

Now their responsibilities are piling higher than castle spires and life has become reminiscent of the one she had before they met. Living like that taught Juliet a great deal of things... things she ought to share with Willow before she digs herself deeper.

"In the stories, the quests are straightforward. Save the princess from the tower or... break this one curse by completing these three tasks. The heroes usually have it spelled out for them by a kindly fairy, an all-knowing wizard or a prophecy." Juliet blows a raspberry and flops onto her back. This is going to be a lot, but perhaps it will help Willow to see the extent of what they've been carrying. "...Meanwhile we're aware of at least three different people who need saving." Dorothea, Elise, Sawyer. Far more than that, too, if she includes the prisoners in the Stake's underground lab and the ghost tethered to the lake. And that's only physically. "They're all trapped in different locations. There are at least four different curses to break... and we've yet to fully understand even one of them. How could we, when we've hardly any time to think-- let alone eat or sleep enough to think? We've accumulated more enemies than I can count on my fingers. I haven't even begun to list the various mysteries our worlds are shrouded in. Mists, false threads, blood in the lakes, hexed scissors, gateways, the weather."

Juliet rubs the heels of her palms over her eyes. And that's without mentioning whatever the hell has been going on with her on the sidelines of it all. The strange visions and stranger magic. Or the other realms. If they take it upon themselves to solve all of the problems they've encountered thus far on their journey, they're setting themselves up to fail. They're going to lose themselves in it all.

"We went through hell at the lakes to get that sample..." Juliet traces her fingers over the fresh bandages on her arms. Strangely, she finds herself missing the aliens that Meredith doodled on the first ones. "We needed at least a day or two to recover from our wounds. But we went on to conduct a seance and got only a blink of sleep before Dorothea hollowed. Perhaps there's a version of this story where we do go back... where we're ill equipped for a fight, die with Jovi and waste the chance she gave us."

Either way, the what if scenarios will not help them now.

"I'm sorry that we couldn't save her. There's no telling what would have happened. All I know is that this is the state of me after four hours of sleep." Juliet wraps her hands around her neck. A hostage with a knife to her throat. Shot through with poison. With no sleep whatsoever? There's no telling where they'd be right now. It could have been so much worse. There might be a version where she's too late and Willow takes the bullet instead. Where the poison actually... "I needed rest before the tournament, but chose to compete anyway. If you hadn't been there, I would've..." She closes her eyes. The princes wouldn't have killed her. (Couldn't have.) There was the medicine, though, and Prince Bain's intentions to marry her. History may very well have repeated itself, shackling her to a fate worse than death.

Rest is just as important as the battles they fight. It effects their performance, their survival. Lara taught her that. It was one of the lessons Juliet most often forgot in her youth, too wrapped up in everything all around her. It's apparent now more than ever that if they try to fight everyone's battles for them, they'll burn themselves out.

"Sometimes we're going to have to trust others to fight their own battles." Juliet sighs softly, because she feels this at her very core. We can't save everyone. They can't be everywhere at once. All they can do is try to save as many people as they can. "If we make it our responsibility to carry everything for everyone... it's going to crush us. And just because you care enough to try doesn't mean that you deserve the blame when something goes wrong."

Why can't she see that? Juliet pushes herself up from the ground, folding her legs underneath her. After a beat of hesitation she reaches to scoop one of Willow's tears with her thumb. Electricity zings down her hand. "With so much to be done, the best we can do is choose our battles carefully. Focus on the fights that will do the most good.

Right now, it's imperative for us to be smart." Juliet taps Willow on the nose. (...The tear bewitched her hand, clearly.) Embarrassedly, she brings her arm back to her side, but she doesn't break eye contact. She clears her throat. "And you're one of the smartest people I know. So let's make a plan that will bring our enemies to their knees." Her eyes darken and she nods firmly. For Jovi's sake. "I'll hear no more of you blaming yourself. Okay?"

 

[starboob]

"You saved me first.”

“I was lost before I met you.”​

It dawns on Willow in this moment, where she is nothing more than a slobbery mess of who she’d like to be, that Juliet cares about. That Juliet cares about this version of her. (Perhaps above all the others.) And maybe she has cared for longer than the sorceress has been aware—it goes back at least as far as their last stint in Folklore, after King Cayman planted that false belief in Declan Carter and she almost lost herself to the role. Though if Willow follows the breadcrumbs down Memory Lane, she realizes there’s a possibility that Juliet has cared about her this whole time. (Or damn near.)

Her tears don’t stop entirely with this realization, but they slow and, with that, it’s easier for her to breathe. Focusing on the archer’s voice, her rough timbre, she allows herself to be swept away by it, until the rhythm of her heart has slowed and regulated. (Until the skies outside have cleared and the thunder’s rolled away.) She hiccups once, then again.

“If we make it our responsibility to carry everything for everyone... it's going to crush us.”

Willow is only one sorceress. Juliet is only one badass archer. The responsibility of saving everyone is a burden larger than what anyone should have to carry or is even capable of carrying on her own. Their failures are glaring—no one can deny that in the wake of Jovi, the loss of Sawyer, Elise's capture, or their missing friend (and socialite ally)—and she has to remind herself of the same truth she came to following everything with Cayman: their enemies are sweating. For all their bravado and power, they’ve managed to capture the attention of Charming Street and the royals of Folklore in their ivory towers. All eyes on two women they've tried to brush off and discredit.

“You're one of the smartest people I know. So let's make a plan that will bring our enemies to their knees.”

She can’t help the furious red march across her cheeks hearing that. Her eyes are still swollen and she’s sure nothing about her is appealing—it almost makes her want to hide her face—but somehow she bears the embarrassment of looking up and meeting Juliet’s gaze. Her lips tighten and she nods. “Okay. Okay.”

She scrubs her eyes clean, wiping off her cheeks with her sleeve before she magics a handkerchief from her bag, finding that her sleeves are too soaked to be effective. After three steeling breaths, she reaches behind her for her notebook, where she had been documenting all of Dorothea's information on Charming Street, and bites off the cap to her pen. (She can feel Grandma Elva’s disapproval from miles away. It warms and aches all the same.)

“We have Charming Street’s attention. That’s something,” she muses, scribbling down her thoughts while she speaks. “We should assume they know most if not everything about us. You might be more of a wildcard, but they at least know you’re an archer from Folklore. Oh, and that you’re a noblewoman there.” She hums quietly, rubbing her temple with the heel of her palm. They’ll know Willow’s weaknesses—namely her family, her loved ones, and so forth. They might guess some of Juliet’s, but she’s safer so long as Folklore remains too distant for their reach. “Our thread. They might have figured that out, but I’m not certain. I don’t think Dorothea understood until she saw it and… and I think she only saw it because we were in Afterglow.”

Considering Folklore hasn’t said anything of the heroines having their threads of fate entwined and the fact that they’ve accomplished several feats with it—like bringing down the stone hydra—she doesn’t think it can be seen in the mortal realms. But who knows. Their thread is an anomaly in and of itself.

Willow shifts closer to Juliet, inch by subtle inch until their knees touch. It’s only to show the archer the notes she’s been taking, of course, and is entirely separate from her private wish that Juliet had… perhaps closed the distance between their lips when she swept her thumb over her cheeks. (And bopped her nose.) “Our enemies have been getting to us by the sheer volume of their resources and numbers. We can’t outnumber them, even with the allies we have.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, rocking her head from side to side as she does. She taps the tip of her pen over the bullet point regarding the possibility that Griffith is spellbound to Elsewhere. “We could split their attention. Send out a few doubles just to keep them busy.” In this scenario, they don’t even need Juliet’s to be perfect. In fact, the chaotic version of Juliet could even prove useful.

“The real versions of us could split up too.” She’s not exactly keen on that idea. Nothing good ever happens when the gang splits up, and are Juliet and Willow ever truly separated? Though she doesn’t understand it, she knows it was their thread that saved Juliet from Sabrina’s knife and Willow from the poison bullet. (How did Juliet survive that?) “One of us heads the rescue; the other makes sure the princess and popstar swap places.”

She bites her lip. “Griffith moved the wedding up. Who’s to say Dorothea couldn’t do the same? Catch him off guard for once.” Already, Evermore is convinced they are the dream of dream couples whose fated thread will surely write new passages in the annals of history. Griffith has ensured this is the narrative. Dorothea has played along and maybe it’s time she use her role against him. “If Dorothea made some grand public gesture on national television, asking Griffith to marry her at some location at midnight… that could tilt the scales in our favor.”

***​

The ground is as cold and slimy as the beloved not-bees—though the not-bees tend be not cold. Well, save for when they are blue and sometimes purple, but most of the time they are a brilliant metallic orange as hot as the Mountain’s God still pulsing and very buried heart. She misses them.

Sawyer is dead against the floor of her small cell. It measures just too short for her to be able to spread all seventy-two inches of herself in a line, forcing her to curl into an uncomfortable ball. Though that’s not even her largest complaint. It’s the grating music that pumps into her cell—no, cage that she wishes would stop. It twould not be so bad if it were the sweet and lovely voice of the song bird, but the screaming vocalist of this garage band has kept her up since her capture. (Has it been hours or days?) She’s hardly had a private thought or a moment to concentrate. ‘Where art thee, my bees of not?’

She shimmies herself up, struggling as she tries to find leverage without the use of her bound hands. They made sure to fasten them tightly behind her back, lacing the ropes with burning wolfsbane, the same poison perfume that's pumping into this block of cages. Sores are opening on her cheeks. She has to keep her eyes closed to avoid the worst of the stinging. Were it not for the music keeping everyone awake, she's sure it'd be her howling siblings keeping her up instead. ‘My not-bees will save us. Bee patient.’

If she has faith in one thing, it is her precious creation. They will come for her.

Though with each day or hour she's held in this facility, she begins to wonder. Her spirit wears. Not even her visions can help soothe the psychic or provide distraction. 'Perhaps I mixed up the line times again?'

Stiletto heels click on the stone floor, soft then louder as a figure approaches, providing a new stimulus for Sawyer to latch onto. Before she can even find the silhouette in the dark, a bright silvery light floods her cage, forcing the wolf back into the corner, squinting against it. A skeleton hand taps on the lock. “This one. Bring it down to the freezers.”

 

[ellarose]

After poring over a map of Evermore, circling locations that would be advantageous for them should Dorothea agree to enact Willow's plan, Juliet insists that that sleep comes next. It's just as important as any of the other steps to achieving their goals. "It will sharpen your focus and reflexes for the battle ahead. We have a few hours now. Use them." Although it took some time, a little tossing and turning, eventually the slow rise and fall of Willow's chest indicates that she's asleep. It's about time. The archer watches, her expression softening at the sight. If they're going to split up later, they'll need to make sure they're as prepared as they can possibly be.

'You're worried about her.' Juliet runs a hand over her face. She needs to do anything other than think about that right now.

So she watches over the tent, busying herself by taking inventory of their weapons and supplies. It's fine. She slept already, while she was out from the... poison. 'So it was poison.' Somehow, she knew before Dorothea and Willow told her what happened. It was that dream. That nightmare. Cold, ghostly fingers brush tauntingly at her neck and down her spine. Something's been happening to her, something that no one else has been able to see. She observes the blue-violet valleys of her veins and wraps her arms around herself, rubbing the chill away before anyone can find her distraught.

"You've already eaten our fruit." The taunt roils in her stomach. Should Juliet have listened when the voice tried to tell her what she is? Tch. Except that's all anyone ever wants to do. Give her a role and expect her to perform it without complaint. She's been the orphan, the thief, the daughter, the damsel. The bride. Maybe it would have been different this time. Maybe not. Her mind has been warped beyond repair since Sefarina played her tricks on it. Disillusioned and distrusting... these tendencies only serve to deepen the haze surrounding her. Will she ever find her way out of it? Will she ever understand any of this?

'Who am I?' Various brown-eyed reflections stare back at her from the blades she's lined on the ground. 'No... it doesn't matter now. Don't let it distract you.'

...Willow would try to help her with this. She's good. Perhaps too good for her own good. Hell, she's already offered it. Juliet may be another problem that needs to be solved, but she refuses to become Willow's problem. Not when the weight upon their shoulders grows heavier by the day. To add to it after everything they've been through, especially as of recent... no. She can't. It wouldn't be right.

Besides, Willow looks at Juliet like she believes she's more than the rumors and the lies. Selfishly, it has been nice. To be treated with respect. With warmth. Like Juliet is more than a tool to be used, a prize to be won or a means to an end. Like she's capable. An equal. Or close enough to one. After all... Willow raised Juliet up while putting herself down. Doesn't she notice any of the archer's flaws, the warning signs that something isn't quite right with her?

Or does Juliet wear her mask so well that it's becoming a part of her, like those strange creatures from her dream? If anything, it serves as a reminder that this is just another role. The heroine. Although she has been feeling more and more like herself and not everything has been a lie, she can't deny it. By burying her fear, her anger, her intrusive thoughts and urges to flee... she's not the person Willow thinks she is.

There's movement outside the tent. Juliet grabs one of the knives and slips out quietly. No weapons are needed, though, when she finds it's only Dorothea and their companions.

"Willow's sleeping. Let's talk outside, alright?" Juliet says, though her suggestion is more like a demand as she positions herself in front of the tent flap. "We have a long night ahead of us."

Juliet proceeds to fill Dorothea in on the plan Willow came up with while she was away-- the fact that she doesn't have to tolerate Griffith's presence on her own over the next few days if she moves the wedding up to a location of her choosing.

"I have some experience with hexed scissors. Admittedly, I've been in a position much like yours before. Willow and I were discussing the possibility of splitting up, and... do you want me to come with you?" Juliet asks, watching Dorothea carefully to gauge how she feels about it all. She understands the toll this takes. She really does. "I trust Willow with Sawyer's rescue. She's proven herself more than capable." She practically saved herself from the Midnight Mountains. The sorceress will probably be better suited to it, too. She knows Evermore better. And if the facility is meant to prison magical beings, it's highly likely that it's protected with some kind of magic as well. "Speaking of which... did you learn anything out there?"

 

[starboob]

“Yes,” Dorothea nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her mind still reels over the idea of going against Griffith, spinning the tables and turning them over so that he is the one on the silver platter and she’s the grinning diner. It’s fantasy enough to get lost in, even with her sweating palms and the rabbit quick pace of her heart. She focuses, however, blinking a few times before she finds herself back in front of the archer and the tent she’s guarding; the lover she is protecting. “Your wood dweller friend was correct. A few miles east of our current location, towards the misted woods, is a facility hidden within a hollow cedar tree. I have its location, but the woods were reluctant to disclose what they knew.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, looking at the tent flap as if she can pierce through it to reach Willow. “I get a sense that they're trying to protect us from some seriously fucked up magic."

She believes in Willow, she does, and the thought of losing another friend isn’t a thought she can bear. She’s already hanging by loose threads as it is, ready to come apart with just a meager snag. (But she’ll hold on. She is holding on. For her friends’ sake and the princess’s, too; for the hope and mystery of it all.)

Lucky, sensing the popstar’s concern, squeezes her shoulder and bumps their nose under her chin. ‘She won’t be alone.’

Dorothea can’t help her small grin in return, reaching to rub their snout. “I know you’ve got her. You love her so much, Lucky star.”

Still, she wishes Juliet would go with Willow. She wishes it were possible. Sure as she is that she can trade places with the princess on her own—she can feel her like they’re sharing the same skin—she won’t let Elise fall into the unwelcome arms of a man who is not her lover. Juliet would never allow for that, just as Willow will not let her friend suffer another day in Charming Street clutches. If they had more allies, it could be different, but all they have are each other. The demigod can only light a candle for Willow’s safety and hope her family will protect her.

“You may accompany me,” her voice is still quiet and unconvinced, but if she imagines the princess braving a new world on her own, it's easier to accept the archer's help. Willow will be fine. She has the storm god within her. This knowledge doesn't make reality any easier to swallow, but it's enough that she can accept it, albeit reluctantly. "I don't want to be alone with him. It's not that I'm even scared of cutting my damned thread or sparking his hate—I'd just rather endure a thousand cuts than be stuck with him. I don't want anything to happen."

Mostly, she’s afraid of what she’ll do to him if left alone; knowing what she knows now about the depths of his manipulations; how her thread is not and was never his. Deep in her soul, she misses the ghost she cannot remember and it's the grief that emboldens her to persevere, for as long as she still has left. Deserved as it would be if she were to cut him down in one fell swoop, she doesn’t want to add to the ever growing list of reasons to send her to the Tower. She will not end up like Nicola.

***​

“Just admit that you have no idea where we are!”

“Shut the fuck up. I know exactly where we are,” Meredith lies, forcing her words out through clenched teeth. By this point, she's pretty sure she's cracked a few fucking molars from clenching her jaw so tight. (And, yes, she absolutely will be sending the socialite her dental bill should that be the case. Mother fucking Pigsley Prescot.) This has to be something out of her worst nightmares—something she wouldn’t even wish on her worst enemy. Well, actually… She might wish it on her worst enemy, because her worst enemy is a manipulative and lying sack of shit (and deserves much worse than being stuck with a stuck up bitch). “And if you speak again, I am going to punch your tit. Let me fucking think.”

Kinsley doesn’t even get her next syllable out. Meredith’s fist is already retreating from her chest and the socialite is howling instead of making her now forgotten snide remark. “You bitch!”

“I warned you.” She did fucking warn her!

Kinsley huffs, blowing up a strand of hair as she massages the ache from her chest, and turns her cheek. Meredith is just grateful that that actually gets the bitch to shut up and she can finally concentrate.

Dorothea's broadcast asked Griffith to meet her at midnight. They have four hours until then and… an unknown amount of miles to cross to reach Heart’s Break, because neither of them are prepared. They aren’t Willow James, the overachiever in overpacking. (She probably packed twenty-seven toothbrushes, because of that one incident abroad.) ‘Gods, I miss her. I hope she’s okay.’

Point is, neither of them have a map.
And they’re so fucking lost.

***​

In theory, in completely hypothetical scenarios, Willow is fine separating from Juliet. She understands that her companion is as capable as she is quick; that she is strong and a survivor of the wood (and more). However, in practice, it becomes more and more apparent that her side is much colder without the archer there; that it’s far quieter without Juliet and Grace’s soft near imperceptible footsteps beside her. (In front of her.) This coupled with the knowledge that if anything happens, she won’t be able to summon a storm to stop it, rattles the sorceress’s heart, causing it to thrum uncomfortably.

‘I should have held her for longer.’ She should have held her tighter, fiercer—she should have said more than, “Catch you on the flip.” But she was nervous and awkward and trying to be far stronger than she is. (Isn’t she always? Isn’t that the problem?) The warmth of Juliet’s chest to hers, her nose buried in the crook of the archer's neck, is long gone; but if she thinks about the memory and concentrates on imagining and reliving that moment, she can almost convince herself that she's still back there. That it’s real. That Juliet is still with her.

Their thread flickers, reminding her that she is. She is with her, even miles apart. The thought warms her in ways she wishes her old flight jacket would.

As it is, the cold dank air of the facility clings to her exposed skin and winds itself into her curls like a cold sweat. The winding passages are caked in a moderate layer of grime that seems to ooze from the walls themselves. Silence weighs heavy in the air, slowing her steps. (Willow had thought she was imagining it at first, but when Lucky whined and struggled to keep themself in the air, she knew it to be more than just her mind playing tricks on her.) Each of her steps are muffled by the same wafts of magic that keep the tunnels pitch black. The night vision eyedrops she applied earlier help some, to the point that she can at least see an arm's length in front of her, but it's not enough to give her security or safety. Especially not when her and her companion's sense of hearing has been dampened. 'This is fine. Everything is fine.'

And it halfway is. She has her mirror shards scouting ahead of (and behind) her. One of her eyes has a layer of mirror over it, allowing her to see through each of her shards and giving her some semblance of direction. While she might not be able to see much, she's been able to mark the dead ends and has found a promising path towards sound; sound that's loud enough the muffling spell can't dampen it. 'I got this. I got this. I'm coming for you Soy.'

 

[ellarose]

She won’t end up like me.

The thought echoes in Juliet’s mind as she weaves delicate strings of pearls through plaits of Dorothea’s hair. Their positions have reversed since the interview as she prepares the songstress for her wedding. Wedding turned catastrophe. Wedding turned revenge scheme. Urgency tingles in the archer’s fingertips. Excitement? Nervousness? When she thinks of Willow’s retreating figure on the footpath, alone with Lucky among trees and brambles, and the undeniable tug she’d felt in her chest to accompany her… it’s not for a lack of trust, nor is she unconfident in the heroine’s abilities. Willow is a powerful sorceress. Juliet has simply become accustomed to traveling by her side. They’ve scarcely spent a moment apart since they met.

Even so, this is where Juliet is needed. She feels it in the marrow of her bones. Unlike her, Dorothea won’t have to face the source of her torment alone.

Unlike her, they have a plan. Even if it’s built on risk and desperation, at least they have one. Dorothea had confided in her once, saying that she wasn’t sure she could be as bold and courageous as she was for stepping into the spotlight. Although Juliet is proud of her for coming this far, the taste is coated in bittersweetness. She understands the loss and hardship it took.

Where Juliet had been dazed and caged in her wedding gown, like a poor woodland creature caught in a trap, Dorothea dons hers like armor. Knowing how important it was to Juliet that they were all amply armed, Willow thought to take inspiration from the enchanted embroidery on Queen Viviane’s gown and together with Dorothea, they magicked the flowing sleeves of her wedding gown with silver embroidery that will turn to daggers with a touch. (Needless to say, Juliet will be asking for this magic embroidery on her entire wardrobe if they survive this.) If there was ever a suitable time for knife incidents, it’s right now.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” While Dorothea sits contemplative and silent, her reflection in the mirror begins to speak to them in Princess Elise’s voice. The surface of the glass glows faintly, the angular features of the idol’s face softening into the princess’s. While her eyes change from violet to blue, they carry the same weariness and the same steely determination. In the background, they can hear the faint sound of a group of ladies bickering. Elise’s rose-petal lips pucker. “Hush, all of you! I’ve made contact with my twin. Hello Dorothea, Juliet.”

“Why, she looks nothing like you. I expected a doppelgänger.” Lavinia appears over the princess’s shoulder, appraising Dorothea carefully. Her brown eyes narrow when they land on Juliet. Then, as if struck by an epiphany, she practically shoves Princess Elise aside to lean closer into frame. “Lady Juliet! Is it true that you’ve been a princess this entire time? The whole kingdom is in an uproar over—”

“Hell’s bells. I’ve no time to sate your appetite for courtyard gossip.” Juliet snaps a touch too sharply. Is Lavinia’s presence really necessary here? (…It’s not as though she knows the answer. Still, she sincerely doubts she’s a princess of all things.) Ignoring Lavinia, she pivots to Elise. “Has Prince Devlin agreed to a midnight wedding?”

“Indeed. He thought it rather strange at first, to wed so late and so suddenly. I babbled on about fairytales and the romance of midnight and how important it was to me. He warmed to the fact that I’ve become so agreeable without his… influence.” Princess Elise shivers. Hypnosis, Princess Celeste informed her. Recalling the mysterious sensation that came over her as they danced, fear flickers in her eyes. “He believes pure bliss on our wedding night will help us to produce powerful heirs.” She shakes her head, miserable at the idea of it. “Are you certain this will work?”

“As long as our timing is precise.” Juliet reassures her. “Take a deep breath. Do you have your talisman?”

“Mm.” Elise hums her assent after taking a breath, her fingers closing around the heart-shaped pendant on her necklace. “Nettlefred told me it would shield my mind from his tricks. Is that true?”

“Yes.” Juliet nods. She observes the princess closely, her gaze panning to the place on her abdomen she’d been clinging to in her dream, wondering if her apparent tiredness comes from more than just nerves. “Are you all right?”

“Oh…” Elise blinks, perplexed at the archer’s open display of concern. “Peaches has already taken care of it. It was just a scratch, Juliet.” She falters. “They threw spears into the water… Prince Devlin said his crew was at fault. That they thought I was a sea serpent.” A flare of anger uncharacteristic of the princess flashes across her features. “They did it to slow me down. How could anyone expect me to marry a prince who would willingly do me harm?”

“You won’t have to. If we all keep our wits about us tonight, you’ll be safe in Evermore. I’ll be here to guide you.” Juliet has more questions, but they’ll have to wait for later. They all need to go soon.

“Ah, yes. That reminds me. Dorothea, you should search for Princess Celeste or Nettlefred when you arrive in Folklore.” The princess leans to the side, allowing the witch and princess to come into view so she can see what they look like. “They will guide you safely out of the sky kingdom.”

“…Lady Lavinia should be your last resort.” Nettlefred quips. More squabbling ensues in the background.

“You can also trust Prince Evren. He’ll be in attendance.” Princess Elise ignores them, holding up the pamphlet from the tournament and pointing to his portrait. “Don’t be deceived by his appearance… he’s actually quite darling. He’s offered to help in any way he can.” She conspiratorially meets Juliet’s gaze. “He told me to send his regards to Prince Jayden and Sir Declan. Speaking of… where is Willow James?”

“It’s a long story, princess. If things go well tonight you can ask her yourself.” Juliet glances over Dorothea’s hair once more and nods in approval. “We ought to be on our way. Is everyone ready?”

***​

"Pssst! Down here." A puddle by Willow's feet whispers to her suddenly, burbling like a stew in a cauldron. Millie's reflection appears, smiling her twisted smile. Lucky trills quietly when they notice their second favorite sorceress. "Prepare yourself. Your army approaches, milady." The dragon tilts their head, confused.

That's when a door creaks open in the hall just ahead of them. Smoke pours out, hissing, and a tiny silhouette hobbles out. It's a raccoon-- but not just any raccoon. It's Tiger Lily Billy, followed by a cloud of not-bees sparking one by one like malfunctioning Christmas lights. The wolf's companion limps towards Willow, using a walking stick, and it's evident that the poor creature's leg is injured. But he's here. And he freed the not-bees.

"So... what's the plan, Jan?" The witch of the wood asks, waggling her eyebrows. "My advice is to listen for music. Horrendous, garbage music." Jeffery Von Willigans hisses to make their opinion of such music known. Millicent bites lip. "Brr. I've also caught a chill. Wherever she is, it's as cold as the inside of an abominable snowman."

 

[starboob]

“N-No plan,” Willow admits, gathering herself up from the ground and dusting off her long pants. She kneads her palm into her chest, trying to quiet her whimpering heart. ‘Some hero I am. Can’t even keep my cool after all this time.’ After a few seconds—seconds she isn’t certain can be spared—she's calm enough to take in the new arrivals, settling her gaze on the puddle at her feet. “I know the garbage music you’re talking about, though. I was just about to open a portal there.”

What will await her on the other side of that portal, she hasn’t the slightest clue. This entire mission is built on the metaphoric candles she’s lit with the simple hope that she doesn’t get caught. It’s not that the ever cautious sorceress has turned a new leaf and now embraces chaos; it’s that she knows nothing about this facility other than its location and that, “It’s not a good place, Wills. Be careful.” And given that the worst she has experienced thus far are hauntingly empty halls and muted senses, her pooling dread rises and whirls in the pit of her belly. Not even her roving mirror shards have caught so much as a hint of a goon.

While part of her blissfully wants to believe that it’s only these sensory hexes and the maze-like layout that she has to concern herself with, the wiser cynic knows better than to get comfortable. Something is wandering these passages. She’s damn sure of that. And it's the radio silence that concerns her the most. ‘I’ve got a toasty-toasty feeling about this.’

“Mill—” Willow abruptly cuts herself off, realizing she’s almost given up the hex girl’s (adorable) nickname. “Millasauros Rex…?”

“I will allow this,” Millasauros Rex nods, approving of this most ferocious nick of names. “Proceed, Wilster.”

“Will you be able to follow us through the portal?”

“Indeed, though I daren’t follow for too long lest I tempt the narrative.” Already the huntsmen roaming the wood are getting too comfortable and too close to her humble abode. “I’m risking three quarters of my leg just by being here.” And three quarters of her leg is about all she can spare for her twin, as they already have discussed at length the cosmic repercussions should she lose the entire leg. “But the toast is yet to toasty, as they say.”

“Great.” Willow doesn’t understand what Milfred is babbling about, but she knows the weirdo's twin well enough by now to know better than to question either of them. She snaps her fingers, opening a portal from one mirror shard to the next. An immediate outpour of blaring music floods into the darkened passage, causing the companions to hiss while Willow covers her ears. Not even the earplugs she summons are enough to dampen the noise. She grits her teeth, stepping through to the other side and coming out into another pitch black hall.

The air in this portion of the facility immediately works into Willow’s bones, just about freezing the marrow, chilling her blood to ice. Not even Lucky’s warmth can pierce through the frigid air. Even when they breathe a bit of fire, the heat only serves to taunt and tease. Though the flame does illuminate a sealed metal bank vault in front of them—from which Milfred appears, wiggling her fingers to show she’s made it.

Before the sorceress can even begin to mentally comb through her spell log, Tiger Lily Billy politely tugs at the hem of her long pants and motions for her to step back. She tilts her head and obliges, stepping back until her back hits a wall. Millie even disappears from the vault face, appearing in one of Willow’s hovering mirror shards. The raccoon taps his little cane against the metal and the not-bees charge, glowing with the intensity of a thousand miniature suns as the cloud of them slams into the wheel-like lock. Upon contact, they brighten further, so searing that Willow cannot look for more than a few seconds. She turns away, squeezing her eyes shut as scraping and crunching metal fills the passageway. Only when the light dims does she dare crack one eye open, then the other, turning back to face the vault door, now gone—chewed through, to be more precise.

Even so, another veil of black blocks whatever awaits within and the garbage music further drowns out all semblance of thought. With her staff aimed towards the dark, she motions for the group to file in, trusting Lucky to take the lead while she watches the back. When it’s her turn to cross over, she misses the neon red eyes that blink open behind her along with the low rumble that shakes the tunnel. Her last foot disappears into the dark.

~*~*~*~​

“I don’t want to be a secret anymore.”

“I know, I know. I don’t want this either. Just one more year, Dor. To the moon?”​

​

“And to Saturn.”​

Memories come to Dorothea in flashbacks and echoes. A vault in her mind is cracking with the mere knowledge that it shouldn’t exist to begin with; that this sealed part of her memory should be freer than the birds. A headache taps gently against the front of her skull, perhaps from the calls of the ghost haunting her heart or the dread pooling in her stomach. Dorothea Birdsong might now don a dress of lovely lace and silk with hexed stitches and ties; she might be her own knight in shining armor, bracing to face the dragon terrorizing her heart’s land, and her mind screams in, 'what ifs.'

The waning moon is high in the sky, shining down on her like the spotlight she wishes she could run from. Yet she bears it for the last time, keeping her mind on Saturn, comforted by the knowledge that it's somewhere out there, waiting for her. Not even the news reporters on their flying companions can startle her. Their cameras are trained on her like sniper marks. A smattering of her and Griffith's loved ones, along with their companions, have gathered at the popstar’s chosen venue—at the feet of a long destroyed statue of Love at the border of the three whereabout cities. One step back is a step forward if it’s one where he can’t follow.

Even so, her mother’s glare pins her into place and the demigod has to remind herself that that woman cannot control her actions—that there is not a wizard or sorcerer capable of holding her down. (Though that’s not to say they didn’t try other means to keep her still and pliant. Yet with Jovi gone, she's freer than before, knowing she cannot trust them to keep their promises.) She is not their doll to play with. Hidden in the trees, she can feel Juliet’s presence and, hidden by her skirts, she can feel Grace at her ankles. ‘I will not run, unless it’s closer to her arms, whoever she is.’

She lifts her chin, adorning a smile like the finest diamonds. (“He believes pure bliss on our wedding night will help us to produce powerful heirs.”) This is for more than only herself. Beyond even her own twin, she understands the root of evil is burrowed deep and they are only the flowers at the top of it. More lingers beneath the surface.

Shadows dance under her eyes. Her veins ache like worn threads ready to snap, and she finds the strength to remain wholly herself. She still has enough fight to keep herself together. If only to spite him, she'll stay alive and whole.

Even as a golden bolt of lightning strikes from the other end of the aisle and the flash dims to reveal the silhouette of Griffith and his entourage, she stands tall. Those golden eyes sear into her, and yet his magic cannot touch her. 'You should have run, Griffith King.' Huxley clings to his shoulder then takes to the skies. Were he any other person, Dorothea would say he looks handsome in his maroon suit with golden roses embroidered over it and plain black lapels. His smile is as much plaster as hers, but there’s a charm to it, one she has tempted herself to dive into. The curved scar on his cheek is most prominent when he smiles, like a dimple. (Like Willow’s dimple, though significantly less kind and reassuring.) It still shocks her that monsters can appear so pleasing, like a living statue carved by the gods.

Griffith soon turns is attention away from his wife-to-be and towards the small audience, the paltry few who could arrive on such short notice. He waves towards the cameras, showing them his best side and his proudest smile. This is momentous night, even if not the one he had planned. The cameras flash, lapping up everything the King has to offer. "Welcome! Welcome to all who could come," his words drawl out like a chocolate river, smooth and rich. "I do apologize on the behalf of my beloved wife-to-be, but I could not think of a better evening or better place to make official what has always been. We appreciate, too, the overflow of support following Dorothea's harrowing near hollowing. It seems our love may be the only thing keeping her together." He lets his voice drop here, filling each syllable with concentrated sorrow. He's almost sincere. "I love her, deerly."

 

[ellarose]

The rhythmic click-clack of Tiger Lily Billy’s walking stick striking the floor is buried by the booming music. Lucky and Jeffery Von Willigans hiss together, finding a common enemy in the sound, but the noisy chamber keeps their temporary alliance a secret. Hmph. Music is a generous word for it. It’s an unholy marriage of synth and pterodactyl screeches.

Who better than Millasaurous Rex to take care of the issue, then? Yes, she’ll take care of it with just one bite. The witch’s amber eyes gleam with hunger, her reflection traveling through Willow’s mirrors until it reaches the surface of the offending radio. The speakers fly through an entire catalogue of music and static as the knobs spin erratically. ‘Send your spirit into space, wave goodbye…’ There’s a pop and smoke pours out through the speakers like the radio’s soul leaving its body.

“Good riddance!” Millicent sniffs, dusting her hands over her skirt. A floating disembodied hand gives her an encouraging pat on the back. It more closely resembles a knock on the back, considering hand is backwards and taps her with its knuckles instead of its palm. “Thank you, Melvin the second.”

Now that the cavern is silent, they can hear the snores, whimpers and sighs of captive werewolves within. All of it exacerbates the hopelessness of this frozen hell. Slithering behind them, a trail of shadows breathes and pulses like a living thing. A quiet living thing.

“She’s here.” Millicent observes, frowning. Her reflection moves through Willow’s mirrors until she’s as close as she can get to the other sorceress, like a bird flying to the safety of her nest. “Or she was.” As they venture further in, they see for themselves just how small each cage is. The werewolves are lined up like dogs in crates. Even the collector of hands and other most gruesome things is visibly disturbed by this horrible place. “Free them all, faithful bees of not.”

Tiger Lily Billy hurries onward, checking each cell for his companion. The not-bees frantically flit from cell to cell behind the raccoon, burning the rusted silver bars into liquid gold. In their wake, they shine and drip onto the floor in pools of honey.

“We need to do something about the wolfsbane.” Millicent tuts sympathetically when Willow crouches down to check on the werewolf in the first cage. Within is a teenager with platinum blonde hair, shivering on the ground with her arms and legs tied up. Her sheet white skin is covered in red patches and her eyes are nearly swollen shut. She’s unresponsive, entirely unaware that the bars of her cage have disappeared. Even if the not-bees dissolve every cage in the vicinity, these poor werewolves aren’t equipped to make an escape like this. “I hate to leave her, or any of them, but we need to find Sawyer…” The witch gasps, “Wilster, look out!”

A skeletal hand rises from the shadows and clamps tightly around Willow’s ankle, yanking hard.

~*~*~*~​

"Tonight I pledge my love to you, to be given without restraint. I lay my life in your keeping and will do my utmost to protect yours. I will care for you though illness, even through your hollowing, and rejoice in your health. My wealth is yours to share, as are our burdens and our losses. Your every breath is sacred to me and should death ever separate us, I vow my love shall be undying." It's all formality, no promise. What about Jovi? The beloved companion that Dorothea found dead that morning? Dead, thanks to him. Scum. The people gathered to watch this spectacle can't see behind the curtain of his act, sighing and swooning and touching their hearts as they're touched by his vows. "It is fated, as the thread that binds you to me."

They're pulling back the curtain tonight. Juliet would love nothing more than to charge forward and challenge him herself, but this is Dorothea's fight. She can only take satisfaction in the fact that he no doubt spent hours, perhaps years, rehearsing these flowery vows for absolutely nothing. Griffith's face transforms around his smug smile as Juliet's memories sculpt Brooks's mysterious, angular features. She breathes in sharply, squeezing her fists at her sides, oblivious to the obsidian ribbons of smoke swirling around her wrists, the hills of her knuckles. He's going to hurt Grace if I don't say my vows. How could I spend forever with someone who would hurt Gracie?

The orchestra derails and comes to an abrupt stop. Stain glass windows shatter, spraying diamond-shaped shards. Brooks roars, blasting her with the warm gust of his breath, and screams echo all around. Trapped in a daze, she stands locked in place. If she moves Grace will be...

'Juliet! What have you done?'

"I didn't do it." Juliet mutters under her breath, her eyes misting. "I didn't..." Eventually, she realizes where she is and hisses softly when she notices inky smudges on her hands. This is the reason she fights, why she's taken this dark path. But when she watches Dorothea, bravely facing her own demons, and considers what she and Willow have done here in Evermore...

In this instance, the curse would only complicate things.

When Juliet thinks of how Willow would look at her, a mirror image of Viola's shocked disapproval on her wedding day, the guilt persuades the cursed energy to fade back into her. It stings to watch. This curse is still a part of her, even if she rejects it. Now that she's been tainted with it there's no going back.

~*~*~*~​

"My... that was very lovely. Did you have someone write that for you?" Though Princess Elise smiles sweetly, the meaning behind her words is as sharp as a knife. Prince Devlin promised to write to her using his own words, did he not? Apparently that promise didn't extend to his wedding vows.

"They're traditional, dearest." Prince Devlin coughs under his breath. While he keeps his princely demeanor, his eyebrow twitches ever so slightly as they speak through their teeth at the altar. "...Unlike the gown you're wearing. You couldn't have at least chosen a white dress?"

The DeSkies gave Elise a traditional dress to wear, one that has been passed down in his family through the generations. It might have held more sentiment if she actually loved the man she was marrying. And if Devlin knew anything about the woman he was marrying, he would understand how particular she is about her clothes. (Flynn would have known.) Regardless of his demands, she chose a flowing pink dress for the occasion, adorned with pearls and delicate little shells. The fabric is sheer around her stomach, exposing her bandaged abdomen for everyone to see.

"What? You don't like it?" Elise bats her eyes. Her big blue eyes could inspire legends if she used them like a weapon.

"It's pink." Devlin opens and closes his fists restlessly, fighting to keep his gaze tender. "It's inappropriate."

"It's my favorite color." Elise tilts her head to the side. "The fairies approved. They said I looked lovely."

"Never mind what the batty fairies said. They've no mind for our sacred traditions." Devlin grits his teeth. The officiator has stopped his spiel and is now looking at Princess Elise expectantly. In fact, everyone is. She's handed a book, her vows written out for her. She looks at them with a frown. The prince's eyes glow faintly as he stares at her, reaching for control. "Go on. Say your vows."

 

[starboob]

The tips of the sorceress’s reaching fingers sink into the pool of shadows where she once stood. Fear and panic whip through Willow as she’s pulled from the prison block down, down, down into the deepest pits of this hell. Her back crashes—is slammed against ice cold stone. Black sands scatter across her vision, complemented by the sound of twinkling chandeliers as her mirror shards fall dead to the ground. She gasps, the air forced from her lungs. Her arms flail, hands searching for purchase to push herself up only to feel an all too familiar boot stomp, then grind, into her chest. The offending heel presses firm to her sternum, stemming the flow of air into her lungs.

Levels above Willow, her dragon stirs and even from so far down below, their cry pierces the air; though it's faint. The fire swelling in Lucky’s belly at this same moment is her own. It rises through her and clears the green from her eyes, burning them with an orange glow to match the neon red ones staring down at her. “Hey, cutie.”

This fuel only encourages the fire building in Willow. Her body warms such that the frigid air around her heats up. Sabrina cocks her brow, her lip curling before she suddenly steps off the sorceress, backing away and scrubbing her eyes of Willow’s searing gaze.

Willow immediately rolls to her side, summoning her staff in the same motion that she lifts herself from the ground and bounces, boxer-like, backwards, putting some distance between herself and the snake. "Don't underestimate me, Sabrina." Punctuating her remark, her mirror shards rise from the ground and hover closer to the sorceress. "I won't warn you again. Step off."

For a brief second, she almost believes that the snake will heed her warning. Sabrina's jaw tightens as she raises her hands above her head in surrender. Even the glare in her eyes dims. (Though Willow's remain bright as ever.) But before the sorceress can so much as think of a glyph, pull her doubles from the mirrors, Sabrina snaps her fingers.

Brutally bright light floods their arena, bouncing off the shiny metal surface of the walls. Willow hisses, water gathering in her eyes as she’s forced to squint, the orange glow fizzling out. Still she forces herself to keep sight of Sabrina who moves, launching something at her. Willow skates to the side before the knife can pierce her throat.

It lodges into the metal wall behind her, and her eyes follow it then widen in shock. Just one glance down and she immediately recognizes her passed out friend, chained to the wall with her wrists suspended above her head while an oxygen mask pumps orange fumes into her. Dried blood is matted in her hair, caked around her wrists, and stains her front. “Sawyer!”

Willow pivots, then falls forward from the impact of Sabrina’s body slamming into hers. Her staff flies from her hands as Sabrina lands on top of her, pressing one hand to her back; her other fist hooks into Willow’s kidney. Pain explodes through her gut, mouth opening in surprise though not a sound escapes. The force of the blow pulls her thread taut, sending a vicious tremor upthread. Her vision blurs out for one, two, three seconds that feel like minutes. She grits her teeth, reaching weakly through the air.

Sabrina leans forward, pressing her fist into the injury, kneading into her kidney like she’s trying tear the organ out from Willow. All semblance of thought leaves the sorceress, subsumed with pain so sharp it becomes her. Her head spins, everything in her body tightening, refusing to move.

“Did you think it’d be that easy?” The snake taunts. Not that Willow registers anything aside from the fire roiling through her abdomen. She strains to keep her focus. It’s only when Sabrina winds her fist back that she gets some semblance of reprieve. Her instincts take over. Her eyes flash.

She calls for the wind, grasping for any movement in the air, and brings it down to her with the speed of lightning. It answers her call with immediacy, blasting the grilles clean off the vents, lifting Sabrina from the stormchild and tossing her like a rag doll against the metal wall, pinning her to place.

~*~*~*~​

Dorothea’s fingertips tap gently against the hexed scissors hanging from her hip, hidden by the folds of her dress. As Griffith recites his vows, her mind wanders to the princess, wondering if she wears her sword at her hip or if it’s been taken from her. She wonders what her chosen venue looks like and if it’s as lovely as this grove, lit by the sprites who laid down their lives for the goddess whose statue is a ruin. ‘It’s pretty. I would have liked to be married here.’

She swears she can feel Saturn in the skies. She swears she can taste the sweetness of hope. It softens her gaze as she looks at the man who stole her heart. Even so, this softness does nothing to dull the edge of her smile. Not that Griffith would ever notice. His eyes are on his conquest, never her.

“How lovely,” her mother says, pulling Dorothea from her thoughts. She blinks a few times as her mother, their officiant, addresses the crowd—something about her son-in-law's charm and her gratitude for the sacrifices he makes by marrying a hollowing woman. "It inspires hope that we can beat this strange disease. I see how much you love Dorothea and how pure your intentions are. I could not ask for a better son," she smiles, then turns to her daughter, staring at her with glamoured violet eyes. "Your vows, sweetie?"

“Mhm.” She takes one step away from Griffith, looking down as she smooths her skirts, nerves flying like butterflies in her chest that travel up her throat in the form of a shaky laugh. Her cheeks dust with pink and the first few rows of the crowd rest their hands over their hearts with a collective adoring sigh. When she looks up, meeting her fiancé’s golden eyes, she watches as they shift curiously to mottled cotton candy; his dark brown curls transform to the same swirls of pink and blue while feathered wings sprout from his back. Her laugh grows into a mocking titter as she looks at the fluffy prince, visible only to herself.

Devlin DeSkies’s features harden back to Griffith's marble ones in a second, his brow twitching as he fights for his composure. “Deerest. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes—it’s just my nerves,” she insists behind her hand, keeping her head bowed to hide the blue that’s melting into the violet. “I just… I never expected this,” she gestures between their chests, still keeping her eyes hooded behind her long lashes. Though, slowly, she lifts her lids as she meets his eye again. “It almost seems too good to be true, doesn’t it, little bird?”

Griffith would fume over the private pet name, but he supposes it can’t be helped on their wedding night. What does make his nostrils flare, however, are those blue eyes staring back at him. “What—”

"Shh. It's bad luck to interrupt," she nods, pressing her finger to his lips. An imperceptible glyph lights on her fingertip, sealing his lips while she smiles innocently. Her magic leaks; it really isn't her fault. Acting as if nothing has happened, she continues, "Tonight, I pledge my love to my one true love." Her fist closes around the hexed scissors, her world lighting up in lines of color and her veins flooding with the magic that is at home within her; the Tyrant's power, her ancestor. As covert as she can, she positions the scissors behind her back, smiling brightly towards the crowd. "And I could not be happier than I am right now, on this night to announce that Griffith King..." Here, she looks fondly back at him. "Is not such a love. He isn't even a flame."

The gathered audience murmurs. Her mother starts to step forward, trying to get between the couple, but Dorothea "accidentally" shoulders her out of the way as she takes a step over the border. "This bastard is the worst kind of thief. He has stolen my thread of fate for his own selfish gain!" Her divine glow brightens, her strawberry tresses fanning out behind her. Strands start to bleed blonde, curling into ringlets as she welcomes her twin to Evermore. Her voice and Elise's blend together, blooming across the grove. "He's scum and I won't be chained to him any longer."

Griffith's eyes are lit ablaze. Unthinkingly, he lurches forward, putting his hand over the border to latch onto Dorothea's arm. Though the second he does, his hand starts to shrivel and decay, forcing him to pull it back while some fox darts out from under the popstar's dress and clamps down on his leg. He howls, stumbling back until he falls onto his ass. Cordelia is too shocked to move. Griffith's entourage even seem to be shocked still, torn between watching Dorothea and assisting the King.

Their distraction and befuddlement becomes her advantage as she reveals the hexed scissors, pulling them from behind her back and opening their razor maw. She lifts them high into the air, for everyone—especially the flashing cameras—to see. Griffith's eyes widen, for a brief moment pausing his efforts to pry the fox off his leg. “If our thread is true, little bird, these scissors should have no effect."

Snip!

 

[ellarose]

"Tsk. Go where I can't follow, why don't you..." Millicent mutters, twisting her mouth into a disappointed pucker. Her mirror shard levitates, attempting once more to charge into the dark portal, and once more it rejects her entrance. Jet black lightning snaps around her like vipers, sending the shard with her pouting reflection skidding back into the hall of cages. The puddle of sinister magic swirls and disappears like water down the drain with a gross sloooorp. "Gurgle murble furble bimbops."

Alone again, alone like always. A rousing groan nearby distracts the witch before she can break into song and dance about it. (No one would know that she's composing a musical about her life, would they? No one cares enough to ask, nor would they stick around long enough to know. Alas... all she can hope for is that someone will find it and appreciate the legend she is long after she's dead and buried. Such is her fate. Tragic. So tragic. For them, that is. Not her. They're the ones missing out!) Jeffery Von Willigans hisses at her. Lucifer's there, too, pacing worriedly with flames roiling in their belly.

Right. The companions... that groan. Millicent's not completely alone. (Heh. She didn't even rhyme on purpose that time! What a brilliant songstress she is.) Jeffery Von Willigans hisses twice, thrice, and the witch of the wood bats her hand dismissively at them. "Alright, alright already... I hear you." She cracks her knuckles, wrinkles her freckled nose, her eyes blazing with the same honey-gold hue as the melted cages. Perhaps the Stake heiress had a score to settle with Willow James and Willow James alone... but soon enough she'll learn a valuable lesson. T'was a mistake to leave the witch of the wood to her own devices! Especially with her appetite for revenge. This is her twin. Her precious tall half. "Bone apple teeth!"

Millicent tosses fiber, twine and reed into the wooden bowl set before her. The shard she occupies rattles and glows like sunlight. The melted bars on the floor glitter vibrantly as the witch's magic leaks through the hall. They rise in bubbles, which gather together to sculpt an army of brooms. They float down the hall in a row, dutifully sweeping away the wolfsbane smog. With the twirl of Millicent's finger, she enchants one of the brooms to whack the vent that pumps it in, smack-smack-smacking it repeatedly until the shutters close.

Lucky hurries along from cage to cage, carefully freeing the werewolves from their restraints with their teeth and claws. It's what Willow would want-- and they know that she's holding her own. While that well may be the case, they work hurriedly, fretting and hoping to make their way to her side again soon.

As the air begins to clear, the captive werewolves start to awaken one by one... and a shadowy figure appears in the entrance of the hall.

***​

A howl pierces the air levels over their heads. Sabrina struggles to move against the wall to no avail. When she finally goes slack, an exasperated laugh rattles out of her.

"Oh my. So forward. What are you gonna do now that you've got me cornered, Jamesy?" Sabrina asks huskily, her lashes batting over blood-red eyes. There was once a time she knew just what to say and do to keep Willow hanging on, wanting more. Now, however? It's clear there's nothing she could say to soften that hardened gaze pinning her down. And then there's that damned redhead... She licks her lips, her skeletal prosthetic twitching and curling inward. "Your new girlfriend's not around to finish the job for you, is she?" Ah, something's got to break her. "You sure know how to pick them, honey. Take it from me-- there was something seriously wrong with that one. Red flags all around."

A breath shudders out of Sawyer, who twitches in her restraints. (Is she... shrinking? No. She couldn't be.)

"You know it's your fault, don't you? You're the one who got her involved in all this. You're the reason why she's dying." Sabrina snarls, digging for a guilty conscience, thinking of the poisoned bullet that wench archer took for Willow. Hmph. Serves the bitch right. Good riddance. She'll yank a reaction out of Willow James if it's the last thing she does. She'll make her hesitate... and then make this little punk wonder why she ever thought it was a good idea to test her. "I warned you, Willow. I didn't have to, but I did. I tried to protect you... but this is the path you've chosen. Do you even know what you're up against? What you're fighting for? Look around you! Look at your miserable pup over there. Is it worth it?"

"How many people have to die, Willow?" Sabrina narrows her glowing eyes to slits, trying with all her might to pierce through Willow's armor. "It's no wonder your mother left you. Probably knew you'd drag her down, too." Why don't you just give up already?

***​

While the hexed scissors gleam brightly, no such light emits from the thread once it’s severed. No flames, not even a spark. It falls and shrivels up, like a worm on a frying pan, a dead thing that never should have existed in the first place. A veil falls around the couple and the faulty thread is exposed to the eyes of the crowd assembled. There's silence. Then the gasps arise, the scandalized whispers. The couple everyone aspired to be is falling apart before their very eyes. Cameramen are shoved out of their stupors and waved at to zoom in on it before anyone can instruct them otherwise.

Reprimanding and merciless, the magic rakes angry lines over Griffith's chest where the thread once connected while it merely flits away, free as a bird from Dorothea's side. She wasn't the one to cross the fates, to bend their will to her selfish whims. The so-called king writhes around on the ground as the hex takes full effect, doling out punishment, digging claws of vengeance into his heart. (Fates know they'll have to dig deeply to find it, if it even exists.) Grace never releases her hold on his leg. Everyone's focus remains on the thread, or on Griffith's pitiful state. Dorothea's changing features aren't immediately noticeable. Except to her mother, perhaps, who ceases to function when she glimpses her reflection in the lens of the camera filming this entire spectacle. Live.

"Dorothea...?" Cordelia Birdsong's lips move, but her words are scarcely make a sound. Her hands are trembling with everything she's holding down, everything she's repressing for the cameras. She looks down at the thread, rotting just like the reputation she carefully cultivated for her daughter-- for their family. "What have you done? What... have you..."

Juliet watches from the branches of the tree she climbed to get a better view. Tch. They need to do something to hide Elise from view, from those cameras. While she begins to aiming her time-enchanted arrows at the cameras themselves, hoping to freeze them in time, Griffith's groomsmen spring into action. Grace yips sharply as she's yanked away by force and thrown into the wedding arch. It teeters and falls, shattering into pieces. It's going to fall on her if they don't--

"No!" Juliet and Dorothea's concern for Grace blends together, cursed magic spilling from them both in the chaos, meeting in a duet of raw power. The obsidian energy swirling around the archer's hands travel down the trunk of the tree she's in before she can reel it back in, shooting like a star down the aisle and straight for the altar. The ground between Griffith and Dorothea shakes and splits apart... and a giant tree emerges. The branches are craggy, the bark covered in thorns, and it's center is hollowed with three holes that resemble a mouth and eyes. It leans to the side, forcing Cordelia to stumble back in horror. The tree outstretches a branch to catch the arch before it can land on the fox. It lifts the structure high in the air and tosses it away, sending flower petals and debris flying.

An earsplitting scream rises from the crowd. Several wisely decide that now is the best time to run while others remain rooted in place-- either because they're petrified, or because they're eager to watch this disaster unfold.

Once Grace runs to safety, the tree proceeds to scoop up the groomsman responsible for tossing her and shoves him into it's maw. Anyone who didn't choose to run before is certainly running now. Dorothea, who is still in the process of changing, takes this opportunity to run.

Juliet promptly uses her time arrows to freeze the cameras in time before slipping down from her perch and into the grass. She runs a hand through her hair, down the back of her neck, at a loss. What the...

"What. The fuck. Is this!?" Meredith cries out shrilly behind her, wildly motioning her arms towards the demonic tree.

The demonic tree she... created? Juliet's gaze flickers between Meredith and the abomination. It's a weapon? A monster? Sort of like the Lightless, but not quite. (What more is she capable of? If her will was strong enough... no. Now's not the time to be pondering the possibilities.) Rather than express any of this, she gives a nonchalant shrug.

"...It's a tree." Juliet's eyes track Dorothea, noting that Griffith is barking orders at his goons and jabbing his finger after her. Hmph. They might be fast, but Juliet will be faster. Meredith looks like she wants to say 'yeah, no shit', but she continues before the fae can make her quip. "I need to go after her. Keep an eye on Griffith? And... all of this?" ...The tree is screeching now, it's branches waving around in the sky like tentacles. "I'll be back. I just need to make sure she's okay."

Meredith sighs, rubbing a hand down her face. Then her expression steels. "Yeah, yeah. I've got this." She cracks her knuckles. "Go."

 

[starboob]

Willow James is not a killer. She is not. The only killer in this room is trying to pierce through her armor with a glare. Though Sabrina’s cursed power only smooths over Willow’s protections; it searches for cracks to slip between, yet such cracks only exist as a hopeless hope. The sorceress’s own gaze hardens with a sneer.

“Nothing you say can touch me. You’re just noise.” And it’s figuring out what to do with this noise that haunts the sorceress. She is not a killer, but Sabrina is. ‘What would Juliet do?’ She’s already taken her hand and that has done nothing to slow the heiress down. ‘What would she do?’

The heroes in storybooks make it sound so easy. Slay the dragon, save the princess, and earn a happily ever after. But the dragons in this story are her allies and it’s the supposed knights in shining armor who are her enemy. They wear faces like people to hide their monstrous intentions. (Can she take a life? Is she strong enough? Is this right? Is this justified?) Her hands twist around the length of her staff.

“Do it,” Sabrina goads. “Kill me. You’ll feel better about it.” She keeps her eyes locked on Willow, studying her features, waiting for tell, waiting for an inch of give. It’s all she needs and she knows she’s close. “Do you want to know what we did to Jovi?” Her lips pull into a simper, the length of her canines becoming needle-like. “Do you want to know where she is?”

“Shut up!” The stormchild’s voice booms through the facility, shaking dust off the ceiling. Her body rocks with a quake of wrath and before she can even think of what she's going to do next, the wind takes over. With a half step and a skip, she sweeps her staff upwards, picking Sabrina up and throwing her first into the ceiling before Willow swings her staff down, slamming the woman into the ground. Her body cracks against the cement surface. Willow doesn’t wince. It’s not until blood starts to pool from her torso that her stomach twists and her limbs lock. ‘What have I—’

Sawyer whimpers again. Her chains rattle just behind the sorceress, interrupting her shock and spurring her back to the present. Unhesitatingly, she spins on her heels and travels with the wind to her friend, at her side in an instant. Her hands immediately go for the chains, nearly recoiling when her fingers touch their arctic freeze. Her palms glow with two glyphs and she goes again, trying to find a link to break. “It’s okay, Soy. You’re going to be okay.”

“Wi–Willow?” The wolf’s voice comes out uneven and raspy. Through her cracked lids she searches for the sorceress right in front of her, brow furrowing together before the pieces start to come together. She shakes her head, shifting away from her friend as best she can manage. “Leave. Now. Go, go—get out.”

“Sawyer, you’re safe now. It’s okay,” Willow insists, conjuring another glyph in her palm and bringing it towards the cuffs. She gulps, “She’s not going to hurt you again.”

“Not me. You.” Sawyer’s brow stitches tighter together as she searches for the words—the strength to warn her small little lab mate. “I can’t… I can’t stop it. Get out. The bees… of not… they know.”

And just levels above them, the bees of not are battering against the dragon entangled with ever shifting shadow giant, trying to seize their attention and warn them with their psychedelic, fairy-like flashes.

When Willow breaks through one cuff, Sawyer’s hand immediately grips the other woman's bicep, squeezing her with a shocking amount of force. The muscles in the wolf's arm twitch, then bubble under her skin as they expand, pressing against the human costume. “Please,” she begs through rapidly growing fangs. “This only works if you leave.”

It’s then that Willow understands. It’s then that Willow pries herself away from her friend, eyes wide as she backs away. “Sawyer—”

“Now!” The wolf howls as her bones break and shift underneath the confines of flesh, breaking down their parts to come together new. Fresh. Monstrous. Just behind Willow, Sabrina's body twitches, followed by a lowly mewl.

Willow takes the warning now, realization finally dawning on her as a cacophony of howls travels through the vents. She takes a few more steps back, then bolts just as Sawyer leaps forward, breaking her chains.

~*~*~*~​

Before Meredith can even take a step forward, an arm cuts in front of her chest.

“Let me,” Kinsley hisses, her voice just a rasp. The whites of her eyes are completely eaten away by the shadows writhing beneath her skin, leaving only a ring of bright electric blue. For a brief second the socialite watches her friend disappear. In that brief second, she considers running with her. And in that brief second she understands that Dorothea has made her mind; there is no changing it. Her jaw twitches as she lets more of the tyrant in, letting his shadowy claws elongate from her manicured fingertips. For Dorothea, she will let the world see her Hell.

“I'm a more interesting distraction."

~*~*~*~​

Dorothea throws her head back with laughter, running through the trees. (How long has it been since she was this free? Has she ever been?) A few paces ago she kicked off her heels and now the soft earth cushions each of her steps as she brings herself and her twin away from the lion’s den. The archer, of course, has no issue keeping up even as the trees shift to protect the demigod princess.

Sparks of magic jump over her arms and dress. The light blue of her dress bleeds into pink as her flowing skirts restitch themselves into Elise's wedding gown. Her limbs shorten as she runs, the violet in her eyes completely surrendered to the blue. The trees blur from her vision as she races towards chapel doors, dodging feathered knights and a rather fluffy looking prince.

With one last hysterical laugh, she sings to the trees, the birds, and all the stars, “Welcome to Evermore!”