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RavneousDelirium was getting used to fighting his way through the Red Queen's Castle, so when he fell into a room that was oddly benign, he actually felt even more targeted and disgruntled than he might have otherwise.

Even so, he approached the large fountain and watch the shimmering liquid that pooled there change colors and cast bright, cheerful reflections all over the stone bricks of the cell. Yeah, he figured he knew where this was going - the teacups on the table next to the fountain would have been more than enough for him to get that he was supposed to dip out some of that weird-arsed water and drink it.

But if he'd been stupid enough to need guidance, it was there in the carved legend in the wooden table: DRINK ME.

"Oh, sure..yeah, this won't be obnoxious, not at all." He muttered but still did as he knew he was supposed to, picking a clean up and dipping out some of the liquid without bothering to look at it before he knocked the whole thing back in one go.



It happened because he couldn't bear to be separated from his brother - and visa-versa. He and Nahm worked best in tandem, a team that functioned so smoothly as to seem like one entity; their connection was deep and unique, beautiful and utterly precious. Clan business was Important and as the Heir he had to be present, willing and able to command, to fight, at any inter-Clan meeting, territory skirmish and battlefield....but Nahm didn't.

His Twin could have stayed back, safe and happy...but he'd wanted him there. And truthfully, Nahm had wanted to be there with him too. But as the Eldest of the two, as the Heir, he'd had it ground into him that he was the one to command - decisions fell to him, it was his responsibility.

Which was why his entire world was breaking to pieces. Nahm had fallen, the light slowly leaving his bright eyes; RavenousDelirium heard a horrifying, animal sound of despair and was half-shocked to realize it came from him. Long limbs reached for the limp body of his twin, pulling the battered, bloodied body into his arms and brushed numerous small kisses to that spattered brow, the pale cheeks and blood-stained lips. "Come on Nahm, stay with me. Stay with me baby bro, stay with me."

RavenousDelirium's own body was covered in seeping wounds he didn't feel, burns and scrapes that meant nothing compared to the horror happening right before his eyes, in his arms. Nahm tried reaching a hand up to touch his cheek, smiling, coughing up blood and foam and his heart squeezed to burst, his own lungs felt his Twin's lack of oxygen like they couldn't function without that connection either.

"It's my fault, I'm so sorry. Pleasepleaseplease--Nahm." Foreheads together, tears mixing with the foam and blood and dirt and snot; none of it mattered if his baby brother died. Not the Clan, not the battles not Amityville..not even his own heart beating triple-time with adrenaline, or the rawness of his throat from the screams tearing from within.

Clinging to the short-haired mirror dying in his arms, sobbing and screaming and begging, cursing and crying and threatening - Mouth was falling apart. He caught the hand against his cheek, warm but not-warm, cooling because the blood pumping through Nahm's veins was slowly pouring from that beloved body.

With one last shuddering sigh, Nahm spoke his last and Ahm snapped.



He came to slowly, rose and stumbled away from the looking pool; the dream - nightmare - prophecy - whatever that had been, had traumatized him so thoroughly that had he not stepped directly into the treasure, he would have missed it entirely.

RavenousDelirium gathered up the loot automatically and left, his movements stunted, broken - maybe he'd get better soon, when the newness of that nightmare wore down. Maybe not.

Maybe he was doomed to live out the rest of...Wonderland...in this muted, mourning state. Mouth just couldn't seem to work up the will to care...he just kept thinking of his brother's broken body, lying in his arms....

Had he known they'd be in a party, and that Phoenix could watch what played out before him...Well. Perhaps k1ng would have thought twice about summoning her.

But he didn't, not at first.

So she saw, and before it's over, he will have wished she hadn't.

Your own death plays out before you, caused by a betrayal.

It starts off simple: you are in your room, the ramshackle basement dungeon you have (still) not bothered to decorate. Your hair has grown out, a little, and there are little gold bars on your coat that show you've proved your mettle enough to be more than the lowest sort of trash.

There is a brand on you, a marked and cursed O burned into your ribcage so that it is less obvious than your hand-- and you are a vessel for their cause because you earned those little bars, and what you had to do was unconscionable.

Even for you.

But, still. You are not proud of your membership. The organization is as brutal as ever, and not so secret as it once was. You've never been smart enough to make any ruse last for long, and the clock has been ticking like the countdown to a bomb: it was always going to go off, it was just a matter of when. You have made the decision to do the detonation yourself, because it is the last shred of control you have.

So that leaves you here, with Taym and with your orders and this unconscionable act that they promised would wipe your ledger clean. You have really done it now: it is too late to break free. They own you, they own all of you, and for all your bark and bite you are nothing if not weak, especially in the face of authority that abuses.

You whisper that you are so ******** sorry, and it is not Aleria you clutch, but the runic weapon smuggled and stolen and borrowed and blue. There is no need to c**k the gun, and so it is there, shaking in your hands worse than Thompsons' ever did, because you are compelled to do this thing that they have told you must be done.

Thompson talks but the words are fuzzy, like they always are in dreams, and all that sticks is your name. Leslie, he says, gently, irritated -- Leslie, he says, patiently, warning -- Leslie, he says, quietly, tired. The mark burns and your teeth clench again and again and again.

And he hugs you, in the way that belies how incredibly uncomfortable he is with the contact, and the gun presses to his chest, the barrel laid against it and pointing to a ceiling corner.

You kick and you fight and you struggle, and that isn't new but all the intents are: Taym is disappointed, he is reluctant, but you? You are fighting for your life because if you fail this they will kill you, and the threat is far from idle. O, O, Ouroboros, the snake that eats itself and the ruiner of worlds. It has surely ruined yours and the blame and blood are all on you, staining your fingers and your lips red from where you drank from the cup that runneth over.

They promised it would be different, but it is just more of the same. New name, same master: bloodthirsty, ruthless, and blind.

And so you fight and turn, so slowly, you turn the gun until it is lined up with his shoulder (the one that you remember, where there is scar tissue underneath from a meeting gone wrong years ago, in a life that seems so far away from this one) and you think he doesn't mean to do it, but he does it nonetheless. With all the weariness of an exhausted veterinarian, where there are no further options, he puts you down because in the end, everyone's an animal and you're just some mangy dog.

Wetly, you stare into the distance and say that you're sorry, for this and for everything, but sorry isn't good enough and your dying thought is that you have failed, no matter how you cut it, you have failed and now someone else (someone that is smart and cruel and vicious in ways that go beyond point blank shots that were doomed to fail) will be along to finish the job.

--

k1ng stumbles away from the pool, fingers curled around his fur collar, eyes wide and sick to his stomach.

Phoenix watched the story play out, confused at first. There was an older, but somehow not old enough, Leslie. And a Taym that was Taym, but not quite Taym enough despite that. There was a true tragedy in the drama, one outside the trembling boy, distraught and desperate, shaking as he held a gun he had no confidence nor will to shoot. The scene was like something out of a movie, a depressing one at that, but it wasn't the scenario that filled her with dread and sorrow.

It was the weary, unspoken of course that threaded through every word and motion. As if this was a moment that had begun long ago and had finally reached the conclusion both had expected at the end. Unease filled her even as the image faded.

Following k1ng, she moved to grab his shoulder and then skipped the formalities, going straight to wrapping her arms around him. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him that it didn't mean anything. That even if there was something like that down the road, forewarned is forearmed. That it was terrible but also a dream, and he was better than that.

Instead she bent down low to his ear, and made a pop! sound. Quite like breaking the seal of a jelly jar or pringles can being opened.

He was so tiny, especially here, especially when overwhelmed. Phoenix smiled against the side of his head, "You get used to it." And it wasn't, precisely, the most reassuring thing to say. But she spoke with an easy confidence, as if getting stabbed in the stomach was just another thing to walk away from on any given day.

She wasn't wrong.

"C'mon, honey, let's get ourselves a little lost and find that ******** tavern."

"I swear to god, that is the stupidest ******** name," Phoenix bitched as they left. "Don't know what he was thinking when he made it. Probably nerd stuff, he was all snooty about names when we first got here, too."

He'd been summoned by Phoenix, of course, and who was he to resist her even at the best of times, even when he wasn't directionless? And he'd found her waiting with k1ng, upon whom he'd bestowed a not-unfriendly jerk of his chin in lieu of greeting.

He was projecting an obvious aura of grim exhaustion that made him seem less like Waxwing and more like Taym: the constant forced introspection and general stress were wearing the facade thin, stripping back the ridiculous costume. A pair of greyish, faded moth wings folded smoothly along the back of his fur-lined cloak.

He observed the pool, and he knew what he'd been brought here to do, but his reluctance was obvious. Nothing good had come of eating or drinking anything here, and he had no reason to suspect this would be any different, but his general resigned willingness to do what was expected of him until he knew better was becoming total apathetic surrender, just as it had in the Tear, just as it might one day become in the real world: a mute submission to orders, unthinking forward motion.

He paused to pick up her hand, to observe the ring-laden fingers, and to give her a wry, tired look. "Judas," he said, and displayed for her the singular ring that remained the only snippet of finery on his person.

He procured himself a cup, and swirled its contents, lifting it experimentally to his nose before shooting her a "the things I do for you, woman" look over the lip of it and taking a sip.

Phoenix returned the silent greeting with her own cheeky waggle of the eyebrows as she took in the wings. It was an odd look on him, but fitting. Where others looked flashier or more dramatic with wings, Slain looked tattered and muted. He had a way of doing that in the waking world, too; only the aggressively stark white of his room seemed able to give contrast to the man rather than dim and blend.

The Judas comment had her wriggling her ringed fingers and making what could only be described as shameless cake face. Then she triggered the marriage ability, filling the cell with birds and hearts and two banners congratulations to them all.

The things he does for her indeed.

The battle scene that played out caught and held her focus in a much different way than k1ng's had. She called Slain here to show how ridiculous and unlikely this future business was. Instead she was treated to a show of skill, smooth competency, and a flawless sort of teamwork that had her going oh.

So this is what they did. This was how eclipse teams were meant to fight.

She'd never really seen Taym and Jordan interact in person, not really. But the exhanges she'd read on twitter had often seemed tense and uncomfortable. The quiet moment between the two in the dream was a fair bit off from that, but nothing she found truly ridiculous or unlikely. It was good. But what stuck in her mind's eye was not the deep comradery, rather the beauty of perfection in motion.

A flush crept up her cheeks. There was a look of bright-eyed admiration when she glanced at Slain. The sort she'd sent his way only once before, while he was wrapped up in showing her how a truly good omelet was made.

Phoenix tried to school her expression, shooting k1ng a chagrined look and shrug. This had not been what she'd expected at all. "Welp, I guess the stabbing part is pretty consistent."