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Where he's been and where he went- Zia, Bischophite and Kairatos break into a morgue to investigate the corpse of the man who went mad and died, screaming about voices and nightmares... and they find...

Dying in Dreams

The dreams had changed, and he would later suspect that the trip to the Morgue and Bischophite's suggestions that fueled them.

This time, there was no brief window of elation and joy. Instead he plunged into dreams as though the sand man had crept up behind him and shoved a bag over his head. One moment he was sitting on the couch rubbing Jo behind the ears as she grumbled about the puppy, and the next he was flying.

Flying? No... falling. Tumbling through the air in an arc toward the pavement, smashing into the track in a jumble of almost familiar pain. The fear, the hurt... he almost felt more awake in this terrible dream than he did in real life.

It's a dream. It's a dream He reminded himself, even as, as though scripted, he tried to drag his broken body across the ground to get away from the black winged royal he knew was coming for him.

The previous nights... he'd woken up before Castor had reached him, but this time... This time he felt a boot shove him in the ribs, rolling him over roughly, and for a moment he saw nothing but red and black explosions as he was overwhelmed with pain. But the nightmare would not let him surrender to agony, and his vision cleared enough to see Castor on one knee, leaning over him. Leering.

"I think you have something you shouldn't." Castor purred, lip curled back, a strand of white hair falling out of place, and then he shoved a hand deep inside of Xanthus's chest.

He screamed, because it was like the sudden pain of when Bischophite had shoved a hand into to him to snatch his Starseed out, but more lingering, and he could almost feel Castor's fingers trailing languidly in that space, handling his soul roughly, as though he might crush it where it lay, then reaching for something else, shoving it aside, and withdrawing his hand, leaving Xanthus gasping the remnants of a scream that had lingered until he had no breath left, and held a shard of something broken and golden to the sunlight.

It was even pretty, the piece of the Pyrite crystal.

"See, now what's a creature like you doing with a Royal crystal? That's rather treasonous..."

"This... this is a dream." He gasped back, trying to find purchase on the ground with his hands, since his legs wouldn't respond. "It's... it's a dream. You c-can't. N-not a corrupt..."

"Can't I?" Castor purred, palming the piece and grinning. "Is it? Are you sure?"

"It's a nightmare. J-just a nightmare." Xanthus repeated, trying to convince himself, as another shadow fell over him, and Zirconia knelt down beside Castor, draping her arms around him and purring throatily.

"Just a nightmare?" She smiled, softly, like you'd smile at a child who'se just said something adorably foolish. "There's no such thing, darling. Don't you know what happens if you die in a dream?"

She kissed Castor lightly on the cheek and added. "I want his starseed too. It'll be such a novelty back home..."

"I did tell him not to get in my way..." Castor sighed, reaching forward again...

---

Claws bit into his cheek bone and he woke with a help, jerking backward and releasing his grip on Jo's fur, where he didn't realize he'd wrapped his fingers tensely into her thick coat. Jo hissed at him in fury and bolted, vanishing under the furniture as he sagged back against the couch, throwing an arm up across his eyes as he tried to stop shaking.

"Goddamnit. Goddamnit this has to stop."

The Shift in my Reality- Hvergelmer and Kairatos catch up for the first time since the strange dreams about the future.

How to Live

He closed his eyes and remembered standing by the stream, splashing water at Hvergelmer, and she at him, instead of properly washing clothes. He remembered pressing a kiss on Herger's forehead, and hastening off with long strides, sure it had been the impulsive mistake that would cost him his companionship with the huge man. He remembered bringing them flowers from his forays and hunts. And the time his incomplete knowledge of woodland plants had resulted in his hands and arms being blistered almost to the elbows. He'd been out of commission for a week, at least, covered in lotions and bandages, and embarrassed as hell.
He'd been almost as embarrassed the first time he tried cooking game outside on a spit. Rare on the inside, Crispy charcoal on the outside. He'd gotten better, but it had been with their guiding hands and tolerance. The reasons to slow down, to not march angrily, purely to the sounds of anger and duty, as though shaking his fist at the universe.
He even remembered the first time he'd gone running to jump into Naeyrfjord's arms, wrapped his arms around him and given him a real kiss. It had become something of a tradition. The thing he looked forward to when they met again after missions took them in different locations.
He remembered both of them playing with his hair. Naeyr had cut his short, but Kairatos had frequently let it grow and muttered darkly through the tangles and grime, and sat through their attentions in meditative peace. It was why he left it long to begin with.

He remembered all these things, but out of the handful of people he'd talked to, most of them talked only about the deaths. Not the parts where they'd lived. Those were the parts he wished he could take out of the rest, the parts he'd like back. Not the power, not the helm and the gladius, the little parts. The parts that had made the fighting and the pain and the suffering worth while. If you only thought about the dying...

Well they might as well surrender then. Everyone died eventually. Many of them had been through it before, already. Even without this strange, memory-that-shouldn't-be-a-memory.

There were even parts of the losses he'd have taken back. Running across the surface of Uranus after Zoji La, who smiled like the sun, and ran like she had wings on her heels, given flight by pure joy.

Joy hadn't been enough to keep her with them, but had been there for a little while.

He fingered the tiny urn of oil on a cord that hung around his neck, and thought of Oaths. Ida's. The Compact. Hvergelmer's. He'd sworn one once with Asterion. He'd promised Bischophite he'd do everything he could to help him purify, if it were possible. He'd promised Zia something far darker, even though he hoped he would not be called on to try and honor it.

He'd promised himself things even. That he would stand tall, and bold, and prove that there was hope for the purified. Things hadn't gone so well for that, in the future that hadn't happened, but he didn't care to dwell on the closing chapter to that reality, the parts lurking just the other side of being remembered. He didn't want to remember them, but he knew he would if he thought about them too much. The point wasn't about remembering the price for his failures, the point was figuring out how to succeed this time. None of this was about figuring out how not to die, it was about how to live.

[Reg?]- No Lord of them Better Kairatos and Titanlavenite meet again

((And Ivy who is forever teaching me stuff uses a line from The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald for the title.

Dead Moon Rising Zia awakens from a sudden, week long coma, and heads straight for Tartaros... or... is it Zia?


Distress Call
Kairatos turns to first person he can think of who can help him when he's suddenly lost his room mate and, by default, his home.

Tis the Season