Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The words on his wrist were supposed to be different. After eighteen years of waiting, of running his fingers over blank skin, he’d been hoping for something grand. He’d been hoping for some sort of fairytale romance.  

You’re the hottest person I’ve ever met. I kept seeing you at the coffee shop, and I wanted to finally say hello. I really, really hope you’re my soulmate .  

None of those lines grace his wrist. Instead, the messy scrawl reads  it’s a shame to kill someone so pretty . He started wearing thick wrist warmers in the summer and long sleeves everytime else.  

And at twenty-five, when most people his age are impatient to meet their soulmate, he'd give anything to never cross paths with his. At eighteen he didn’t know why anyone would want to kill him. In the six years since he started working for the Council, fighting rebels and working towards peace, he found the answer along the way.  

There’s a knife in the sheathe on his thigh and two in plain sight. Poison sits in his medicine cabinet along with antidotes. He only ever uses the latter.  

There are no words on his wrist. None that matter, anyway.  

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The coming of his words isn’t something he awaited. He’d known it was going to happen, going to happen soon, an event completely intertwined with his eighteenth.  

If he’d thought about them at all, it was to dream that his best friend would be the one to say them after all. That dream died with a thousand other things.  

His words are simple:  it’s you . He doesn’t know when he’ll meet them, but he likes to think, somehow, that they’re said with joy, hope, relief.  

He throws himself into his cause. The Black Swan fights to overturn the Council, for justice, for a better world. They are always on the run. He hones his skills in the spare seconds. His anger feeds on each wrong, on each loss, until bloodshed begins to feel unending.  

He stops wondering how a soulmate would fit into this life he leads, keeps wondering who they are and where. Things get worse, worse, worse over the years.  

His words are written on the hand that holds his blade. His words are written on the hand he's drenched in blood.  

Chapter Text

Dex is woken by a hard hit to his ribs. Groggy as he is, he launches himself upwards, already grabbing for a knife—only to be met by a pair of familiar brown eyes.  

“Get  up ,” Sophie hisses. “Camp’s moving.” 

“Again?”  

“They think—you know what, later.” She starts to gather up his things.  

Last night, Dex had fallen asleep at his workbench again. He snatches his duffel bag out from under it, full of basic necessities, and pulls the zipper open. Sophie and Dex sweep everything they can into it before darting outside to collapse the tent, an act he’s far too familiar with.  

Outside, the camp is chaos. Dawn is only barely breaking, but people are running all over. Mr. Forkle barks orders while Spark points people this way and that. Tents shrink in great swoops and people pack everything they can into boxes, doing what they can to not leave a trace. He already knows they won’t succeed.  

“Five minutes till move out!” Mr. Forkle shouts. Dex redoubles his pace, stopping to help Marella and Linh carry the food crates to the boat. Seconds pass in a frenzied hurry. Are Council soldiers sighted, or closing in? 

Squall’s ushering some of the wounded towards the boat, trying to get them on first. Wylie has to be lifted in a stretcher, Maruca managing to fret over him even while she’s shouldering half the burden. “On board!” Mr. Forkle shouts, which means it’s time to leave what’s left and get going.  

Regretfully, Dex drops a box and scrambles towards the boat. They pull away from the shore not long later, already churning down the river. Scattered items still lie where camp used to, and it’s immediately clear that the council will know they were here.  

No one speaks. It’s better not to on the boat, as it’s impossible to get off the water, making their chances of running if sighted that much worse. Hours pass in cramped silence.  

If only the Black Swan could stay truly mobile, but their rebellion can barely fit just for transit.  

After the boat, it’s hiking, too much of it in the day’s slight heat. But Dex figures they might be trying setting up camp farther from the river, somewhere it’s harder to find them just by following the water.  

Mr. Forkle guides the Black Swan as they set up again, in much the same way that they were before. It’s always disheartening to see just how much their supply shrinks every time they move. After, they gather together.  

“Good job today, everyone,” Squall says, trying to stay upbeat as always.  

Spark steps forward to give the debrief. Formerly known as Councilor Zarina, she ran to the rebellion along with Bronte after the Neverseen takeover. While he died of his injuries soon after, she became part of the Collective, desperate to take Eternalia back.  

“Confirmed Council activity nearby our last camp,” Spark says, voice ringing out loud. “Attack was suspected to be imminent. Rebellion activity can continue as normal, though it’s important to be cautious. We don’t know how we’re being found so quickly, but I assure you, the Collective is doing everything we can to fix it. Dismissed.” 

Along with everyone else, Dex starts to disperse, when Sophie grabs him around the arm. “Hang out with me and the gang for a bit?” she asks, voice drifting towards wheedling.  

He wants to say he needs to work on gadgetry, as his work has been much more important since Tinker’s death last month. But they really could use something like relaxation. “Sure.” 

“Don’t act like it’s a crazy sacrifice,” Sophie retorts. “C’mon. I noticed a cool peak earlier. Not much of a hike—don’t give me that look—and I’ve already gotten everybody else to meet us there.” 

Dex shakes his head and just follows her up a trail. Her steps are sure and light, even though he remembers a time when she couldn’t have made it up without tripping once, twice, three times.  

They settle onto a peak that looks more like a cliff’s edge, and for the first time, Dex really takes a look around. This time, they’ve ended up in a truly beautiful place. The rich blue river runs along verdant green hills, drops dramatic and hollows opening up to a huge blue sky. Nestled in the hills is the camp, and he imagines that it’d be near impossible to see from anywhere but above.  

Sophie sits too close to the edge for safety, one leg dangling over, but he can’t blame her. Marella and Linh finally turn the corner, hands intertwined.  

“Now that’s a view,” Linh says, smiling wide.  

“Isn’t it?” Sophie asks.  

“Makes you want to launch yourself over,” Marella says. There’s a time, too, when they wouldn’t have all laughed, but that time isn’t now. There was also a time when there’d have been more of them up here. 

“Any idea how they found us?” Linh asks, eyes narrowed. Since losing her twin, Tam, a year ago, she’s been more focused, driven. “I keep turning it over in my head, but... nothing.” 

“A tracker, a spy,” Dex says. “And it’s not like we’re hard to notice.” 

“Still. Three days there.” Sophie frowns, reaching up to ruffle her hair, which has started growing out from its buzzcut. One of the Black Swan’s finest soldiers, she can’t stand anything getting in her way. But after practically being benched for her recklessness just ten days ago, she’s been more restless than ever. “Usually we have two weeks or so.” 

Marella shrugs. “Well, we’re running out of places to hide.”  

“And we lose more every day,” Dex adds. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” Sophie begs. “Just for a bit, okay?” 

“Fine. Here goes: the weather’s  great  today.” Marella’s sarcasm drips from every syllable.  

Sophie sighs. “Not what I meant.” 

“Yeah, Mare,” Linh says, stretching to her tiptoes to peck her girlfriend on the lips. They’ve been dating since eighteen, when they found out they were each other’s soulmates and finally acted on the feelings they’d been ignoring for years. “Don’t be so snarky.” 

“What do we even talk about anymore?” Marella says. “We’re soldiers, okay?” 

“Soulmates,” Dex volunteers. Even though that’s far from his favorite topic, he knows it’ll keep the peace. “Please, your latest theories on mine and Sophie’s.” 

Sophie laughs. “Okay, um, Dex... I think you’ll be meeting a new recruit and you’ll say, ‘Hi, I’m Lex, no, shoot, sorry, I’m  Dex’  and then they’ll look at you, shake their head, and say ‘It’s you’ but like as a question because apparently you’re their awkward dork of a soulmate.” 

“Boring,” Marella calls.  

“How long are you going to make fun of me for that?” he complains.   

“I’ve got one for Sophie,” Linh says. “We’ll beat the Council, and then in Eternalia, she’ll say ‘We won!’ and be so excited she kisses the nearest person. But, like, it’s a really good kiss, and neither of them want to stop. Then they’ll look at her after they separate, kinda in shock, and say ‘Not what I was expecting’.” 

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” Dex says. “But I think Sophie’s clumsiness will come back to haunt her and she’ll crash into some random person and say something really profane, and  then  they’ll say her words.” 

“Just curse already,” Sophie says. 

“Let me show you how it’s done.” Marella smirks. “So Dex steals from someone on the street, right—” 

“I would  never —” 

“Hush, I’m telling this. Point is, he gets away, though, and the next day his soulmate sees him again and is like ‘It’s you!’ all in anger and repulsion and whatever. And Dex is like, ‘well, this is awkward’ and then they’re both like you’re my soulmate, oh f—” 

“Cutting you off there.” Dex shakes his head. 

Linh laughs. “Why don’t we finish off with the best soulmate story of all time? It was my eighteenth birthday, and—” 

“Everyone here has heard this a thousand times!” Marella tries to pull off disgruntled, but the vivid red of her cheeks betrays her.  

“Because it’s the best story,” Linh says, unfazed. “So, as I was saying  before  I was interrupted, it was my eighteenth birthday and my words had just appeared. And Sophie and Dex were teasing me about them, saying so-and-so and whatnot might be my soulmate, and Marella was rolling her eyes. So I turned to her and said ‘Maybe it’s you’ and then she looked at me in surprise and went ‘Wait, those are my words’. They were, of course, so I kind of leaned over and kissed her, and then we went off to talk and be alone for the rest of the night.” 

“And then you proceeded to act so couple-y Dex and I couldn’t be around you without fake-barfing for a year,” Sophie adds.  

“You only stopped after two,” Dex reminds her. The one saving grace was that Linh was asexual in addition to lesbian, so poor Sophie never had to walk in on anything scarring to her delicate psyche in the girls’ tent.   

“I’m bringing this up again whenever one of you finds your soulmate,” Linh warns. “You’ll be full-on making out and I’ll be like, hey, remember when you gagged every time I glanced at Marella?” 

“That’s because you never  glance ,” Dex says. “You moon after each other. Your eyes are literally hearts and everything, and your wistful gazes—which, by the way, have been known to last for over an hour—carry a poignant and overly sappy declaration of love.” 

Sophie chimes in, “It’s  disgusting .” 

They start heading back towards camp, still chattering. Marella shakes her head. “You’ll be singing a different tune when you meet your soulmate, and ‘I told you so’ will practically become tattooed on my tongue.” 

“Sounds painful,” Dex says.  

“Ahh, but worth it.” 

They reach the base of the trail again, and are met by Maruca. “Collective’s got me playing errand girl again.” She shoots a dirty look at Sophie. “And all because  someone  wasn’t there.” 

Sophie shrugs. “I’m hoping that if I’m bad enough at around-camp duties they’ll put me back in combat.” 

“Because you’ll have shown you’re irresponsible and not to be trusted?” 

“I’m one of the best fighters we’ve got, okay? I’m ten times more useful out there than I am—” 

“Please just give us the message,” Linh begs.  

Maruca huffs. “Collective wants to see Dex in the command tent. ASAP.” 

“Thanks, Maruca!” Dex jogs away, knowing, in all likelihood, he’s probably already late and also knowing the Collective probably won’t even talk to him for a while.  

The command tent is in the center of camp, and while it’s the same size as most others, the fabric is thicker. While in earlier years, the Black Swan trusted its close-knit nature and its members, they’ve learned, over the years, that the risk of spying must be minimized any way possible.  

He stands at the entrance and rings the bell. “Dex Dizznee reporting.” 

“Come in,” Squall calls from within, and Dex does, ducking under the low-hanging entrance to come inside.  

Squall and Spark are seated around the table, other Collective members nowhere to be seen. Wraith’s been out on a mission for weeks, Mr. Forkle must be busy with something else, and Blur and Granite died four years ago in an attack.  

“Thanks for coming, Dex,” Squall says, dropping formalities. “We have a mission for you.” 

“What is it?” he asks, pulling out a chair and sitting down. The entire Collective practically raised him, after all.  

Two months after the Neverseen takeover, as the Dizznees were known insurgents, the Council had set fire to their home. Juline had managed to escape with her six-year-old son, but her husband, Kesler, never made it out. She’d thrown herself into her work with the Black Swan, occasionally so much so that she couldn’t be the parent she wanted to be.  

Spark starts to speak, tackling the background first. “We received a message from Oralie an hour ago. It’s been a while since we’ve heard from her—it’s getting too dangerous to smuggle things out.”  

After the Neverseen took the Council and subsequently pretended nothing had changed, several councilors had resigned. But Councilor Kenric had been killed for speaking out against the newly-minted Councilor Gisela, prompting Zarina and Bronte to run. The remaining original councilors simply kept their heads down, too scared to do anything else. Oralie, however, grieving and still in love, turned spy.  

“But this message,” Spark continues, “is of vital importance. It informed us the name of the man who has, apparently, been almost single-handedly responsible for tracking us. He has some intuition or knowledge that has allowed him to pinpoint our location with alarming accuracy... which the Council will only act on faster as they grow to trust his predictions more. Thus, your mission: kill Fitz Vacker.” 

Dex nods. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but nothing comes to mind.  

In addition to gadgetry, he takes on assassinations. The Black Swan is always short on personnel, and besides, he has a trait most members lack:  subtlety .  

The only problem, of course, is his policy: “Is he a bad person? A murderer?” 

Juline sighs. “No.” 

“Then what does he do?” Dex asks, hoping there’s some sort of skeleton in this man’s closet. He has limits, after all.  

Spark frowns. “I don’t think that—” 

“Just tell him,” Juline says. 

“Fine,” Spark relents. “Fitz Vacker works for the Council, and is a high-profile figure due to his famous family. Primarily, Vacker works in planning against the Black Swan, with a high degree of success. But...”  

“But?” 

“ But  Vacker also devotes a large portion of his time to charitable endeavors,” Squall says. “He donates money in addition to helping people in person. He campaigns for good laws. He’s never killed or otherwise perpetrated any crime.” 

“I won’t do it, then.” Dex folds his arms across his chest.  

“I understand where you’re coming from, Dex.” Spark looks straight into his eyes. “I know how important your moral code is to you. I know how that feels like it’s the only thing keeping you human. And I’m sorry to ask you this—I really am. But you’re the only person we have right now who I trust with the task, and removing Vacker from the equation could save the Black Swan.” 

“Fine.” Dex swallows hard. “I’ll do it.”   

Chapter Text

Fitz takes his coffee black, bitter and bracing against his tongue. Straight from brewing, he sets the mug down and sticks a tester strip in it, opening up his book again while he waits for results.  

These days, he reads in snatches, ten minutes squeezed in between business, meaning he can never quite remember where he is in the plot of his beloved mysteries. It always takes six pages for the strip to finish (he’s five chapters in, but he’s sure the killer is Cathy Hollow).  

Fitz pulls the strip out. There are no colorful stratifications running down the paper, meaning it’s safe enough to drink. There are poisons that it won’t catch, and Alvar keeps badgering him to hire a proper taster, but it just seems frustrating to have someone in his house, sampling every food he eats. He’d rather not have that on his conscience anyway. 

There’s the sound of a door opening, and he knows who it is already. Fitz’s security is good enough that only his family can come in without asking, and only Alvar would be here so early. Then again, it could always be an especially skilled assassin, moments away from achieving his goal. He takes another sip of coffee.  

Alvar strolls into the kitchen. “Biana up yet?” 

“It’s not noon, is it?” Fitz closes his book, wishing he hadn’t forgotten a bookmark again. The next time he gets a chance to read he’ll have no clue where he left off. 

“True,” Alvar says with a shrug. He slides into a seat beside Fitz. “The Council acted on your prediction yesterday.” 

“And you’re only telling me this  now ?” Fitz complains. They’re both Emissaries, but Alvar’s completely trusted by the Council, giving him access to better information he seems to relish holding over his brother’s head. “What happened?” 

“I didn’t know the new  Chronicles of Ethel  book came out,” Alvar says, eyes scanning Fitz’s book. “They turn those things out like a factory.” 

“Alvar,  what happened ?” There’s an uneasy feeling in Fitz’s stomach, because he always likes to know the consequences of his plans, so he can be  better  next time—minimize casualties, up efficiency.  

“Touchy this morning, aren’t you?” Alvar draws it out another minute. “Council sent troops to the location, but the rebels must’ve had early warning, because they left just in time. Easy to see they’d been there, though.”  

“I told you they’d be,” Fitz says, and knowing that, he gets up to wash out his cup of coffee. “I can start looking for their next location, of course, could’ve earlier if you’d  told me sooner . And it’d be nice if you finally stopped waiting after I’ve pinpointed them, you know.” 

“Doesn’t work like that, Fitzy. Council’s not going to immediately mobilize resources based on your guesswork.” 

“It’s not  guesswork ,” Fitz snaps. His sleeve slips up and he winces.  

Alvar smirks and stands, sauntering out, pausing just to add, “Fitzy, your dime-a-dozen mystery novels don’t give you super-detective abilities” because he always has to have the last word.  

Fitz just sighs and sets his cup on the counter before heading to his study. A couple years back, Biana was always getting on him about overworking himself and he was always listening, but now they both do it and do it well.  

Dangerous insurgents who rise up against the Council, the Black Swan has proved both slippery and violent, striking when they’re least expected in an attempt to overthrow Eternalia’s government.  

There’s a map in Fitz’s study, dotted with all the places they’ve been in the last year. Lately, it’s centered along the Alluveterre River. When he first started, plenty of his predictions resembled guesses in the dark, or somewhere close. 

Overtime, however, he’s come to see the clear pattern to it. They use a logic he understands to pick the next place, meaning they should, by  that  rule, be in a secluded cove not long from their last camp.  

But by now... they’ll have realized someone’s tracking them with considerable success. They’ll have almost certainly attempted to break free of their pattern, going somewhere unexpected and easy to protect while still somewhere workable for them.  

The Black Swan seems to rely on the river somehow, indicating it’s unlikely they’ve strayed far from it. Yet, knowing this crucial fact, it’s also probable they’ve distanced themselves from it as much as possible.  

Biting his lip, Fitz circles a wide area on the map in dry erase marker. While theoretically, the Council might approve a mission searching this section, he prefers finding a location that’s close to exact. That way, planning is easier, reducing human costs. And it’s better for the environment, anyway.  

There’s a noise at the door. “Come in,” Fitz calls.  

Biana waves as she does so. She’s in her workout clothes, hair pulled up in a high ponytail. Despite her line of work, she’s resisted cutting it so far. “Any plans for today?” she asks.  

“No. You?” 

“None at all,” Biana says. They have this exchange every day. Neither of them is ever doing anything. “Alvar forgot to buzz in again, didn’t he? Woke up to my phone screaming  unauthorized entrance .” 

“Again? Bi, you might just have to finally start sleeping at a reasonable hour.” 

“And give up my reruns? Never.” Outside of work, they each have their indulgences. Fitz’s novels, her sitcoms. “We can just finally change the code and lock Alvar out instead.” 

Fitz nods. “About time. Yesterday he consumed half our cereal.” 

“Freeloader,” Biana says. “I’m off. Don’t do anything too dumb.” 

“Same to you,” he calls after her retreating back.  

Alden was assassinated four years ago. Both of them ended up working against the Black Swan. While Fitz always planned to be an Emissary, Biana hadn’t meant to do anything  important .   

She’d wanted to do something with make-up or fashion, maybe. Now she was partway through her fourth year of military training, preparing to become a specialized soldier. Della was devastated by the change, but she’d been so fragile in the wake of Alden’s—her soulmate—death.  

Besides his duties as an Emissary, Fitz manages the Vacker estate and fortune as the only one of his siblings with the patience or the time to. There’s not much to do in regards to it most days, but he clicks through a couple e-mails requesting money or from other influential families.  

Today, he gets a cryptic threat, too, from someone who must’ve managed getting around his security. Concerning, sure, but typical.  

Another security-breaker is an email proclaiming THE COUNCIL DOESN’T CARE FOR ITS WORKERS. The rebels like to stir up discontent in the working-class cities, claiming these places are cruel, dilapidated. But none of it’s true, of course.  

They claim that the Council limits access for this reason, but it’s all lies, of course. Even Fitz is rarely given clearance to leave Atlantis and visit somewhere else in Eternalia, Alvar citing that it’s the easiest way to keep the country running smoothly.  

Fitz loses himself in his various responsibilities until his phone chimes with a text from Keefe.  

come outside   

Use capitals , he replies.     

COME OUTSIDE    

Keefe is, in all honesty, the only reason Fitz ever leaves the house. He still doesn’t really have a job (much to Lord Cassius and Councilor Gisela’s dismay) and instead prefers to leech off society and throw too many parties. 

Shaking his head, Fitz jogs to the door and undergoes the two separate security checks. He grabs a single glove by the door, pulling it over his right hand to add another layer of insulation from his soulmate words. Much as Fitz hates to think about the fact that his soulmate is, in all likelihood, going to try to murder him, he thinks about it all the time.  

Keefe is standing on his front porch. “Took you long enough,” he says. He’s wearing relatively normal clothes, which is good, but what’s not good is that his boat rests in the canal behind him.  

Atlantis is a city interwoven with an elaborate network of water, making its primary method of transportation gondolas. The streets are skinny and empty of cars, creating a beautiful city that’s rather unfortunate for this one, blond reason: a menace named Keefe Sencen.  

“Where’re you dragging me this time?” Fitz asks. “If it’s a club again I’m leaving.” 

“You left last time,” Keefe points out. “And, no, actually, we’re going to that boring café you like. The one where they don’t even serve alcohol.” 

“Better than I was expecting, actually.” 

“Then get in the boat.” He climbs on board himself, grabbing the oars.  

In Fitz’s opinion, calling it a ‘boat’ instead of a ‘death-trap’ is generous. “Just don’t flip it over for once.” 

“’For once’?” Keefe shakes his head. “I’m hurt. Truly. To know you have so little faith in me, to think—” 

“I’d be inclined to apologize if not for my recollections of all the times I’ve walked home dripping.” 

“Give second chances.” 

“Learn from your mistakes.” 

“See, I’m learning how to do better,” Keefe says as he starts off.  

“Perhaps,” Fitz allows, “but you should be learning how to burn this thing.” 

The boat (death-trap) rocks as it carries along, faster than is probably advisable. The café isn’t far away, close enough to walk, but the boat ride still feels long.  

Fitz stares at the city and then at his hands. The very glove that’s supposed to be  keeping  his mind far away is doing the opposite, making him think about the thing he’s not supposed to think about and how much he wants to avoid the mental subject.  

Eventually, he succumbs to temptation and peels the fabric off. He runs his fingers along the words, reading them over and over, a little bit unsettled—as always—to see they’re still the same.  It’s a shame to kill someone so pretty .  

Someday he’s going to die by soulmate. The day that’s supposed to be Fitz’s happiest may just be the day his life ends. Once, he read romances, devoured stories of soulmates finding each other and a love so grand it eclipses everything else.  

But he’s not going to have that. He doesn’t get any sort of love story. Soulmates are supposed to be a person’s other half, their counterbalance, the thing that was missing all along. They’re supposed to bring a happiness and a love both automatic and overwhelming.  

Not  death .  

Fitz looks out at the city again, and only just manages to notice when they stop. He climbs out, setting foot onto ground again. It’s later than he’d thought, the sky showing the faintest evidence of darkening.  

“See? Progress,” Keefe declares as they enter the café and grab a table. “No flipping over. No bumping against anything... much.” 

“The ‘much’ really takes away from that.” 

A waitress comes to take their order, asking Fitz if he wants his usual (he does) and marking down sugar-loaded waffles for Keefe.  

“You know that’s excessive with rationing, right?” Fitz says.  

“Dude. Atlantis—not to mention families like ours—don’t  do  rations.” Keefe shrugs. “So if I feel like extra whipped cream, I’m getting it. Besides, I like spending extra. Irks the parents that their wayward son taxes their budget so.” 

“It’s  wartime ,” Fitz reminds him. “Doesn’t matter where we live.” 

“Yeah, like all that we ‘save’ goes to the war effort,” Keefe scoffs. “We have plenty. What it really does is line mommy dearest’s pockets.” 

“Wow. Usually takes a few drinks before you start the rebel sympathizing.” The waitress returns with their food, passing out one heaping plate and one normal-portioned one. Fitz tests his for poison. 

“Know who I ran into today?” Keefe asks. “Stina Heks. Awful as we remember. Conned someone into making her a Regent, too, and of course she kept sneering over that.” 

“Yikes.” Fitz doesn’t manage to muster much emotion. “You know, if you asked Councilor Gisela, I’m sure she’d give you a place as an Emissary. No need to stay jobless for the rest of your life.” 

Keefe snorts. “As if I’d ever give her the satisfaction. Besides, you’ve known her years now. Don’t call her that, it’s weird.” 

“It’s her title. Anything else from a non-relative is disrespectful.” 

“Someday I’m going to cut those straight laces of yours,” Keefe says. “Someone said ‘you wanna say that again?’ to me today. Not our first meeting, but still. Every time I hear it...” His thumb drifts towards his wrist.  

“Stop offending people so much and you wouldn’t,” Fitz says. “Honestly.” 

There’s a lull in the conversation, one filled with eating and quiet companionship. The café is typically pretty quiet, part of why he likes it so much. Right now, there’s only one other booth filled, by a group of four that talks over a newspaper. A woman is hunched over a laptop at the bar, typing furiously and occasionally sipping her lemonade. It’s nice.  

“Did you know the Moonlark’s been weirdly quiet?” Fitz asks.  

The Moonlark is the Black Swan’s legendary soldier, a powerful adversary who’s legend has only grown with time.  

“Really?” Keefe says. “They have any theories as to why?” 

“Some people claim the Moonlark’s dead,” Fitz answers. “But far as we know, they weren’t hurt too bad recently. Maybe they’ve gone underground.” 

“Or,” Keefe says, “they’re lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike in a devastating and unexpected attack that single-handedly takes down the Council.” 

“You’ve been reading too many tabloids. They’re a soldier, not a super-powered mutant-angel-demon or whatever they’re saying these days.” 

His fork clinks against his plate as his phone rings. Automatically, Keefe declines, until it starts up again. “Oh, look at that, it’s  Councilor Gisela ,” he says. “Tragically, I should take this.” 

Fitz just nods and waits out the aggravated phone conversation, no doubt debating either the-thing-Keefe-did-last or the-new-thing-Gisela-is-trying-to-force-him-to-do. From experience, he knows neither of them ever truly wins.  

Keefe scowls as he returns to the table. “I have to go. Probably. Unless, of course, you’re not okay getting home by yourself, in which case...” 

Instead of giving his best friend an easy out from his problems, Fitz says, “I’ll be  fine . It’s completely safe to walk home, okay?” 

“Says the guy who has to use  poison-testers  on every meal.” Keefe raises an eyebrow, but leaves anyway.  

Fitz pays, tips, and emerges into the night. It’s fully dark out by now.  

There’s a couple of side streets he can take to get home quicker, even if they’re not as well illuminated. Caution becomes over-kill if he won’t even walk some pathways in his city.  

As Fitz strolls home, pace leisurely, he glances up, up, up. There aren’t many stars as it’s just turned to night, but the deep purple-black is pretty in its own right. He wonders if Biana will be home by the time he gets there. Probably not.  

He should probably visit Della tomorrow. In the afternoon, maybe. It’s been a week, and Fitz doesn’t usually go that long without seeing her. She’ll appreciate it, it’ll be nice, and he doesn’t have to deal with the same badgering Biana or Alvar does when it comes to soulmates and grandchildren.  

There’s a faint sound—a footstep?  

Fitz turns and forgets to reach for a knife.  

Chapter Text

Atlantis stretches before Dex almost before he knows it. The mission is secretive; even Sophie, Marella, and Linh aren’t supposed to know he’s here—they do anyway.   

He already wants to be done with this whole business. It’d be nice to be doing tech work right about now, because  then  it’s easy to ignore what his weapons and gadgets are going to do out in the world.   

Through the morning, Dex can’t shake his queasiness. He’s done this before, of course he has, but only deserving targets. Only ever the ones when he can be something like sure he’s doing the right thing, that this is  awful , but just as  necessary .   

He tails Vacker to a café the first time the man emerges from his house. It’s laughably easy, especially since Vacker allegedly deals with attempts on his life frequently, but he doesn’t look around him much or study the people passing.   

But if Vacker keeps staying inside so much, always around other people, he might just save himself anyway.   

The plan is simple: kill him and dump his body in the river, mark him missing, first. More confusing, safer, cleaner. Drowning, even, would be better, make it look like an accident. But that’s slower, worse, and the least Dex can do is make this death quick.  

Dex waits in a side-alley by the café and goes through his information again.   

There’s a reminder at the top of the file that calling Vacker  the target  might make it easier, but trying to pretend Vacker isn’t human is just unquestionably bad.   

The rest of it’s standard. Vacker has a mother and two adult siblings, no one else, so there’s no one relying on him. His family has seen a similar death before, so maybe they know how to handle it. If you tally it up, you might reasonably walk away with the conclusion that Vacker’s death won’t be too devastating to those left behind.   

But the thought sickens Dex instead of reassuring him. He keeps going. He has a feeling that the Collective omitted information about  who  Vacker is, probably trying to make this easier on him. The Black Swan has too much riding on this for him to fail.   

But even in the file’s sparseness is a single word that makes his stomach turn further:  indoctrination . It's the reality for those under the Council regime, and Vacker hasn’t gotten here by choice. He was just raised in Eternalia and he shouldn’t have to die.   

Dex won’t dump the body. Vacker’s family will get to know what happened, and they won’t have to wait through a  missing  stage.   

The sky darkens and someone leaves the café, the blond man who’d entered earlier with Vacker. He gets into a boat and leaves, muttering something vicious under his breath.   

And then Vacker walks out onto the sidewalk. He turns, heading towards the side streets. Obviously, he means to walk home, which is perfect and awful all at once.   

This is an ideal time to kill him. It’s an opportunity Dex won’t get again.   

He starts creeping forward and draws a dagger in each hand.   

There’s always a time, exactly now, when he becomes an assassin. He goes blank, emotions filtered out, and in this state of calm there’s only him and the target.   

It takes a second tonight, but it happens. But he slips up for once. His footsteps are too loud, like he’s not really trying, because he isn’t.   

Vacker turns. Shock registers, but he makes no move to defend himself, just steps back, stumbles.   

Dex darts forward and pushes him up against the wall, dagger poised at his throat. Now. Now.  Now.  

Vacker swallows, eyes flickering to the knife and to Dex’s face. They’re teal and impossibly beautiful as the rest of him, handsome features and thick dark hair. They’re wide, too, wide and  scared , because he’s  twenty-five  and  about to die  and—  

Dex grips the knife so hard his hand shakes. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to do this. He raises an eyebrow, tries to act confident, and says, “It’s a shame to kill someone so pretty.”  

Squeezing his eyes shut, he prepares to slide the knife in. A bead of blood runs along the metal.   

Except Vacker speaks. “It’s you,” he wheezes, in a voice that trembles and quakes.   

It’s you . Panic swooping in his stomach, Dex opens his eyes again. This is his  soulmate . He’s about to  kill his soulmate .   

His pressure on the knife eases, but he still needs to drive it in. He can’t.   

He’s not going to kill his soulmate on an Atlantis street. Instead, he pulls the knife away and brings the hilt down on Vacker’s skull.   

Something like relief fills him as Vacker’s head lolls forward, handsome features slackening.   

Then it dissipates. Dex almost murdered his soulmate, and now, he’s in Atlantis with an unconscious man he’s supposed to be assassinating. What next?   

He can’t just leave Vacker here to wake up. Then they’d be right back where they started before he took this awful mission, and the Black Swan would still be in danger of being found any day now.   

He can’t kill Vacker either. They’re soulmates, and Dex really wants to get to know him, to tell him everything. In fact, his thoughts are already spiraling out of control, spending an inordinate amount of time on Vacker’s  lips  and  teal eyes —  

So. Last option. Craziest option.   

Dex can take Vacker back to camp. No one will be happy about it, and from there, the logistics are awful. But. But that way, no one has to die (probably) and they can spend more time together (that shouldn’t even be a factor, okay, not when  he just tried to murder Fitz ).  

In the end, it’s the third option.   

Fitz has to stay unconscious the entire way, which means a few more hits to his head. He also ends up in a body bag, because as bad as it looks, it’s more convenient than just hauling him around.   

Dex enters the camp at night, dragging the bag behind him. He’d gone around the sentries using a non-orthodox trail, a route he’ll have to warn someone about later.   

The medical tent, fortunately, isn’t empty. Wylie’s asleep, and Elwin is bustling around, but other than that? It's empty.  

“Hey, Elwin,” Dex says. “So. Um, there’s a bit of a situation.”  

“What’s wrong?” Elwin turns around, concern morphing into horror. “What’s—what’s in the bag?”  

“I think you probably know.” Fortunately, Elwin can be trusted to be discreet, making this easier. “But, uh, the guy’s not dead. He just took a couple hits to the head—I hit him in the head, actually—so I wanted to ask you to treat him?”  

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Does the Collective know?”  

“Um, no,” Dex says. “But I’ll tell them. Really soon. One more thing, though, he’s gonna have to be tied down.”  

Elwin massages his forehead. “Dex, what’s going on? Who is this guy?”  

Opening the body bag, Dex starts to haul Vacker out. “He works for the Council, and I was... kind of... supposed to kill him?”  

“And instead you brought him here?” Elwin arranges the unconscious man on a hospital bed.   

“Look, I know it seems weird, but please just trust me. I’ll explain later.”  

“Fine, but it better be a  good  explanation,” he warns as he starts to tie Vacker down. “And tell the Collective now. I don’t think they’ll mind being woken up.”  

“Then you don’t know my mom,” Dex jokes as he leaves. It does nothing to settle the frothing uncertainty inside.  

He wakes the Collective. It’s just Spark and Squall again, Mr. Forkle out too, now. He explains in words that jumble together like the knot in his chest.   

Squall places a comforting hand on his shoulder when he’s done. “I understand,” she says, simply. “He’s your soulmate. There’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for Kesler, no matter what it meant.”  

“So what next?” Dex asks, wanting his mom to swoop in and take care of it, like she might’ve when he was little.   

Spark and Squall exchange significant eye contact. “We’ll see,” Spark says. “He’ll stay here for now.”  

Squall quickly adds, “But I think there won’t be any reason to follow through on your mission. Vacker isn’t a bad person, after all. And maybe... maybe you should get to know your soulmate better.”  

Dex nods, almost as if he didn’t meet his soulmate by trying to kill him. He really isn’t sure if that’s a barrier they can get over.   

“Squall and I are going to discuss this,” Spark says.   

He knows when he’s been dismissed, and he goes.   

Maybe it’s a little creepy that he’s ducking into the girls’ tent at night, but he needs his friends, and he’s known everyone in here since birth. “Wake up,” he says, louder than is necessary.  

Sophie bolts straight upward on her cot. “What’s going on? Are we moving? Under attack?”  

“No, I just... really need to talk to you. And Marella and Linh. Um, Maruca, I’m sorry for waking you up.”  

Maruca sticks a hand out in a highly rude sign, and Sophie sighs and gets up, muttering about how this better be important.   

Dex turns to Linh and Marella. They’re sharing Linh’s cot, like always—he’d expanded it for them a year after they started dating—and are curled around each other even in sleep. One of Marella’s arms dangles off the side.   

He decides to wake Linh up first, because the other way around could very well end up the last thing he ever does. She opens her eyes at fairly gentle shaking and groggily whispers, “What’s going on?”  

“Nothing, really. Could you wake up Marella?”  

Linh nods. “Give me a second. And, maybe get out of the tent. Just in case.”  

Dex complies, and joins Sophie outside. She stares at him intently for a long moment, and apparently finds whatever she was searching for in his expression, because she says, “This is serious, huh?”  

“You could say that,” he agrees. “I’ll explain on the way.”  

“The way to  where ?”  

“The medical tent.”  

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. This is weird.”  

Linh finally coaxes her scowling girlfriend into wakefulness and out of the tent.  

“You’re dead if you don’t have a good reason,” Marella mutters. “Actually dead. Sophie’ll find your body in pieces across the camp and Linh won’t be able to stop me.”  

“Thanks, Marella,” Dex says. “Always nice to know how much you care.” He starts towards the medical tent, checking to see if his friends are following.   

It’s still night when they reach their destination. Elwin gives them some distance and starts fiddling with something across the medical tent.   

The four of them crowd around Fitz Vacker. He’s fairly still in unconsciousness. His bonds are tight enough to press into his skin—clearly, no one’s taking any chances.  

“He’s the Vacker guy I was supposed to, well, kill,” Dex says, fully aware his explanation is going to suck. “But I didn’t. So instead he’s here.”  

“Is... is that a joke?” Marella asks. “Please tell me he’s not actually a Council dude the Collective wants dead.”  

“See, I try not to lie.”  

“Okay. Okay. Why is he  here  then?” Linh says. “I’m assuming the Collective knows. They know, right? Why didn’t you complete the mission?”  

“Because of this.” Dex takes off Vacker’s glove, then rolls up in his sleeves. And there, in what is unmistakably Dex’s terrible handwriting, is  it’s a shame to kill someone so pretty . “We’re soulmates.”  

Sophie laughs. “And you said  that ?”  

“The teasing can wait,” Linh says. “You’re  soulmates . You were sent to assassinate your soulmate, who has a, what, murder-compliment permanently on his wrist?”  

“So I’m guessing the ‘it’s you’ line was not, well, overjoyed or anything,” Marella notes.  

“No, because it was after I said his words. And after I snuck up in him in a dark alley and put a knife to his throat.”  

Marella, Linh, and Sophie all stare at him in incredulous horror. Then two out of three burst out laughing, because they’re the worst. “I don’t think we ever came up with  that  soulmate story,” Sophie says.   

“This isn’t funny,” Dex says. “Can we focus? What do I do? Help.”  

“Hope the head-hitting gave him amnesia,” Marella offers.   

“I’m at a loss,” Linh admits. “So you’re soulmates. What do you know about him so far?”  

“Dex thinks he’s pretty.” Sophie snorts. “ So  pretty he took the time to tell him as he was about to murder him.”  

“He’s not wrong, though,” Marella says, speculatively eyeing Vacker. “But don’t worry, Linh. You’re the only one for me.”  

“Only one who can put up with you, more like,” Linh says, bumping her shoulder against her girlfriend’s.   

“He’s kind of dumb,” Dex says. “I came at him in the alley and he didn’t grab a weapon. Or scream. I don’t know, the pressure of meeting his soulmate must have been a lot.”  

“Or the pressure of nearly being killed.” Sophie shakes her head. “I can’t. Honestly. On the off chance you ever fall in love, I’m sure you’ll really enjoy telling the story of how you met.”  

“But we’re never  going  to fall in love, because I tried to kill him. Please, be helpful for once in your life. I’m begging you.”  

“Just get to know him,” Linh says. “And apologize. It may have been a bump in the road, but I’m sure it gets better from here.”  

“Sure,” Marella says sarcastically. “I bet plenty of soulmates almost assassinate each other.” 
 

“Not to mention, he works for the Council. You’re in the Black Swan,” Sophie points out. “Doesn’t mesh well.”  

Dex sighs. “So our conclusion is I’m screwed.”  

Marella shrugs. “Basically.” Linh and Sophie nod.  

In the bed, Fitz starts to stir, limbs shifting against the ropes holding him down. “Oh no,” Dex says, because he’s not ready to deal with this, okay? Wait a minute, a week, a  century —  

Those teal eyes flicker open.   

Chapter Text

Snatches of sentences.  Collective wants dead. He didn’t grab a weapon. Tried to kill him.  

And one word that repeats over and over:  soulmate .  

Fitz’s head throbs, dull aches and intense pains combining into fuzziness. The mattress feels strange, lumpy. Maybe he hit his head   last night— what was happening last night? —and now he’s in the hospital, surrounded by unfamiliar voices.   

It’s when he tries to shift positions that he knows something is wrong. Straps cut into his skin, holding him down tightly. Even the slightest movement is impossible.   

Even once he opens his eyes, it takes a moment for his vision to clear. Figures coalesce together.   

He’s in some kind of hospital. Grouped near him are four figures, all around his age and looking towards him. His blood runs cold.  

One of them is a beautiful strawberry blond man, with freckles scattering his cheeks and uncertainty stuck on his face. Fitz feels an unconscious pull to him.   

But it’s more than that. The man tried to kill him last night.   

Finally, it comes flooding back to Fitz.  It’s a shame to kill someone so pretty . The man pressing him against an alley wall, a knife to his throat. Fitz met his soulmate and his soulmate didn’t kill him.   

Except, now, it’s obvious that he’s stuck in a hostile situation.  

“Good whatever time this is, I guess,” a blonde woman says. Her hair is dotted through with tiny braids. “Not that the middle of the night can  be  good.”  

“Right,” Fitz manages. “What do you want from me?”  

The four others share a look. The Black Swan badges on their chests gleam.   

“Later,” a woman with long, black-tipped-silver locks says. “Here, I can help with this, at least.” She raises the bed so he’s sitting up, giving him a much better view of his captors.   

“Thanks,” Fitz says.  

“Don’t show kindness to the enemy,” the blonde complains.   

Assassin puts his head in his hands. “We’re making a  terrible  first impression.”  

The third woman—buzzcut—speaks up. “Well, you did kidnap him, so...” She shrugs.   

The word  kidnap  brings Fitz back to his senses. “Does my family know? Did you send them a note, or—or anything?”  Please let them say yes.  The thought of otherwise is enough to make him panic. Him disappearing without a trace would crush them.   

The Black Swan agents blink at each other. “ Did  you leave a note or anything?” Silver-tips asks.   

“Um,” Assassin says, “no, I didn’t.”  

There’s nothing inside Fitz. He’s hollow, empty, broken.  They don’t know . Della already lost her soulmate, and she’s still only starting to feel okay again. Biana’s looked up to him for as long as either of them can remember. Keefe, who has no constants in his life, who keeps losing and losing and shouldn’t have to lose his best friend, too. And Alvar? He’s the worst sometimes, but he still  cares .   

And now, all of them are looking for him. All of them are having to wonder if he’s alive or dead. All of them are having to imagine his body, dead or mangled.   

All of them are having to face the concept of a life without him.   

“Could you tell them?” Fitz begs. “Please. Just—just tell them that I’m alive and hostage or that you’re going to kill me.”  

“You’re right, Dex,” Buzzcut says. “He  is  an annoyingly not-awful person.”  

“Not the time,” Assassin— Dex  hisses. “And, we’ll, um, see what we can do.”  

“ Will  we?” Blonde sends Fitz a lethal glare. “Again, he’s the  enemy . His family can rot.”  

“ Mare ,” Silver-tips says sharply. “I get it, okay, but  he’s  still a person. Not the Council.”  

“Whatever.” Mare spins on her heels and storms out, leaving the tent fluttering in her wake.  

Silver-tips gives Dex an apologetic look. “I should really go after her. Can you... can you manage without me?”  

“It’s fine.” With a gentle shove, he adds, “Go, okay?”  

She smiles and leaves, too, and then it’s just him and Buzzcut.   

“What do we do now?” Buzzcut asks.   

“Well,” Dex says, “the chance to look like highly competent but also kind rebels has long slipped out the window, so I say we give up on acting tough.”  

She laughs. “If that was you acting tough...”  

“Well, we didn’t exactly have time to work out a plan beforehand, now did we?”  

“Okay,” Fitz says, “I’m... kind of confused?”  

“Oh, he  definitely  doesn’t sound as scared as he should,” Buzzcut says.   

“You know what?” Dex shakes his head. “Please go too. I hate all of you, and I really, really need better friends.”  

“Stuck with us,” she calls as she steps out.   

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Um. I think we’ve long progressed past awkward, so nothing I say really matters now. I’m Dex. That was Sophie, the other two women were Marella and Linh. Uh, I... hope you feel more comfortable now that they’re gone?”  

Fitz’s bonds are making it hard to breathe. They press into his chest, and each inhale is a heaving gasp. “You’re the only person of the four of you who’s tried to  murder me , so... not really.”  

“Oh. Yeah, understandable.” Dex shifts, looking thoroughly uncomfortable with the entire situation, even though  he’s  the one who isn’t tied to a bed.   

“What’s your angle?” Fitz slumps back as much as he can, looking up at the tent ceiling. “Information? Money? Torture?”  

“No.” Dex won’t meet his eyes, which is just as well. “Look, we’re... we’re soulmates, right? And once I knew that, I just couldn’t kill you.”  

“Oh.” If not for the words scrawled across his wrist, Fitz would be dead. How messed up is that? And now, he’s stuck in a rebel camp, and everyone he loves most has no idea where he is. “So you have no idea.”  

“I, um, guess so,” Dex admits. “The Collective will probably think of something.” He goes silent, periwinkle eyes flitting around everywhere. They’re too pretty for a murderer, clear and rich and a swell threatening to pull Fitz down. “And... and also, I want to say sorry. For trying to kill you.”  

“You want to say sorry,” Fitz repeats slowly. “For almost murdering me.”  

“Um, yeah.”  

“I don’t think that’s a ‘sorry’ kind of situation.”  

“I know. I  know .” Dex bites his lip, emphasizing its gentle curve. A tear trickles down his cheek, and he’s so gorgeous it almost hurts to look at him. Fitz wants to say so many things, but more than that, he just wants to surge forward and see if Dex’s cheek is really as soft as it looks. He’s almost grateful for the restraints.   

Dex sighs. “I’m not... I don’t  like  killing people. I have a code. I only kill someone when it’s necessary, when they deserve it, no matter what. Until... until you, I guess.”  

“So I was just lucky, I guess?” The bitterness in Fitz’s voice is mostly accidental, but still, he half relishes and half winces at Dex’s flinch. He wants to comfort him, to hold him, which doesn’t make sense, because  Dex  is the one who tried to kill  Fitz .   

“Something like that.” Dex swallows hard. “I should probably go.”  

“Yeah,” Fitz says, “you should.”   

He tries to pretend his heart doesn’t wrench in pain once he’s gone. But it’s a good thing, still. They may be soulmates, but the last thing he should be doing in his captivity is falling in love with his Black Swan would-be assassin.   

The medical tent isn’t quiet for long. An older man in a garish shirt bustles about. The other patient—a badly burned man who seems to be making a point of not speaking to Fitz—wakes up and starts to draw as best he can.   

There’s nothing for Fitz to do, and he doesn’t want to ask. Instead, he flexes inside his bindings, trying to see if there’s any chance they’ll break. They stay firm. His hands are far from dexterous enough to make any progress at the knots.  

Eventually, he gives up. Escape was never going to be a possibility—there must be rebels everywhere outside—he’d been hoping to at least  loosen  the ties. Instead, Fitz just stares at the tent wall, trying not to think of his family and failing every time.   

Biana would have started to worry when he wasn’t there when she got home. He never stayed out too late, or anything like it. She might’ve waited till the morning after to call Keefe, by which point she’d be terrified.   

Keefe would have said Fitz had started back home after dusk, alone and on the side streets.   

And, even now, they must be searching.   

Would anyone have told Della yet? What are they  thinking  right now? They must be bouncing between hope (that he ended up in a bar and drunk, that he’d be home any minute, laughing) and despair (that he was dead and gone and they’d be sent his body with a black swan painted on the chest).   

Fitz knows that routine, remembers every piece of it from four years ago, with Alden.   

Then, they’d found the body weeks later, burned almost beyond recognition.  

Can he dare to hope for anything better now? He needs to see them again, so much it aches. He needs to watch Keefe gesture wildly over a plate of over-sugary waffles and let Biana pull him into watching her sitcoms, jabbing him in the side at every funny part until he laughs. To see the moments when Della’s sadness slips from her eyes into something brighter, even to coax information out of Alvar as he consumes half their pantry.   

Fitz wants his bed and the worn pages of his favorite mystery. He wants  home , all the thousand little things that never seemed like much until now that he’s faced with the possibility of never seeing them again.   

The Black Swan doesn’t take prisoners and it doesn’t leave survivors. They have no mercy for him to receive.   

A new person steps into the tent, bronze-skinned and with an eyebrow raised in a way that makes Fitz feel tiny.   

“Vacker,” she says, voice hard. “Call me Spark, I suppose. We don’t typically have captives, of course.”  

“I know,” he says.   

Spark sighs. “There’s exactly one reason why you’re not dead. We haven’t decided whether that will last.”  

At least she used  whether  rather than  how long . “Please release me to my family,” Fitz begs. “They can’t take this, too. If you’re looking for a ransom, we can pay it. I can give you information or quit working for the Council once I’m back in Eternalia.”  

“You’d put your family over your government?” Spark tilts her head to the side, pushing her white braid off her shoulder. She sighs again. “That’s just the thing. We had no intention to capture you, originally. We have no demands. And we can’t release you—we have no way to know that you’d really do as you say.”  

He frowns. “I would.”  

“Your promises mean little,  Emissary .” Any sympathy that had slipped into her voice is gone. “We can’t trust you. And for now? That means we’re at a loss.”  

Are they just going to kill Fitz in the end, then? Is it just going to be  weeks  of this, of repressed hopes and painful boredom?   

His voice is carefully quiet when he speaks next. “Is there any reason why you’re here?”  

Spark leans in, a strange sadness lurking behind her controlled features. “I’m here because no one else will come to tell you this, so listen close: you’re only alive because you’re Dex’s soulmate. He’s a good kid, and he doesn’t deserve  you  as a soulmate, but he definitely doesn’t deserve more pain. So don’t break his heart and  don’t  mess up.”  

“What do you think is going to happen?” Fitz shakes his head. “He tried to kill me. We’re not  going  to fall in love.”  

“Good.” She moves again, walking to the tent flap. “Don’t. You can believe me on this—it would only bring you both suffering.”  

Once Spark is gone, the air feels even emptier than it has before, and Fitz is, once again, struggling to breathe.   

He can’t do this. He really, really can’t do this.   

But it seems he doesn’t have a choice.   

Fitz can’t make any promises, not even to himself. It’d be tempting fate. There isn’t enough of a chance that he’s making it out alive to risk it, if there’s even a chance at all.   

He can say this, over and over, to the family he may never see again:  

I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.   

I didn’t want to leave .   

Chapter Text

The tent flaps sway behind Dex as he leaves, head reeling, heart racing.   

It went better than it could’ve, worse than he’d hoped, somehow.   

He always wanted a soulmate, of course, but now it turns out he doesn’t really have one after all. They can never fall in love, never move past this.   

Not for the first time, he wishes he never took the mission at all.   

“You okay?” Linh asks. Marella is gone, likely actually attending to her duties, Sophie has her sword out and is thoroughly destroying the air.   

“No,” he admits. “How could I be?”  

“Don’t look to me for answers.” She laughs, the sound dark for all its light. Her eyes are more grey than silver these days, dull in a way they never were  before . Sometimes it’s hard to remember to be scared of her. “I guess ‘okay’ is a weird concept these days.”  

“It really is.” Dex heaves a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss him, in there. So much going on and I... I still couldn’t stop thinking about it.”  

Linh smiles. “That’s just what soulmates are like. Once you know...” She shrugs. “Loving them just becomes automatic, natural. You can’t help it, really, and instead you just care about them like nothing else.”  

“That’s all well and good,” he says, “but how do I  stop it ?”  

She raises an eyebrow. “You want to?”  

“No,” Dex admits grudgingly, “but I  need  to. Look... caring about him is a bad idea. We don’t even have a chance.”  

“I can't blame you,” Linh says. “I just wish I could help, somehow. But you’ll get through this, okay?”  

He finds it in himself to nod. “I probably need to spend some time working,” he says. “We lost a lot of tech in that last move.”  

“It’s always something, isn’t it?” She makes a shooing motion. “Go, okay? I’ll be doing my own assignments— and  seeing if I can get Sophie to actually do hers—so if you need me, you know where to find me.”  

“That’d take a miracle,” Dex says as he jogs off.   

He’s right, really. Sophie’s his best friend and always has been, but she’s a bit unreliable, always high strung. She must be desperate for a fight about now, hungry to strike back at the people who’ve taken so much.   

He puts that, along with everything else, out of his mind as he enters his workspace.   

For once, it’s neat, but that won’t last. Dex’s disorganized ways are probably part of why they lose so much gadgets and supplies every move, but he doesn’t know any other way to work.   

They’ll need more bombs (they always do). There’re others that can make the simpler stuff, like smoke and simple exploding ones, but he’s the only one Tinker ever truly took under her wing—meaning he’s also the only one capable of the complex tech.  

Dex’ll have to take on apprentices soon. If anything happens to him, it could be disastrous for the Black Swan. But he still barely feels competent enough to have taken over from his mentor, much less able to teach anyone anything at all.   

He settles on some electricity-emitting bombs. Effective for knocking out multiple enemies at once, cleaner than fiery explosions but just as effective.   

It doesn’t take him long to sink into the rhythm of it.   

Tech is something Dex has always been good at. Blueprints and wires make sense to him, process easy in his head. The way metal and sparks go together is ingrained into his bones.   

But the problem with the calming simplicity of what he knows so well is that he can think despite the busyness of his hands.   

Teal eyes dance in his vision, a taunt, a trick, a lie.   

How can he ever find love if it’s not his soulmate? If the person in the world meant for him hates him? (If he deserves it?)  

The device he’s working on burst into flames.   

Dex sighs and dumps a bucket of water over it, soaking his workstation. Nothing good happens when he gets distracted, and it seems like that's about to become a lot more common.   

At least he stopped it early this time. The tech tent has burned down six times in the past year, even if only two—okay, three—were his fault.   

He starts to clean up, wiping the water off the table. It takes him ten minutes to get back on track.   

Squall stands at the entrance, quiet but not quiet enough. He stays focused. She’ll talk when she’s ready to.  

That turns out to be after he finishes two more of the gadgets.   

“Spark and I talked,” Squall starts, eyes sad, “contacted Mr. Forkle, even. We’ve come... we’ve come to a conclusion on Vacker.”  

It would be lying to say anything but that Dex whirls around instantly, knocking something over in his haste. “What?” he says breathlessly.   

It’s not that he  cares , okay? It’s just that he went through an awful lot ofc trouble to not kill Fitz, and it’d just be annoying if he died now.  

Squall smirks. “You’ll be working with him, actually.” Her idea, surely, and one that makes Dex’s stomach sink into his shoes. “He must know plenty about the Council. We think—we think he’ll cooperate, and we  need  any information we can get.”  

“Okay,” Dex says. “And after?”  

“We... we don’t know yet.” She looks down, gaze resolutely on the floor. “We’ll see, I suppose.”  

Oh. The plan is evident: they can’t keep a prisoner forever, and she’s hoping that Fitz and Dex will fall in love, that he won’t have to die, and her son will get a soulmate.   

It sickens Dex. He doesn’t want to do this, either, wants it even less than he wanted the original mission. He doesn’t want to spend time with his soulmate if he’s just going to die, if it’s going to be  all his fault .   

He nods stiffly.  

“First,” Squall says, “you have to see if he agrees. After that, you’ll work with him as long as you deem necessary, with—with whatever means you deem necessary. Understand?”  

“...I do.” Dex stares determinedly at the tent wall, wondering how he got into this mess of a situation in the first place. Maybe it would’ve been kinder to just finish the deed. Maybe it would’ve been wiser to never take the assignment in the first place.   

“I’ll leave,” she says softly. Then, pausing at the door, face heavy with regret, “I’ve been... instructed to inform you that should you think it best, you’re authorized to—to use force in the interrogation.”  

With those horrifying words, his mother’s gone.   

Trying not to use any of Sophie’s favorite phrases, Dex starts out his tent and towards the medical one. He may as well get it over with.   

And he bowls straight into Sophie, who has, apparently, been  listening in .   

Without even the grace to look ashamed, she says, “I want to help.”  

“This isn’t a game,” he snaps. “I know you don’t have much to do around here, and you think this’ll help you avoid the stuff you  do  have, but this  isn’t about that .”  

“It’s about the mess you call a love life,” she says cheekily. The sad part is, she’s right. Sophie sobers. “But really. I can be, like, the bad cop, all intimidating and whatnot behind your shoulder. We can even play the Moonlark card.”  

“I don’t  want to scare him ,” Dex growls. “I’ve messed up his life enough, okay? Hopefully, this can go as painlessly as possible for all involved. Besides—he’s tied to a bed and I did almost murder him, so I think I can be threatening enough on my own.”  

Sophie mutters something under her breath that’s probably terribly insulting, then speaks up properly. “Alright. But...”   

She turns to face him, fixing him with her  serious  face. “You’ll need moral support. This... this isn’t going to be easy for you, you know? You’ve heard about what the soulmate bond is like, and you feel guilty enough already.”    

He closes his eyes for a long moment, hating how right she is. “Fine. But... just be normal, okay?”  

“Tall order,” Sophie says, jabbing him in the side.   

They reach the medical tent all too soon.   

Dex insists on going in alone. This conversation feels like one that should be had in relative privacy, even if Fitz would probably prefer it otherwise.  

“The Collective has reached a conclusion,” he says as he ducks inside, trying to convey Authoritative Rebel.   

Any attempt at that facade fades the moment he sees Fitz.   

Because Fitz is still really pretty. Like, inconveniently pretty. His features are so perfect they look unreal, every freckle on his face seemingly part of some greater design—because pretty like that doesn’t just  happen .   

Right now, Dex is sure that  greater design  is really just  making his life miserable .   

“Okay,” Fitz says, then waits a long moment. “Do I... do I get to know?”  

Dex considers the fact that there’s no way he’s walking away from this looking competent and finds it valid. “You do.” He sighs heavily. “If you agree, you’ll be working with me and divulging whatever information you have.”  

Fitz nods, slowly taking it all in. He seems to understand the unsaid—that this is his only chance, that there’s darkness intertwined with the mercy in this deal.   

Dex just watches his troubled face and is struck by the fact that he really wants Fitz to refuse. That way... even if it ends awful, it ends quickly. He can survive that.  

But falling into anything like love? But letting himself feel anything like hope?  

“I’ll... I’ll do it,” Fitz says. Dex pushes his disappointment down. It’s the obvious choice, the only one that offers a chance, but.   

It’ll be disastrous just the same.   

“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess,” Dex says.   

And then he does the cowardly thing, escaping the tent and darting out of range of Fitz’s next words. Leaning against a tree, he tries to catch his breath.   

He’s given himself a night to prepare. He’s good as signed away any possibility of sleep in the process.   

How did he end up here? What kind of universe might think this funny, might think to make his truest love this messy and unattainable?  

Maybe not funny. Maybe poetic: the killer meets his match in a man he’s about to murder. The killer is Tantalus, tantalized, gazing at a happy ending and unable to reach, his comeuppance a tragic almost-love of hurting and hurting the one he was supposed to hold most dear.  
 

“So?” Sophie finally speaks from her vantage by the medical tent, muscled body loose and relaxed in her effort to disguise whatever she’s really feeling. “Did he agree?”  

“Yeah,” Dex says, numb to the world and to himself, “he did.”  

She grins, but it fades as she looks closer. “This is good, you know,” she says. “No need to look so tragic.”   

Don’t you get it?  he wants to scream.  I’ve messed this up. I’ve messed this all up. We’re not getting out of this alright .   

“You’re right,” Dex agrees. “Of course you’re right.”  

Chapter Text

Night is difficult. There’s nothing to do, and Fitz isn’t tired, not really, not after a whole day of being strapped down to bed.   

Frost hangs in the air anyway. The chill seeps through his clothes—meant for temperate Atlantis—easily, leaving him shivering and shaking in the darkness, with no hope of it getting better.   

Beyond the sheer discomfort he’s in, Fitz can’t stop thinking, can’t stop trying to toss and turn. His eyes won’t close, and he can’t untense his muscles.  

Right now, he’s by far the most alone he’s ever been. Everyone who cares about him is far, far away, leaving him in a camp full of people who hate him (including his murderous soulmate) all while he’s stuck dealing with, well, everything currently going on in his life (which... is probably going to end soon).   

Sleep proves impossible.  

Yet, through the anxious boredom of the night, he doesn’t want morning to come.   

(or he does, just morning in his room at home, somewhere safe, somewhere warm, somewhere where he isn’t betraying the Council just for a chance at survival)  

But the unfortunate thing about time—long and painful as it can be—is that it always passes, is that it stubbornly refuses to go back, back to when things were something like okay.   

Dawn light, or something like it, filters through the tent’s thick cloth. Its lanterns flicker on as Elwin steps in, beginning his usual routine of bustling about.   

That’s pretty much how the day will go. The two others inside the tent pretty much pretend Fitz doesn’t exist, which he can’t blame them for, except for the ridiculously bland, tiny meals.  

But today, instead, Dex steps inside early. He always looks hesitant, as if he’s intruding. Sophie follows behind him.  

“I figured we’d just get started early,” he says.   

“Please tell me we’re doing this anywhere other than the medical tent,” she groans. “I spend enough time in here already.” Sophie quiets. “Used to, I mean.”  

“Fine.” Dex shakes his head, but starts unstrapping Fitz’s bonds.  

Fitz quietly says, “Thanks.”  

“You really think we can trust him that much?” Sophie says.  

“No one said anything about  trusting  him. We’re in a Black Swan camp, and you’re literally the Moonlark. I really don’t think he’s got a chance if he tries running.”  

Once Fitz stands, his legs wobble and the world swoops around him. Life returns to his legs in ferocious tingles, and, finally, his chest expands fully.   

“Can you even  walk ?” Sophie asks.   

“Given that I was hit over the head and then tied to a bed for a day, I think you can find it in you to cut me some slack,” he shoots back.   

Dex mutters something incoherent under his breath. “We’re going up that trail, by the way. It’s the best place.”  

“You mean farther from the camp? What do you think is going to happen?” Sophie argues.   

“Again, Fitz can barely walk. Not to mention  away  from the camp is our best option.”   

“You just feel bad for him.” She scowls. “But, you know what? I’ll drop it, because we shouldn’t be fighting in front of the captive.”  

“The captive’s fine with it,” Fitz says. “Not like this is the first time.”   

The sarcasm is probably a bad idea, especially because Sophie is  scary , but he’s past shock and terror and well into ‘I’m going to die anyway’.   

“I hate everything about this,” Sophie grumbles. But she leaves the tent, setting their pace with a powerful stride, leaving the other two scrambling after her.   

Fitz nearly falls about twice almost immediately, especially as he enters the outside world again.   

The Black Swan isn’t sprawling—smaller than he’d expected, actually—and is composed of an array of tents, people moving about between them. The rebels are all quiet, seemingly highly aware that otherwise might get them caught.   

Around them, brilliantly green hills rise into the sky, puncturing the picturesque blue. The landscape belongs on a greeting card, welcoming even in its chill. It seems wrong that the Black Swan should pick a place so beautiful to hide out.   

“We probably need to catch up to Sophie before she snaps,” Dex says, startling him out of his thoughts.  

“Right,” Fitz says. He keeps walking, but it’s awkward, frustratingly slow. Their little group starts up a barely-trodden trail, far too treacherous for his unsteady feet.   

Yet there’s no choice but to keep going.   

It isn’t long before his toes collide with a rock and he’s rushing to meet the earth.   

Dex catches his arm, pulling him back up, his hand warm and solid. “I can get Sophie to slow down, if you want me to.”  

Fitz sighs. “You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me.”  

“What?” Something like surprise registers on Dex’s face, and it’s a surprisingly good job of faking it.   

“You’ve got a whole good cop/bad cop thing planned, most likely,” Fitz says. “Kind of obvious. Really not that hard to see through, when the whole kidnapping thing happened.”  

“It’s not an act.”  

“Right.”  

That ends up being all that’s said on the matter. Nothing changes, after, but there’s an additional layer of tension in the air—if more was even possible, that is.   

The view from the top of the trail is, if anything, more beautiful.   

Dex and Sophie both sit down—a little too close to the edge for comfort, and after a moment of hesitation, Fitz joins them, in a relatively safer position.   

Sophie whispers something in Dex’s ear, who just shakes his head and shrugs.   

“Tell us what you know,” Dex says.   

“Are... are you planning to get more specific?” Fitz asks.   

“Why not?” Sophie narrows her eyes. “Tell us what you know about the Council.”  

“Um,” he says. “The Council is the governing body of Eternalia, that consists of twelve councillors—”  

“Not what I meant.” She sighs. “I mean, like, stuff we don’t know. Secret evil plans and all that.”  

“For one, how... how do you expect me to know what I know that you don’t? Also, ‘secret evil plans’? Really?”  

Dex massages his forehead. “Do you know anything about the Council that most people in Eternalia probably don’t?”  

“Look.” Fitz exhales slowly. “I don’t think the Council trusts me fully. There aren’t many people they do, because their country is being besieged by a rebel terrorist organization—”  

“We’re  not  a—”  

“Sophie,” Dex says, putting one hand up. “Interrupting really, really isn’t helpful right now.”  

“My  point  is,” Fitz says, “I work with the Council on, well, finding the Black Swan and other anti-rebel planning initiatives. Most of what I know within that comes from my brother, Alvar, as I’ve never even spoken to a Councilor about something work-related. And Alvar... whether he’s been instructed to or not, he’s very tightfisted with information.”  

“Okay.” Dex nods, tilting his head to the side, making his fluffy hair flop into a different position. “And what can you tell me about those other planning initiatives?”  

“It doesn’t matter,” Fitz says automatically. “Now that I’m missing, possibly presumed captured, they’ll have discarded those portions of their strategies and plans that rely on my input—just in case.”     

“Unimportant,” Sophie says. “We ask questions, you answer. Simple as that.”  

It takes a couple deep breaths before a brief surge of panic dissipates. So far, he’s said nothing of true importance. “Mostly, I try to convince the Council that it’s best to be focused in our approach.” He shrugs. “For example, to attack the camp once we know where it is, rather than sweeping the countryside. More efficient, better for the environment, less resources wasted.”  

“More time consuming,” Dex guesses.   

“What do you know about the Councilors?” Sophie asks.   

Fitz looks down, utterly unsure what to say. He knows the most about Councilor Gisela, through years of stories and complaints, but anything that might bring up Keefe here seems... dangerous, wrong. He’s not getting his best friend killed or abducted through snatching at survival.   

“Not much,” he says in the end. “They’re all good people. I know Councilor Gisela best, she’s the Council’s leader, of course. Um, Councilors Gisela, Ruy, Umber, Vespera, Fintan, and Gethen all seem really close, with Councilor Alina always trying to get on their good side and Councilors Oralie, Emery, and Ramira generally acting uncomfortable with the main group.”  

“‘Good people’,” Sophie scoffs. “Useless, anyway.”  

“Please stop,” Dex says. “I mean it. Do you know anything about the ongoing crisis in Mysterium?”  

“No.” Fitz’s face twists up in confusion. “There’s a crisis there?”  

“What do you mean?” Sophie demands, bristling.  

Dex searches Fitz’s face, brow furrowing. “Do you... do you really not know?”  

“There’s no Mysterium crisis,” Fitz says, desperately clinging onto the words.   

“It’s been happening almost a year now. Atlantis is, what, two hours’ travel from Mysterium?” The concern in Dex’s voice is unmistakable, tinted with a deeper, darker fear.   

Fitz shrugs. “I’ve never been. I’ve only been cleared to leave Atlantis about three times in my life, actually.”  

“The Council  does  that?” Sophie blanches. “You--a  Vacker —can’t travel freely within Eternalia’s borders?”  

“It’s for the smooth running of the country. Otherwise—”  

“You’ve got to be  kidding  me.” She stands up, fingers curling into fists, taking several threatening steps forward. Fitz scrambles back. “Are you just going to keep spouting propaganda  this whole time ? Do you legitimately believe any of it is true?”  

“That’s  enough ,” Dex says. “Sophie, take a breather.”  

“I can’t just—”  

“You can, you will, and you definitely need to.”  

Sophie remains in place, glaring down at Fitz with the fury of a thousand suns. “No, I don’t.”  

“Look, this is  my  assignment.” Dex stares her down. “So. You need to walk until you’re out of earshot and take a couple of deep breaths. But, by all means, stay where you can see us if you need to.”  

In the end, Sophie storms off with all the righteous indignation of a toddler.   

Dex moves closer to Fitz. “ Do  you believe all that stuff you were saying?”  

Biting his lip and turning his gaze up at the sky, once again wishing he was anywhere else, Fitz says, “What do you want me to say? I can say it. I can deny everything I know.”  

“So you do,” Dex whispers. “You’ve really never left Atlantis? Never questioned why you couldn’t?”  

“That’s  treasonous .” Fitz plays with the pebbles on the ground, his nervous energy needing to go somewhere. “I may as well have taken up arms against the Council. All they’re trying to do is govern Eternalia the best they can.”  

“They won’t even let you leave Atlantis,” Dex scoffs. “How would you know? You’re clueless about your own country, because they want you that way. Can’t you see it?”  

“You’re a liar.”  

“No, I’m not. You haven’t seen what goes on in Mysterium—the exploitation, the disasters. And you think your own life hasn’t been affected? They’ve put you in a  cage , Fitz. A gilded cage, to be sure, but a cage nonetheless.”  

“And you’ve tied me to a bed,” Fitz retorts. “The Council—”  

“Isn’t actually the Council,” Dex finishes. “In actuality, the Council was infiltrated and overtaken by a group called the Neverseen seventeen years ago, who lived up to their name. You follow them without even knowing who they stand for, who they  truly  are.”  

Finally, Fitz looks back at him, tearing his gaze from the sky. Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t, the freckles on Dex’s face are still a constellation he longs to trace, the passionate horror in Dex’s eyes is still heartachingly beautiful.   

“What do you want me to do?” His voice comes out quiet. He wraps his arms tight around his knees. “I can’t trust you. I shouldn’t listen to you. And... I shouldn’t believe anything you say at all.”  

“The sky,” Dex says, “is blue.”  

Fitz laughs, in sorrow as much as pain. “What’s... what’s the crisis in Atlantis?”  

“They’re worked too hard.” Dex sighs. “There’s no safety regulations, or at least they’re really, really bad. There’s a factory collapse every other week and someone dies because of their overworked bodies or underpaid wallets every single day. The Council just doesn’t care.”  

“I don’t know what to believe,” Fitz admits.   

He remembers Keefe, back home, saying rations just lined his mother’s pockets, insulting the Council at every turn. Then, Fitz had always protested.   

But what’s true? Was Keefe right, all along, with his near-sympathy for the rebels?  

“I’m telling the truth,” Dex says softly. “The Neverseen took the Council when I was six. And not long after, they burned my house down, because of how outspoken my parents were. My father died in that fire.”  

These words, at least, are sincere. “My father died four years ago.” Fitz runs a hand through his hair. “Assassination. The Black Swan burned the body, after, sent it back to us.”  

There’s something trembling on Dex’s tongue, but he doesn’t say it. “I’m sorry.”  

“You know,” Fitz says, “I can’t trust you. I know that. But... I can’t help wanting to.”  

Dex smiles shakily. “Me too.”  

For whatever reason, the universe paired the two of them, tied them together with loopy handwriting. It didn’t, Fitz figures, know what it was doing.   

And yet.   

And yet, as messy and horrible as all of this has been, there’s something in him that feels as if it’s sliding into place. Something in him that’s calling out for his almost-killer.   

Trust  is a strange thing.  Love  is even worse.   

Soulmates are destined for both, in a way that’s engraved into their very bones, ingrained into their very hearts (written on their very skin).   

It’s a good thing that Sophie returns, calmer now, exhausted, almost.   

The universe, after all, is an inconvenient thing.  

Chapter Text

There are better places to lie down than on the ground just outside of camp.  

Dex stares up at the sky, blue interrupted only by the foliage of the trees all around him. The dirt is soft beneath him, and right now, he can almost pretend to be someone else.  

Pretend to be a boy with two parents and a home, with hands that don’t drip with blood and a soulmate without it’s a shame to kill someone so pretty  written across his wrist. Pretend to be a boy out here in the grass shirking his responsibilities or something easy, simple, regular.  

What would it be like to like to live that life? To be out here waiting for his soulmate—for Fitz —to come along and talk or have a picnic or just kiss, kiss, kiss?  

Dex wants that life more than he could ever express. When did the possibility of it slip away? Was it the moment those words appeared on Fitz, or when the Council fell, or could he have changed things in the alley, even? 

Too late,  his mind chimes in, over and over. Too late, too late, too late .  

Still, he pretends the too-loud footfalls heading towards him are Fitz’s.  

It’s Marella’s face that stops over him. “Why are you lying out here in the dirt?” 

“Because this is my life now,” Dex says. “I hate everything.” 

“Fair.” Marella flops beside him. “Let me guess. It’s a soulmate thing.” 

“Why do you  care ?” Idly, angrily, he shreds a piece of grass, then another. “Pretty sure you hate Fitz.” 

“I hate the Council,” she says. “And he’s part of that, like it or not. But I’m your  friend and also you usually don’t lie on the ground hating everything, so my concern is warranted.” 

“That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.” 

Marella winces. “Am I that bad?” 

“...that has no right and honest answer.” 

She tucks her arms behind her head. “So, what are you doing about your soulmate?” 

“Right now? Hoping that if I stay here long enough the dirt will just swallow me up,” Dex says.  

“So what you mean is you’re doing nothing.” 

“Precisely.” 

“You finally met him, and you’re just giving up.” Marella sighs. “Sad.”  

“Giving up on what ? The possibility of falling in love? Pretty sure that never existed at all.” 

She snickers. “Oh, that  exists.” But after those words, a somberness settles its way into her. “Dex, you’re not just giving up on love. You’re giving up on his life.” 

That’s all it takes for a sick feeling to descend on Dex’s stomach. And, just like that, he couldn’t be a normal, unbroken boy—he’s Dex, the reluctant assassin, the friend, the Dex doomed in love. “What do you mean?” 

“You know as well as I do what happens at the end of this,” Marella whispers. “He dies. When it comes to information, he’s barely given us anything, and when it comes to redemption, it’s clear he hasn’t changed—not enough for the Collective to let him live. Unless that changes...”  

“We don’t have a chance.” Dex’s voice breaks. “Isn’t it better not to drag this out?” 

“The death of their soulmate destroys some people.” 

“If they’re in love,” he says. “And the sooner this ends, the less likely that is. I could survive it now. But if we... if I...” 

Marella rolls onto her side to face him. “I know,” she says. “I know. I can’t imagine... I can’t imagine  being faced with that kind of choice. It feels easier, right now, to keep yourself from caring, to protect yourself from getting hurt.” 

“It’s the best way, isn’t it?” A tear tracks its slow way down Dex’s cheek.  

“Is it? You do  have a chance, you know.” She inhales long, slow. “It’s an awful one, I’ll admit. And maybe the best way for you is to hope it ends while you know you’ll come out okay on the other side. But what about Fitz? You’re resigned to his death, and maybe you should be... but you could still try to fight for him.” 

“I hate how right you are,” Dex says.  

Because, when it comes down to it, he caused this mess. Maybe it’d have happened the same without him, and Fitz would be dead already, but the crux of it is this: if he hadn’t breached his moral code they wouldn’t be here.  

He’d messed up Fitz’s life. And if after that, he just let Fitz die, it’d be wrong in the deepest sense. Because maybe—just maybe—he could get out of this having kept his soulmate alive.  

“So, what do we do ?” 

“Well,” Marella says, “I was hoping that after having your grand epiphany, you’d immediately come up with some brilliant plan. Any luck?” 

“None whatsoever,” Dex says. “Also, wait, you’re  helping me ?” 

“That  was  the implication. Blame Linh. The morals were not my intention. But,” she continues, smirking, “Sophie, Linh, and Fitz are all  coming this way now—because maybe we don’t need a plan, if we just manage to turn him to our side.” 

“And you’re bringing Sophie  for that?” 

“She insisted, actually.” 

Dex can’t help bolting up to sitting, hastily pulling the twigs out of his hair. Marella snickers.  

The others come trooping through the trees, all taking their places in the circle. This group of five feels odd, cobbled together, but it’ll have to do.  

“So,” Sophie asks, “what’s the plan?” 

Dex considers her, and Fitz, and the breeze.  

His eyes just land on Fitz, over and over. Fitz’s skin is sun-dappled through the shifting leaves, his dark hair falling over his forehead in a way that makes Dex long to smooth them back.  

“We tell our stories,” Dex says at last. “Simple as that. If anyone would rather not... they can sit out.” 

The rest of them take a moment to digest his words. “I’ll go first,” Linh says, grey eyes pensive and far away. “I had a twin,” she begins.  

They all know what she means by had, know it all too well, all too personally. Sophie’s face softens, and Fitz seems to let down his guard the barest inch.  

“We were close, the closest there could be. We’d joined the rebellion together, at—at my urging.” Linh’s voice breaks and shatters, grief and guilt spilling through her veins. “Last year he died on a mission. He was a spy, he was caught, and that... that was it.”  

Once, she’d have added it was my fault . But, slowly, they’d talked her down from it. Still—even now—Dex can tell she’s thinking it.  

Marella wraps her arm around her girlfriend, bringing Linh close and cradling her gently, leaning close to whisper something in her ear.  

Something in Dex craves that kind of intimacy.  

“I’m a soldier.” Sophie shrugs. “Simple as that. The Black Swan trained me from a young age. I wasn’t meant to be a rebel, just someone to bring about change in Eternalia—not through violence, they’d hoped. But when the Neverseen took the Council... I took up the Moonlark mantle in a way they’d never wanted me to. I don’t know how to do anything but fight.” 

“My sister’s training to be a soldier,” Fitz says quietly. “Has been since my father died. I could never stop worrying, back home, that when they finally sent her out I wouldn’t get her back. I never thought I’d  be the sibling to never return.” 

“Can you imagine what our lives would’ve looked like without the war?” Dex laughs, a dark bitterness leaking into the sound.  

Maybe the  five  of them would have found their way together. Maybe there’d be no brokenness.  

“Not anymore,” Marella says. “Not anymore.” 

In the quiet that comes after, each of them lost in their own thoughts, their own regrets and griefs, Dex gets the sense that he ought to say something, now.  

“Fitz,” he says, “the Council isn’t who they’ve always told you. I know this is hard to believe. I know. But we’re telling the truth, all of us. They’ve taken so much. They’re not on your side, not really, just trying to control you into being their puppet—if you stopped being useful, stopped being theirs, they’d have no qualms about getting rid of you. Do you believe me?” 

Fitz looks at him for a long time, questions warring in the ocean of his eyes. None of them are voiced. “I believe... I believe you believe what you’re saying, believe it to be completely, wholly true.” 

It’s not enough, not yet, but it’s a start. And right now that feels magical enough in its own right. 

The moment crescendos and stretches around them. All they can do is revel in it, this five of them sitting in a circle in the woods, their walls—if just temporarily—opened at the gates, revealing hints of people beyond two sides of a desperate rebellion.  

Sophie is the first to break it. “I’ve got to get back to my duties, so nothing better happen in my absence.” 

“Wait, are you actually doing  what you’re supposed to be doing?” Marella asks.  

Sophie shrugs. “Spark cornered me yesterday, so maybe for now? Look, she’s scary  when she wants to be.” 

Then she’s gone, leaving Marella and Linh to their quiet, cuddling conversation.  

Which means Dex and Fitz are left within a foot of one another, with no one else to talk to. And Dex considers the fact that maybe  Sophie’s a liar with ulterior motives, which, truth be told, is much more plausible than any of what she just said.  

He has the worst  friends.  

“Did you grow up in the Black Swan?” Fitz asks. He’s too close, stupidly close, because the last thing Dex needs is to say something he’ll regret, later.  

The world has begun to melt away, sounds and smells footnotes around them, everything else blurred out.  

“My whole life,” Dex says softly. “It’s been a weird way to be a kid.” 

When he was young—too  young, he knows now—he'd taken up responsibilities and pressed them onto his shoulders, not understanding grave reality, just wanting to help. He hadn’t been prepared for the first killing assignment, nor the second, but the Collective has long lost their understanding of innocence and he became hardened.  

It’s an awful thing. But a necessary one, because war needs soldiers and justice champions.  

Right now, the teal of Fitz’s eyes reminds Dex of the leaves above, layered and shifting. They have depths like nothing he’s ever known, have sorrow and fear and love within he may never have gotten to know had his dagger been quicker. Fitz takes a deep, flickering breath. “What do you fight for?”  

“So no one else has to fight, too,” Dex says. “So I can be the last. So the world can be better, become better, and because sometimes you have to fight for something to change things.” 

“I don’t know what I fight for,” Fitz admits. “I don’t... I don’t know.” His voice lilts and twists with confusion on the last word.  

Dex’s heart is beating unreasonably fast. “Maybe you can find it.” 

And again, again, always, his eyes dip to his soulmate’s lips. They’re probably soft, as in ridiculously soft, and sweet, and the exact curve of their arches is somehow the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.  

The world registers in fleeting snatches, because most of it is just Fitz. Dex has moved closer to him without realizing, or they’ve both moved closer to each other.  

There’s maybe an inch between their faces. Their breath mingles between them, is warm on each other’s skin.  

Yet, for all their closeness, for all the ways they lean into each other and drink in each other, they’re not  touching —instead leaving just that last infinitesimal space, that sacred ground.  

“What now?” Dex whispers.  

“I don’t know.”  

But Fitz is leaning in as his words still hang in the air, deliberate, slow in his every motion, and Dez finds his breath catching in anticipation, fear, wonder — 

The world returns. It doesn’t come flooding back, no, it bursts back into being like some horrible firework. Screaming and the faint smell of smoke and Sophie bursting back into the clearing.  

Fitz and Dex burst apart, both reeling, as that quiet, almost-perfect moment shatters, shatters, shatters.  

“Camp under attack,” Sophie heaves out. “Get—moving !” 

Dex can feel every piece of this moment, somehow, the precise taste of the air and the feel of every blade of graze, the terror on all his friend’s faces.  

The licks of red and yellow flame past the trees.  

Chapter Text

One moment Fitz is about to make one of the worst decisions of his life and the next he’s in one of the worst situations of his life.   

These last few days have careened from horrible thing to horrible thing so quickly he can’t seem to catch his breath.   

Smoke rises high over the treetops, cries from just down the path. Sophie is already sprinting back, pulling out weapons from places they shouldn’t have existed at all.   

“What now?” Linh asks, voice whipping into being.  

“We move what we can or we fight.” Marella’s strangely calm, somehow solidifying into herself as she grabs her own sword. “Linh, I—”  

Linh presses a brief, desperate kiss to her girlfriend’s lips. “ Go .” She slumps back into herself right after, silent things flickering in her eyes.   

It’s all the cue Marella needs. She turns towards the camp, tossing out no goodbye over her shoulder, just hope and desperation leaking from her.   

“Priorities?” Linh asks.   

“No  time ,” Dex grounds out. “If we can, we grab something. Otherwise... just an evacuation.”  

The both of them, too, prepare to set back down that trail.   

Fitz steels himself for something. He’s aimless, directionless. He follows them all the same.   

The camp is half ablaze. Fire has drifted into the trees, spreading fast in the dry air. Council forces cluster at the edges of the camp, Black Swan agents rushing to defend. Orders are mostly lost in the chaos. So far, the camp is safe.   

Fitz’s gaze is wild.   

“Just get out!” Spark shouts. “Leave it all. Leave it  all !” Even as she rushes towards the fighting she points at Juline, at the back of the camp. People are streaming out that way, running, just grim faces and scant belongings.   

Linh hesitates before she goes to join them.   

Yet Dex and Fitz don’t quite do the same. They start, before Dex stops. “My tech,” he says. “They can’t—they can’t get my tech.”  

He heads into the thick of it. Getting there means dashing through the farthest fighting, means stepping over a body and ducking a couple swings.   

Fitz isn’t sure what makes him do it. He could leave, fully, go  home . But some part of him can’t bear the thought that this could be the last time he ever sees his soulmate, disappearing into a battle-struck camp.  

He follows.   

The Black Swan is being pushed back every second. Sophie’s in the midst of it all, like some angel of death, like this is a dance only she knows the steps to. Corpses pile up at her feet. He thinks he hears her laughing.   

She’s holding back the tide, but for how long?  

Fitz tries to hone in on what he’s doing, best he can among all this. He finds Dex in a tent.   

It overflows with gears, contraptions. Dex stuffs all of it he can into duffle bags, muttering about something or other as he goes.   

Without any hesitation, Fitz goes to help. His heart is pounding like a sledgehammer against the glass wall of his chest.   

Someone screams from outside. “Tell me,” he pants, “why this is worth risking your life for?”  

“You didn’t have to come.” Dex’s eyes sweep the tent again. “The Council... they don’t have this kind of tech. We don’t have many advantages.”  

Flames are beginning to lick up against the outside. “Let’s get out of here,” Fitz says.   

Dex shakes his head, his every motion becoming more frantic. “Not yet.”  

“Then when? After we’re both dead?”  

This time, he doesn’t reply at all. The smell of smoke and blood and gore is becoming a horrendous monotony. Fed up, Fitz grabs his wrist and yanks him out, bags in hand.  

Whatever Dex says is lost to the clang of metal.   

It’s all around them, this time. Fitz isn’t sure where he’s going. Nowhere is safe. The bag weighs heavy on his arm. He almost slips in blood.    

Faster, faster, faster. Is Dex following? Is there even a way out?  

(What an irony it would be to die here, now. What a foolish thing.)  

Smoke obscuring everything. Combatants rising out of it like ships in a sea of fog. Is that Marella, grim-faced? Or is she the body with four separate fatal wounds?  

And then there’s someone looming in front of Fitz. He sees Dex, at last, shoves him behind him but it’s too late. He may die first, but Dex’ll go second.   

The Council soldier is huge, his sword wicked. He brings it bearing down, almost emotionless despite it all, a robot without mercy.   

Fitz hears the swing of the blow that’ll kill him whistling in his ears. He hears Dex’s cry behind him.   

But Fitz is already prepared for death, has been for days, now. He doesn’t move, doesn’t gasp. Just sighs a quiet sigh and wishes it could have been different.   

Metal is set to meet flesh when it hits another blade instead. Sophie’s appeared out of the dust. Her sword works with ease. “ Go !” she shouts.   

That’s all it takes for Dex and Fitz to move again. They can make it. They’ll make it.   

Fitz allows himself one last look back at Sophie. She’s already made short work of that last opponent, striding back into the fire with blood soaking every inch of her.   

He can't allow himself to wonder whether she’ll be okay.   

Dex and Fitz stumble out of it all, breathing hard. There’s still so far to go. No words are spoken until they’re already on evacuation trail.   

“You good?” Fitz asks, voice hoarse. His mind is racing. Racing, a thousand thoughts a minute, but in the way where he still can’t grasp any of them—where he’s thinking about too much and nothing at all.   

“I’m  fine ,” Dex grounds out.   

It doesn’t sound like a truth, and only a moment’s investigation reveals it isn’t. “You’re bleeding.”  

“And people are dying back there.” Dex’s gaze drifts murderously to the ground. The rest of the Black Swan must not be that far ahead, and the other piece not that far behind, but they’re alone for now. Alone, and almost able to pretend none of this is happening. “We shouldn’t have left.”  

“Then go back.” Fitz shrugs. “No one’s making you stay.”  

And Dex doesn’t. He spares a glare for Fitz, but mostly keeps going on, the beginnings of tears making their way down his cheeks.   

“In that case,” Fitz whispers, “we need to take care of the blood.”  

“Just a scratch. I didn’t even notice, when it happened.” Dex’s face tells a different story, teeth clenched and mouth parted to allow for shaky, gasping breaths.   

Fitz rolls his eyes and takes Dex’s arm in his hand.   

The cut is on Dex’s upper forearm, shallow but bleeding profusely. It coats Fitz’s hand in stickiness and colors Dex’s freckled skin scarlet. “Any chance we have a first aid kit?”  

“Didn’t remember one,” Dex admits. The words tremble in the air.   

“Right.” Fitz grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls, ripping it off the best he can, fabric making an ugly sound.   

“What—what are you doing?”  

“What does it  look  like I’m doing? We don’t have bandages.”  

“We can wait,” Dex says desperately. “Until we catch up with everyone else.”  

“Has anyone ever told you about putting pressure on a cut? You don’t just let it bleed.” Shaking away Dex’s objections, Fitz carefully holds a piece of cotton to the wound, mopping up blood until it’s a soaked scrap and the flow’s slowed.   

If possible, the injury looks both worse and better without the blood. Better, because now it’s clear Dex is in no danger from blood loss, which, while an irrational thought, is hard to avoid worrying about when it just  keeps coming . Worse, because now the torn skin is evident, how the blade sliced in and split things open.  

Even if Fitz’s breath catches at the sight, it’s Dex who looks as though he might faint.   

Fitz wraps it up, tight, tight, tight. The skin pales around the makeshift bandage. “That  hurts ,” Dex hisses. “Are you trying to cut off my circulation?”  

“I’m trying to stop it from bleeding,” Fitz retorts. He steps back, the closeness between them dissipating. “Better?”  

“Maybe,” Dex allows.   

It might be Fitz’s imagination, but: Dex’s eyes keep dipping to underneath his shirt’s ragged edge, where his midriff is laid bare, as though he feels guilty for looking at all—as though he can’t stop himself anyway.   

Neither of them is impolite enough to mention it as they set off again. Neither of them is brave enough to wonder about the fate of anyone else.  

Instead, Dex says, “You almost died.” There’s a deep fear buried in the words, a deep guilt. “You... you just stood there.”  

“I froze,” Fitz says, and it isn’t true. He knows, even now, that anything he could have done might have meant nothing at all, knows that he’d chosen not to try. It makes him horrified, it makes him feel nothing at all.   

“You pushed me behind you,” Dex accuses.   

“That’s true.”  

He barrels on. “That was  dumb . You could’ve died, and then the last thing you ever did would be something really, really dumb.”  

“I wasn’t aware trying to save someone is dumb, now.”  

“Yeah, well, it was  you  trying to save  me , so it was very much dumb.”  

Fitz exhales. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”  

Dex doesn’t answer, and then they fall silent, making the trek without daring to speak.   

Quiet is dangerous. Talking, apparently, is worse.   

But quiet allows for a thought to creep in:  how did they find the camp ?  

Worse, quiet allows for an answer:  because of me .   

Maybe it isn’t obvious, but Fitz knows it just the same. That map, on the table, where he’d left an area circled for anyone who came into his office to see. The Council must have realized that without him, this might be their last chance to find the camp, and then they’d swept the whole area like it was nothing.   

And Fitz had been right. He’d been  right , and that had never felt so awful as it did now.   

If he told anyone... if he revealed that without intending to (at least, not like this) he’d led the Council straight to their doorstep, in time to catch them for once... he’d be good as dead.   

Somewhere back there, people are dying. It hits him distinctly like it’s his fault. Soldiers would die anyway, of course, but still, but still, but still. The Moonlark’s Sophie, angry, duty-burdened, and the person who just saved his life. A soldier’s Marella, a sharp woman with a soulmate waiting on her to come back.  

He knows some of their faces now, and somehow, that makes this so much worse.  

It is a daze of walking later that they catch up to everyone else. This camp is buried in a cave, hard to find but harder to escape from should it come to that.   

This time, Squall’s just slumped at the middle of it, not directing anyone at all. Dex makes his way up to her, Fitz trailing behind.   

Squall throws her arms around her son, one of the weights lifting from her shoulders. “What took you so long?” she murmurs, without the slightest trace of fire in her tone.   

“Had to go back for my gadgets,” Dex says. “What’s the report?”  

She shakes her head. “Too early to know.”  

“But it looks bad,” he finishes.   

They don’t know if the soldiers are coming at all. The two of them head to the front of the cave to wait, Juline returning to her aimlessness.   

It’s funny, how no one seems to care Fitz is technically still their prisoner, with everything going on. He’s just another one of the downtrodden Black Swan, refugees a hundred times over.   

Five minutes (an eternity) later a bedraggled group emerges from the woods. There’s far less of them than there should be, and all are grimier than the first evacuees. Spark leads them. None of the wounded have made it back.   

Yet someone has the energy to race forward, to meet someone else in the middle. Linh and Marella embrace, wrapped in each other. Linh is sobbing into her soulmate’s arms, Marella sinking in as her legs shake.   

The Moonlark breaks off into the woods.   

Dex and Fitz follow without a second thought.   

Sophie’s even worse off than when they last saw her. “Don’t worry,” she says. “None of this is my own.” Tears streak through the red splattered on her face.   

“What happened?” Dex whispers, taking a cautious step forward.   

“I don’t—” Sophie starts, wildly pacing. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t...”   

Fitz moves towards her, more, extending a hand and resting it on her shoulder. It’s like some of restless energy leaks out of her and into him, and while she isn’t calm, she’s something like closer.   

Then a branch snaps. Then another.   

Three heads whip up, and there, standing across the clearing, are two figures. One with teal eyes and the other messy blond hair, both of them looking ready for a fight, both of them in Council garb.   

“You came,” Fitz breathes.   

It’s lost in that wonder that he doesn’t notice the knife until it’s at his throat.   

Chapter Text

The knife hovers in the air.  

It’s Dex’s hand that holds it. Which is odd—he can’t remember unsheathing it. Only knows he has it now, and the world is limited to this: his trembling hand, the blade, and the betrayal splashed across Fitz’s face.  

The metal is two inches, maybe more, from Fitz’s throat. Dex can’t imagine bringing it closer. 

But its threat works all the same. The man on the other side of the clearing starts forward, the woman curses.  

Sophie takes charge of the situation, the Moonlark  returning to her. She must be a terrifying sight to those who don’t know her, wartorn. “Come closer and we slit his throat,” she says.  

The woman puts her hand on the man’s chest, holding him back. She narrows her eyes. “Touch another hair on my brother’s head and I’ll haunt your every waking moment.” 

Fitz is breathing too fast to speak, to do anything, his body heaving. Dex wants to comfort him, wants it so badly it hurts, but he’s done  this  now and he needs to carry through. “Just... drop your weapons,” he says. “We can talk, instead of fight. Please.” 

He’s sick of this. He’s sick of all of this. But the Black Swan is more important than him, than Fitz, and even if his soulmate hates him at the end of this... he’ll know he did what was right. Right? 

All he knows now is that once the weapons are dropped, on both sides, Fitz won’t look at him. And somehow that feels so much bigger than it should.  

The five of them are still wary. “I’m Dex,” he says.  

“Biana,” the woman says, followed by the man’s “Keefe”.  

Since Sophie looks more in the mood for murdering someone than for talking, Dex says, “And this is Sophie, the Moonlark.” 

Keefe takes in the five feet, four inches of sleep deprivation and rage that is Sophie Foster. "Not what I was expecting." 

She practically snarls. “You wanna say that again?” Drenched in blood, death in her eyes, she’s so terrifying she makes Keefe take a step back.  

He freezes. “Wait.” 

Their words. Their words. Dex wants to laugh, or cry, or warn them: that this will end badly, them fighting on separate sides of the war.  

“No time for that now,” Biana says, but she’s looking at the newly discovered soulmates with something that could be classified as a smile. “You’ll be returning Fitz to us if you want the vaguest chance for me to not call Council troops in the next minute.” She holds up a communicator. “There’s an emergency button on here—it takes one press and everything you’ve built is gone.” 

Oh. So this is it. There isn’t much of a choice here. Dex steals a sidelong glance at his soulmate, not deserving it, knowing it’ll be one of his last. The Black Swan main camp lost half of its people and supplies today. With nowhere left to go and Council personnel still in the area, no possibility of reinforcements arriving in time, today could easily finish them.  

It will. There’s no way to stop it. Even if they hand Fitz over, there’s no way Biana won’t give their location away anyway. Fighting is futile—scarily fast as Sophie is, even she can’t kill someone before they have time to press a button.  

“The Council’s the real evil,” Sophie says. “I know what you’ve been raised to believe. I know you’ve been told we’re the villains here. But you can trust us.” 

Keefe snorts. “Everyone’s a villain here, love.” She bristles at the nickname. “Trust isn’t that easy. Hey, Fitz, you trust them?” 

It’s silence and then it’s fear, and then it’s Fitz’s soft voice, cutting through it all. “Yeah,” he says, “I do.” 

What happens next is conversation—whole bursts of it. Keefe and Biana and Sophie, either trying to make sense of those words or trying to make sense of what to do next.  

In that chaos, no one but Dex notices Fitz slip away.  

He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t deserve to.  

He hadn’t meant to grab his knife so quickly, to put it so perilously close to his soulmate’s throat. He hadn’t meant to. But he had. What did it say about him, that that was his first instinct? 

Nothing good.  

Whatever necessities have led Dex here—for the Black Swan, for Eternalia, for the people he’s lost—he's still a killer, no matter what ways he tries to hide it. Maybe that means he’s broken. Maybe that means he shouldn’t have had a soulmate at all.  

Maybe the only reason Fitz is his soulmate is that Dex was about to murder him—maybe the universe meant for him to follow through, because what can a killer be but alone? 

Someone flicks his shoulder. Dex looks up and catches Sophie’s eyes, the hardness in them absolute. She mouths go.  

She might mean go after him or she might mean return to camp.  

Dex goes after him.  

Because for all that he might not deserve to, he can’t bear not to all the same.  

When he finds Fitz it’s in a clearing not far off. Fitz is standing with his back to Dex, seemingly doing nothing at all, light landing broken-up on his dark hair.  

It occurs to Dex, too late, that he doesn’t know what to say. Everything he wants to is too scary or too honest. Every answer he’d almost certainly receive cuts to the bone, but the ones he’d like to hear—well. No use thinking of impossibilities. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries, in the end. The words sound as foolish as they do cruel. How much worse must they land on Fitz’s ears? 
 

Fitz doesn’t answer. The moment aches between them.  

“Did you mean it?” Dex asks. “That you trust us?” 

For a moment, he thinks Fitz is simply planning to not respond at all, to just wait until he leaves. Fitz sighs (and what does it say about Dex that he can imagine exactly how his face shifts as he does it?) 

Fitz finally turns to face Dex, and anger isn’t written into every line of him like it should be, but there’s something boiling in his eyes. “I did,” he says. “I... I do.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Dex whispers.  

“I know.” 

He runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

“How  sorry?” Fitz takes a step forward and laughs, except laughs aren’t supposed to sound that awful, that broken, that breaking. “You... you tried to kill me  and it wasn’t the first time, Dex, and I don’t know what to think.” 

Dex is silent, because what is he supposed to say? I didn’t mean it ? It was for the Black Swan, I had no choice, don’t you understand ? But he’d had a choice, and he’d made it, and he hadn’t chosen Fitz.  

“Kill me, if you’re going to. Just—just stop  whatever this is.” Fitz’s nails are pressing white marks deep into his palms, knuckles paling and eyebrows twisting desperate up his forehead.  

A ragged sob escapes him. His lips are parted, and he’s looking up, as if asking—begging—for something.  

How far have they fallen? How far, from the promised love of soulmates as children to here, in a forest clearing, death a specter over them both? How far ? 

“No,” Dex says. “No.” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s crying. “No, I’m not going to, I—I couldn’t.” 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s true. “I couldn’t, Fitz, I couldn’t even... I’m sorry, I’m sorry we’re here, sorry it’s like this. Sorry it’s my fault. But back there... no matter what it meant, I couldn’t have moved that blade. Even if it meant letting the Black Swan fall and falling with it. I couldn’t.” 

The last sorry, the one he doesn’t voice, is I’m sorry I’m choosing you too late. This whole time he’s been trying to walk a thin line, between keeping himself from caring about Fitz and then keeping Fitz alive and the Black Swan. But maybe there’s no true line between the two. Maybe there’s only a choice.  

Fitz exhales. “I’m sorry, too.” Both of them are crying. A thin rain trickles through the treetops, soaking their hair, their skin. It runs in little rivulets along Fitz’s face and seeps into his mouth.  

“You can leave,” Dex says softly. “The Black Swan’s too disorganized to stop you, and even if they tried... I wouldn’t let them.” 

It’s out here, staring at Fitz in the rain, that he finally comes to a crucial realization.  

That Dex—as improbable as it is—wants Fitz to stay. Needs him to stay. There’s a something between them, even if he can’t name it yet, a something as beautiful as Fitz himself. Dex just wants to stay here and feed it, to lose himself in it. To voice it, even.  

But he can’t. Not anymore. He doesn’t deserve that, either, and Fitz deserves this choice of whether to stay. Deserves to walk away without looking back if that’s what he wants, to live, to go far from here and never think of any of this again after all Dex has done.  

The minutes stretch into eternities and he thinks or wonders or hopes whether they’ll just stay here forever, deciding, staring, caught in an in-between.  

“I’m not going to leave,” Fitz says, in the end. “But things have to be different, from now on.” 

“They will,” Dex promises.  

And when they walk back, even if this is more than Dex could have ever expected on the day they met, it still isn’t enough.  

The campsite is still a bustle of activity when they return to the clearing where they’d found Keefe and Biana.  

The two are there, still, but now it’s Marella—annoyed—and Linh—harried—with them.  

Dex finds Sophie sitting in a stream. The rain and the water and her scratching at her own skin have done some to scrub off the blood, but mostly it’s just smeared into watery streaks.  

They’ve learned not to talk about the battles, much. Sophie was sent out all the time, before, Marella half as much. Marella talked to Linh.  

Sophie talked to no one. She was always awful about the subject, even with Dex, and it’s best left alone. Maybe she’s like this after every fight, only out there, where he can’t be there to help. Except this time seems especially horrible. 

“There’s something wrong,” Dex says softly, sitting on a rock.  

Sophie’s fingers comb through her hair, desperate, sending flakes of scarlet floating through the air. “Mr. Forkle’s dead,” she says, dully. “You might not have heard.” 

By now, he’s long been used to death, to grieving. It gets easier and it doesn’t. This blow sends him reeling.  

Now, only three members of the Collective remain, and even if they didn’t technically have internal ranking... Mr. Forkle had been one of the Black Swan’s founders. He’d overseen everything, every operation, had planned all the biggest moves.  

More than that, he’d been a father figure to Sophie.  

“What happened?” Dex asks, not wanting to hear the answer, needing to.  

“Struck down helping organize the fighters.” Sophie’s shoulders curve in on themselves. “He shouldn’t have been there  at all, and I... I couldn’t...” 

“You can’t always do something.” Dex stands to wrap an arm around her, and she slumps into him, exhaustion clear. She smells metallic, pungent. Dried blood still clings to her skin.  

Her inhale is shaky. “I have a soulmate.” Sophie squeezes her eyes shut. For all the horrors she’s survived, he doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint wonder in her words. “He... he doesn’t deserve someone like me.” 

“I know what you mean,” Dex whispers. They’re both broken, both killers. Their hands are stained with scarlet.  

She nods, a tiny, fragile thing. “What next? What now?” 

The Black Swan is losing more and more each day. They need a way to turn the tide. A way to fix things, once and for all, to reveal the Council for who they truly are. A way to finally create a world where they can have peace  without turning their backs on what’s right, where they can heal and rest and maybe even love.  

And, as luck would have it, that way may have just walked straight to them.  

Chapter Text

Marella simmers on the side, but for once, Fitz figures it has less to do with him and more to do with something else.  

She and Linh had stepped back to allow him, Keefe, and Biana space.  

So far, most of what that consisted of was hugging. Their arms are still wrapped tightly around Fitz, like they’re never planning to let go.  

“I thought I’d lost you,” Biana murmurs. Her voice breaks. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you.” Fitz closes his eyes, blocking out the trees beyond. “How... how did you find me?” 

He can feel Keefe’s shrug through their closeness. “We started looking as soon as you were gone. We found that map—where you’d left it circled—and organized a mission with the Council, running troops through this entire area. Bi’s finally out of training, and she convinced them to let us come along.” 

A single tear seeps from Fitz’s eye. “So many people died today,” he says, softly. 

Biana’s grip tightened. “I know, Fitz. I know.” 

“We had to find you,” Keefe says. “Whatever it took. Besides, I meant what I said, earlier—they’re all villains. All we can do, I think, is protect what we love. Who  we love.” 

The three of them finally break apart. Fitz reluctantly lets his eyes open again. Biana’s searching his face, over and over, studying him with all her worry clear. “Were these past few weeks bad?” he asks.  

Keefe shakes his head. “Anything was worth it long as we got to see you again.” 

With them here, Fitz’s desperate edge is taken off. It’s odd, because something— someone— here has felt familiar this whole time, except with Dex, it’s strange. Because Dex is a stranger who feels like home, where Biana and Keefe just are home.  

“What next?” he asks. “I... I don’t  think the Black Swan are villains at all. They’re not perfect, but they’re better, and that’s all we’ve got.” 

“Is it enough?” Biana tilts her head to the side. “Maybe they’re idealistic and whatnot, but there’s no chance that’ll survive war. Who’s to say that at the end of the day they won’t end up exactly like the Council?” 

“They’ve already been fighting for years,” Fitz reminds her. “And while they’re hardened because of it, I don’t think they’re evil.” 

Keefe looks at both of them a long moment before speaking. “The Council’s horrible.” He shrugs. “And I think that maybe the Black Swan isn’t.” 

“Great,” Biana deadpans. “So that’s what we’re going off of. A feeling.” 

“Anything more concrete you’d like?” Keefe waves his hand in the air. “Should I set up a few tests? Run an experiment or two?” 

On one side of the clearing, Sophie and Dex emerge back out of the woods. Keefe stiffens when he sees her. She’s looking better than she did last, a bit more okay, a lot less bloodstained.  

Yet Fitz’s gaze stops on Dex, as though he legitimately has some kind of block that prevents him from looking anywhere else. Maybe he does. Maybe it’s a soulmate thing, that he’s cursed to never stop staring, as hopeless as everything between them is.  

Back there, in that sun-drenched, rain-dotted clearing, everything felt like a dream. Like a dream were there was a storm inside of him and a beautiful boy, an angel or a demon or his doom.  

Back there, he’d chosen to stay, with his heart beating out of tune.  

It’s acting up again now. Somehow, they’re beginning to feel more like soulmates. It’s beginning to feel like something inside Fitz is tumbling through the dark, a cliff’s edge he’d first walked straight off of in that alley, and now he’s running out of things to slow his fall.  

“We need to take on the Council, now,” Dex says. He swallows hard (and is it pitiful how closely Fitz watches every line of him?). “The Black Swan’s time is running out. This may be our last chance, so we’d better take it well. And I think... if you would join us, we might have a chance.” He directs this last bit to Keefe and Biana.  

Keefe doesn’t wait. “I’m in,” he says, immediately. “And I think I can most certainly help.”  

“It depends,” Biana says, staring them all down, “on what our plan is.” 

Marella raises an eyebrow. “So that’s a maybe.” 

“I’m not going into this blindly.” Biana nudges Keefe in the side pointedly, who just shrugs.  

The seven of them circle closer together. “Assets and status?” Biana asks.  

“For one,” Linh starts, “as soon as we have a plan, it’s best to enact it. Even if the Council hasn’t yet found us again, they must know what direction we’ve gone in, and... I’m not sure whether we have anywhere else to run.” 

“If anyone knows the lay of the land around here...” Fitz shrugs. “I think it’d point them here pretty quickly.” 

Slowly, Biana nods. “So what do you actually have on your side?” 

Sophie scoffs. “You can’t seriously believe we’d tell you.” 

“This doesn’t work if we aren’t a team,” Dex reminds them all, but no one really seems to listen. Marella even snorts.  

“Want me to offer a ‘secret’ of my own first?” Keefe says, rolling his eyes, but he’s already going through with it. “I’m Councilor Gisela’s son. She sucks, just to be clear.” 

Four sets of eyes stare at him. “Useful,” Marella admits.  

“Beyond it,” Linh adds.  

“Our advantages,” Dex says, “really just depend on our approach.” 

“So we decide that, first,” Biana offers.  

“Our main objective is to take out the Council,” Sophie says. 

Linh nods. “The main populace of Eternalia doesn’t like the way they do things, meaning if we take over we should have widespread support instead of an uprising against us.” 

“So within that,” Marella says, “we still have options, of course, and based on how many people we just lost an all-out assault isn’t going to be our best.” 

Their voices fade into a monotony of strategies and military assessment that Fitz mostly doesn’t understand. Keefe occasionally volunteers information on the councilors’ daily habits and the like, while Biana goes over the military side of things extensively.  

Across from Fitz, Sophie shares a sloping smile with him. He gets the feeling that even if she’s the most fearsome soldier Eternalia has ever known, she doesn’t really enjoy the planning side of things.  

For, well, everything going on, he feels strangely calm. Not relaxed, but calm, steady within himself even facing the turbulence of what’s to come.  

The rain has begun to sprinkle down again. It beads along Dex’s long eyelashes, dots his face beside those freckles.  

And Fitz realizes, foolishly, belatedly, that he wants them to be soulmates. Maybe not soulmates how they are, sure, but soulmates how they could have been.  

He wants to have met his other half accidentally bumping into him on the streets and flushing over spilled coffee (and he wants that him  to have been Dex). He wants to have met his soulmate bent over his favorite mystery novel at a coffee shop, exchanging soft, longing glances with a boy across the room (and he wants that boy to have strawberry blond hair, too many freckles to count, and the brightest smile). 

And, Fitz figures, if he can’t have any of that—slow, honeyed moments that taste like pure sugar and fit in smoothly with the rest of his life—he'd still rather have this with Dex than that with anyone else.  

That scares him most of all.  

Fitz tries to return to this present moment, to them all together. Even if soulmates, if Dex, scares him, this... this doesn’t.  

It’s as though the seven of them have all slotted into place. As though this, them together, is just right  in an undefinable sense of the word. Is fated, too, sure as soulmates are. He may as well have known them all his whole life—no, longer. 

“I think that’s decided, mostly,” Linh says, yawning slightly. “Anyone have anything to add?” 

Fitz has listened just enough to know they’re taking a stealthier approach, hoping to utilize Keefe and Biana’s insider knowledge to quickly and decisively strike. Just days from now, this will all be over.  

Well, not over. There’s still reconstruction and leadership and everything else going forward, but what’s left of the Collective will handle that, not them. If they pull this off well... they might just be able to find ordinary lives.  

“Given what we’ve decided,” Dex says, “I think the Black Swan’s assets that would be best used are the people we have in place nearest to Lumenaria—particularly... well, parcticularly Councilor Oralie—” he ignored the stricken gasps entirely “—limiting the amount of people we’re moving all the way there, keeping us a small group. Once we’re there...”  

He lets the sentence hang in the air. They all know what needs to happen then.  

Linh nods. “We need to decide who, of us, is doing what. We do need to tell the Collective, but I’m not sure I want them taking this entirely out of our hands.” 

“I’ll be part of it all,” Sophie says, immediately. She seems to say it automatically, without even needing to think, as if it’s just assumed she’ll be taking this risk. 

Moments pass long and harried. “So will I,” Dex says, voice soft but strong. He’s looking down at the ground, face slightly green.  

“I don’t... I don’t know,” Linh admits, twisting her hands together. “I’ll come, I think, but I don’t want to be part of... of...” 

Marella gently takes one of her hands in both her own, squeezing it. “I’ll stay with you.” She leans to whisper something in her girlfriend’s ear the rest of them don’t hear.  

“I’m in, too,” Biana says. Keefe follows just after.  

Fitz knows—couldn't help but know—that he, unlike the rest of them, doesn’t have as much to offer. He isn’t an assassin or a soldier or the son of a councilor. He’s just him, but...  

But he’s not letting them go without him. Because he’s not letting go of any of them. “So am I.” 

“That’s... that’s decided, then,” Dex says. He closes his eyes for a minute that stretches on and on. His face is crumpling in on itself. “I’ll go find the Collective. I think it might be best if I brought them out here.” 

He leaves, and then the rest of them are just waiting.  

In Lumenaria, they’ll all have one, awful overarching goal, no matter how the Collective decides to do it exactly. Fitz has never killed before. He’s never wanted to.  

It’s strange, to think how that might change by the time this week is over.  

Spark’s the one who comes out to meet them with Dex. He must have talked to her on the way here, because when she sees them, she only sighs and starts to lay out the plan.  

“I’ll be coming with you,” she says. “In Lumenaria, we’ll be making contact with Wraith, who’ll start assembling our people in the area should things go sour and to properly control the Eternalia should things go well. He and Councilor Oralie will inform us who our targets are among the councilors and who can be spared. However... our main operatives on the mission will near-certainly be the five of you who’ve elected to be part of it. Either you’re some of our finest, or you have insider knowledge that may well prove essential. 

“We act now—the Council currently has a large portion of their forces diverted here, which can only be to our benefit. Wraith will likely inform us of the particulars. But know this: this mission will ask a lot from you. Back out now if you aren’t prepared.” 

All that answers Spark are decisive nods.  

Fitz doesn’t know what’s left for him in Eternalia. Not anymore. His home, maybe. His slimy brother. His grief-stricken, still hurting mother.  

He’s coming back to them with the group that killed his father. Or, not to them, to take down the Council and set something new up in its place.  

Spark walks steps ahead everyone else as they make their way back towards Alluveterre river, in the crannies between hills and through dirt hardly pounded into paths.  

Just behind her walks Sophie, and Keefe. They’re quiet now, but he’s spent the last while trying to get to know her, even if he hasn’t proved very successful.  

Marella and Linh are at the very back. They’re quiet and some strange mix of sweet and serious, all their words meant for no one but themselves.  

And in the middle are Fitz, Dex, and Biana. It’s an odd group, of all of them, but she’s refused to leave her brother’s side much at all, excessively protective—especially when it comes to Dex, his soulmate, Dex, who put a knife to his throat.  

Fitz and Dex exchange shy smiles and sentences with more meaning than even they know.  

This is a strange road to walk with a strange mix of travelers. But Fitz knows, in every way possible, that he’s going to walk it to its end, whatever that might be.  

And he knows—they all do—that its end is fast nearing.  

Chapter Text

Around this table, there’s no room for anything but focus.  

There, Dex is failing.  

He’s too busy thinking about all the ways this could go wrong and what he’s going to have to do and, well, other, sillier, unfortunately resilient things (like the way Fitz’s hair falls over his forehead—).  

Some missions, he can’t manage focus. They feel too much like everything is about to change.  

But this time is worse. Because everything really, really will.  

He just hopes his mind will stop wandering soon.  

Right now, Biana’s walking them through security, talking fast. The mission’s set for tonight, leaving them less than eight hours to prepare.  

Wraith has met them in Eternalia. This is Dex’s first time meeting him, and he’s not what he expected. For one, Wraith wears a mask, and formless clothing that fully conceals any possible identifying features. He tends eerily silent, too.  

Spark is the opposite, firing off rapid questions, seemingly the picture of calm.  

Linh and Marella are gone already, even though everyone else had sworn they wouldn’t be security risks. They’re elsewhere, setting up what happens if they succeed... and what happens if they don’t.  

And then there’s the five of them—Keefe and Biana and Fitz and Sophie and Dex, all in varying stages of freaking out (or, in Sophie’s case, resignedly determined).  

Wraith gives a near imperceptible nod and places a list on the table. “We have our final targets,” he says.  

Gisela. Fintan. Gethen. Vespera. Umber. Ruy. Alina. The last name is in completely different handwriting than the first six, clearly added onto somebody else’s list. Somebody who hadn’t judged Councilor Alina deserving of death...  

“Tonight, seven of the twelve Council members are going to die,” Spark says. “This is not an act any of us can take lightly... but it’s going to end a war.” 

Tonight, seven people are going to die.  

“I’ll go over plan specifics later, but, Dex, you’ve been assigned Umber and Gethen,” she continues. “Sophie, you’re assigned Vespera, Ruy, Alina, and Fintan.”  

Sophie winces, but in the end, she nods with a gulp that looks painful and closes her eyes for a long, long time. Her knuckles are white where she’s clenched them under the table.  

The assignments will be based on space and practicality. Dex’s, though, are (probably) also the ones less dangerous, but also fully horrible—the only ones he’d be willing to kill.  

(does that make him awful—that his code of death is saddling her with more stains on her soul? especially when he’s not sure the hand that drives the killing blow even matters, when he’s complicit anyway?) 

It’s going to be violent. It’s going to be bloody.  

The Councilors protect themselves against all kinds of poison. They use tasters and are ever wary of all threats, particularly the ones they’re targeting.  

They go over the particulars, information gleaned from Oralie and Keefe, marking up the map of the Council’s home all over and creating schedules for timing of all happenings. Tonight will have to be fast and efficient. Most of the Councilors will be cut down in their beds.  

And, with every word, Dex finds himself sickening more. This is the end—of all of it. There’ll be more blood on his hands, but that’s a sacrifice he can make.  

A sacrifice he must  make.  

Even if it breaks him. Even if he never gets anything after but guilt and pain and emptiness, if the rest of his life is just nightmares and living in a body, in a mind, covered in scars.  

Even if it kills him.  

Death he can manage, Dex figures. He probably deserves it. After everything... could he really protest? 

But the thing he’s scared of, terrified of, is Fitz. Terrified that Fitz  will die tonight. Terrified that after having led his soulmate here, having nearly killed him and spared him and fallen in love with him, that he’ll have still brought about Fitz’s death after all. Terrified that... that Dex will die, or break, and that he’ll never get to see what the universe was thinking when it gave him his soulmate (never get to see whether—as he’s beginning to hope—the universe was doing something right ) 

They’re going over Biana’s role. Dex knows his already, has it ingrained into his brain. He couldn’t forget something so horrifying, not even if he tried.  

He slips out the door.  

The Black Swan has taken up its Lumenaria headquarters in a series of underground tunnels, so just outside the room is the best he can do.  

Dex sinks to the floor, leaning his head back against the wall. He doesn’t want any part of this.  

In the rest of this compound, everyone’s excited and nervous and something in between, because they’re about to end the war. They’re about to finally avenge all that must be avenged.  

But he just wants this to be over.  

There’s the sound of a door swinging open. It’s not a random one, nor is the person on the threshold random either.  

Fitz comes to sit beside him, and Dex can’t bring himself to mind. “Are you ready?” he asks.  

“I don’t think you can be,” Dex says, failing to keep his irritability out of his voice.  

“Yeah,” Fitz says, “I was worried that was just me.” 

Dex sighs, and tries to lose himself in Fitz’s eyes, ready to take any distraction—no matter how foolish it is. For once, it doesn’t work, but he can’t bear to look away. Not when Fitz’s teal eyes are surrounded with crinkles and filled with aching emotion like something ancient swirling up from the depths of the sea.  “It gets better and it doesn’t.” 

Awful things are easier when you’re used to them. When your tongue is sharp already and your eyes immune to looks of crumpled pain (when your hand has begun to fit to the handle of your blade).  

But knowing you’re used to committing some awful deed is worse. When you’re forced to confront the truth and know that your well of excuses has long dried up—that the awful thing, in truth,  is  you.  

“There’s not long left,” Fitz says, softly. “And then what?” 

“I don’t know,” Dex admits, and it’s true, because he’s never fully expected to walk out on the other side of the war. Or maybe he had, a long time ago, when his dreams still flew untouched by reality.  

And then what?   

And then the world improves. Somehow.  

“I don’t think I want to be somebody  after this.” Fitz closes his eyes, tucking his knees up to his chest and wrapping one arm around them, sticking one hand in his hair. “Even if it’s selfish.” 

“It isn’t,” Dex says, automatically. He tells himself he’s not staring at the way Fitz’s eyelashes are splayed out on his cheeks, and he... he considers answering, saying what he wants.  

There’s a couple things he’d like, after all this. 

There’s one that's an impossible kind of possible. What he wants... he wants Fitz in his life, still, for them to find some peace and joy in all the messiness.  

But that’s something he can’t say.  

(but—maybe it can be a bit of hope to cling to, through all this, even if he’ll never let it be satisfied in the end) 

The tunnel is humid, wet. Dex looks at the wall ahead of him, at Fitz beside him, and tries not to think of what’s to come. He needs to stand. To go back into that room and throw himself into the planning, to stop worrying about what’s next and start moving forward.  

He will. He will.  

After a few moments to compose himself first.  

The stars are beginning to appear, one by faint one. There’s half an hour until the plan truly begins.  

Biana left them an hour ago. Using her status as officer, she’s meant to be withdrawing soldiers from crucial areas and otherwise weakening their defenses.  

Keefe left two hours before that.  

The rest of them, now, are strapping on their weapons and making the last preparations. Sophie stands, finally, and says, “I’m going to go get into position.” 

It doesn’t do much for Dex’s current state (nervous wreck) but he stands and hugs, her, close. “Be safe, okay?” 

She leans into him, some essential stiffness in her dissipating. He wishes he could protect her, as much as she doesn’t need it, from having to do this, too. “There’s no safe,” she tells him, half mumbling. “But you... you don’t need to worry about me.” 

Doesn’t he? At this point, he’s terrified—Sophie’s not at as okay as she always pretends to be (how could she be?) and that she’s going to break. That this is too much for her, only she isn’t going to say it, and that’s how they’ll lose her.  

That'll be it.  

Sophie steps away from him. And moments after, she’s gone.  

“Might as well go too,” Dex says, turning to Fitz. They’ve been paired together for much of the mission, which is half at Dex’s own secret pleading—he needs to keep Fitz  safe . No matter what.  

Fitz exhales shakily. “Okay.” 

“I can’t wait to see you again when this is over,” Linh says, stepping forward to hug Dex tightly, resting her head against his shoulder.  

There may not be an over. There may not be both of them if there is. “Me, too,” he says. “Good luck.” 

She shakes her head. “You need it more than I do.” 

From the door, Marella says, “We need to go, Linh.” 

Linh lets go, stepping away slowly. “I’m not going to say goodbye,” she whispers, taking a wavering breath in.  

Behind her, Marella swallows, a wrenching sorrow on her face. She’s crying, slightly, a couple of tears dripping down her cheeks.  Goodbye , she mouths, as if it pains her to do it,  just... just make sure I didn’t need to say it, okay?   

Dex nods.  

And then they’re gone. There’s twenty minutes left until everything starts, until he needs to be Dex, the assassin. He tries to close up into himself already, to tuck away all the things that make him human. Just for now.  

It doesn’t work half as well as it should.  

“Ready?” Fitz asks, again, and this time Dex doesn’t answer, just starts walking.  

Their last preparations were done beyond the Council’s fortress’s security checks, having been slipped in by Oralie.  

The Council’s fortress looms large above Lumenaria (it might be better called a palace, but apparently, someone, somewhere had decided that was bad for branding). Looking at it, it’s easy to see where Eternalia’s wealth goes—right here, into swooping architecture and massive columns and entirely too much gold. 

It’s dark enough that they can’t be seen as they cross the lawn. Hopefully, Biana’ll have kept any sweeps of the grounds away.  

It’s times like this that Dex can’t help but realize how tenuous their plans are. If just one thing goes wrong... 

They reach the house, pressing up against it and skirting along the edge. He stops when he sees the red flag, just where it was supposed to be—dangling from a fifth-floor window. 

There’s twenty minutes allotted for this climb.  

“Me first,” Dex whispers, trying to gauge the best first step to take. These walls, with all their carvings and ledges, should prove easy to climb, but he shouldn’t let that make him overconfident.  

Fitz starts forward before he can, stepping onto a windowsill and pulling himself up. “Hey!” Dex hisses.  

While Fitz looks back, it’s just to raise a single eyebrow.  

Dex shakes his head and starts to climb.  

It really is  easy. Handholds are everywhere, and for the most part, they can just clamber from window to window. Still, there are brief stretches in between where Dex feels like he’s in freefall, far from secure. His fingers slide more than once. He’s terrified that will be the death of him—sweaty hands, of all things.  

Above him, Fitz swears, softly. Dex’s head jerks up, but it’s okay. “What happened?” he calls up. 

“Thought—thought I was going to slip,” Fitz says back, so quietly it’s almost lost in the wind.  

Dex checks the time again. Ten minutes. Ten minutes until they need to be done.  

They’re three stories up already. He keeps following Fitz, imitating his every moment, pretending he doesn’t flinch more than Fitz does every time a handhold’s bad. 

 Up this high, the ground has begun to swoop beneath them. Dex’s head is spinning with it. He isn’t sure what’s so terrifying: just the height, or the knowledge that one wrong move would end him. 

Or maybe just the knowledge that, if something happened now, they might not be able to win the war tonight... meaning his death would leave his whole life meaningless.  

“I’m almost there,” Fitz says, straining, straining upwards. His hand closes around that last windowsill. He starts to yank himself up.  

Breathless moments pass before he’s safely inside the building. Dex closes those last few feet, and Fitz helps him over the edge, hefting him by the arms.  

Once they’re both in, he turns to untie that little red flag and closes the window securely again. “You know what to do, right?” 

Just down the hall lies one of the major control centers. Disabling security cameras and alarms, while not completely  necessary, could aid them significantly. 

“I do,” Fitz promises.  

They slip to a stop in front of the control room. And when Dex opens the door, there’s no one inside.  

A mercy. A mercy, in a place where there’s none.  

“Guess it’s really starting, then,” Fitz says, face twisted up.  

The rest of tonight is nearing. This is the last time, Dex reminds himself. The  last time. And while the control room is quiet, someone’s shoes clack in the hall. He’s running out of time.  

He is out of time. “I—I have to leave, now... are you sure you’ll be alright?” 

Fitz nods, even if it takes him a second. “I have to be, don’t I?” 

Somehow, Dex can’t find it within himself to answer. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay here, with Fitz, to protect him however he can.  

The impulse is so deep it hurts to tear himself away. “Stay safe,” he whispers, as he goes, entirely unsure whether it’s heard.  

The hall is quiet. The hall is quiet, but Dex’s head isn’t.  

He walks forward. Two turns, and he’ll reach the stairwell. From there... all that’s left is the killing. There’ll be no more obstacles. It’ll be him, alone, and his targets.  

No one to bear witness to his monstrosity.  

Up the stairs. The sixth floor is even more opulent than the one before, as the place where the Council sleeps. On the other side of it, Sophie will be stalking her prey.  

Dex knows the layout, from that map.  

He hesitates at the door.  

All his mind is at is downstairs, how Fitz is alone, vulnerable. How he could be bleeding out even now, mortally wounded by some enemy Dex didn’t see. How he could  hate  Dex, after this.  

Dex needs to think about the mission. He needs to be the assassin.  

The assassin can’t think about Fitz. 

In the end, Dex just opens the door. Gethen lies sleeping in his bed, rolled to face the windows opposite the door, blond hair spread across the pillow. He stirs sleepily at the intrusion, but not enough to wake.  

Behind him, Dex closes the door up again, so no one outside would even know what’s happening within. He creeps across the floor, stopping when he reaches the bed.  

In sleep, Gethen doesn’t look evil.  

Yet he is. Dex knows  that. And any other day, it would be enough. But right now... his feelings are just getting in the way. He doesn’t feel like he’s done this a dozen times before. He feels like a boy about to do a terrible thing.  

Dex lashes out with his knife, quick and awful, so he doesn’t have to think about it. The steel breaks through Gethen’s throat and to the other side.  

Nice. Neat. A smile dripping blood across his pillow.  

The scarlet spreads and spreads and spreads. The gentle rise and fall of Gethen’s chest just—stops.  Stops . His face, which was flitting with some facial twitch moments before, slackens further.  

The smell is already unpleasant, metallic and gushing. It’ll get worse. The white sheets are beginning to look dyed near where the body lies.  

Dex is panting, knife dripping in his hands. He wipes it on the bed, his motions shaky, driven more by instinct than anything conscious.  

As much as he’s done... he’s never gone from death to death before, without time for the guilt to seep in first. He’ll mourn every hurt he’s dealt later. But now? 

Sheathing his blade again, Dex leaves the room.  

Umber’s only a few doors down. Her schedule’s less predictable than Gethen’s. Apparently, she might be soundly slumbering under her covers, and might be up and awake. 

Her door creaks slightly when he pushes it open. Dex glances around it cautiously, first, to see a woman writing in a journal, making angry black slashes on a page. Her mouth looks sour, from the side.  

Four steps in is where it goes wrong. He has his blade drawn again. Ideally, she’ll be too absorbed, and it can enter cleanly into her back.  

Umber turns her head, frowning. “I told  you, Gisela, don’t skulk—”  

Her voice cuts off when she sees him. He moves, knife out, and she grabs a dagger from her desk and  snarls .  

Dex goes for her throat, again. Umber sidesteps, body silky with practice, and lands a glancing blow to his face. “Rebels,” she pants, “never learn.” Each word, she punctuates with a wild swing.  

He dodges the rest of them. They trade in that, back and forth, unable to hit. She’s on the edge of erratic. Umber’s anger is palpable in every motion, but so is the pleasure in her eyes.  

Dex’s feet slide on the carpet. She brings her dagger up, forcing it towards his ribcage. He blocks it. It leaves his arm tingling with the force.  

Moving to the side, swift enough to throw her off balance, he slips behind her. His knife sinks into the side of her stomach. He yanks it back out as Umber whirls, driving her elbow into his sternum and sending him crashing into the desk.  

Dex’s chest heaves hard with effort. Blood gushes from her stomach.  

Ink drips from the table onto the floor. Studying him, Umber paces, baring her teeth. “You’ll regret that,” she mutters, hitting him again and again, each time with the hilt of her dagger. It inspires a dull ache in his chest. “With each moment you spend in our dungeons instead of dead.” 

Wetness is flowing along Dex’s cheek, saltiness slipping between his lips. His own blood. He drives his knee up, into her hip. Umber takes a step back, recalibrates. It’s enough.  

He swings upward. She moves, just in time.  

His knife enters the side of her left arm, opening it up. This time, Umber cries out, screams something murderous and incoherent.  

Dex doesn’t have time. She shoves him to the floor, harshly, his head hitting the ground hard. The world swims. Her dagger looms in the air as she moves downward, headed for his heart, red splattering down. 

He thrusts his knife out, angling it, angling it— 

It slides between her ribcage.  

Umber doesn’t die as quickly as Gethen did. She moans, a strangled sound, and thrashes again. It takes a couple seconds for her to become a dead weight.  

Her body drops. It crushes Dex. Scarlet is sticky between them, his knife still impaling Umber’s corpse, the hilt of it now pressing into him.  

For a moment, all Dex knows is horror and pain.  

He shoves her off of him, retrieving his blade. He wipes at his cheek. The blood there only smears.  

On the floor, Umber’s body is surrounded by a growing pool of ruby. Her eyes are empty, open, staring up without their malice, and her hands are open, as if pleading, pleading.  

Dex turns away.  

Outside in the hall, there are footsteps. Umber didn’t die quiet.  

Heavy as each movement feels, he rises to his feet again. The night isn’t over yet.  

Outside, in the hall, no one’s there yet. Fitz emerges from the stairs. Bruises are forming across his exposed skin. Crimson dribbles across his upper arm.  

Still, something in Dex deflates. “We need to go,” he says, jumping forward and grabbing Fitz’s hand.  

Six Council soldiers turn the corner. They’re shouting something that Dex’s blood is pounding too loud to hear.  

His hand is warm in Fitz’s. Dex isn’t moving. Why isn’t he ...? 

“Come on.” Fitz yanks him along, and then they’re stumbling forward. Their steps struggle to fall into rhythm. Dex is flagging, already. They run.  

Run and run and run. To the window. Just there.  

Yells sound from behind. The hall is waking up, doors opening and flying shut. Underneath them the carpet feels like a shifting entity.  

As much as Dex’s lungs work and work, he feels like he isn’t getting any air. His limbs are straining. The world flies by in a desperate blur of aches and fear and their goal, which doesn't seem to be getting any closer, no matter how hard he pushes past his limits.  

Dex turns to look at Fitz, his own eyes frenzied. For a moment, their gazes meet. Fitz mouths something. It’s lost. His face is a map of tragic fear, and yet, as he quickly squeezes Dex’s hand, he gives Dex hope.  

They nearly crash into the wall when they reach. Their hands drop. Dex is burning. He throws the window open, feeling the soldiers closing in. He launches himself outside and out onto the roof, skidding against the tile.  

Someone’s hand has closed against Fitz’s other arm. He screams, as he’s pulled back in, jerked back with panic alighting in his features. A soldier’s already raising his blade— 

Dex doesn’t have to think to throw the knife. It leaves spinning from his fingers and dives into the man holding Fitz back.  

It’s enough. He pulls Fitz forward, slamming the window shut.  

As Fitz catches his breath, wheezing hard, Dex grabs a gadget. It attaches itself to the window and locks.  

“You okay?” Fitz asks.  

“Yeah,” Dex says. Then he adds, gesturing down at himself, “Most of this blood isn’t mine. We’ve—we’ve got fifteen minutes until we need to be at our next position, but... but if you can’t...” 

Fitz shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 

They start off across the roof, trying to stay fairly low to it. “What happened?” Dex asks, gesturing to all Fitz’s bruises.  

“Some man came into the control room,” Fitz answers, carefully not meeting his eyes. “I managed it, I guess, but I just... just hope he's okay.” 

 “Me, too,” Dex says quietly, unsure if it’s true.  

“There isn’t much longer to all this, huh?” Fitz finally meets his gaze again, attempting something like a smile. Then he rubs at the purpling spot on his forehead, wincing.  

Something in Dex’s heart cries out. “Yeah,” he says. “And after everything... I’m still not sure if I’m ready for that.” 

“I get that.” 

Do you ? he thinks, when part of why is because, after this, I don’t get to see you again? When you’d have to be insane to want that too?   

And then Fitz is taking his hand again, tugging him backwards, just a bit.  

“What is it?” Dex says, his worry leaping into full force again.  

“I... just wanted to stop,” Fitz says. “Talk to you.” He has this little divot between his eyebrows that Dex is pretty sure means he’s serious.  

“Okay,” Dex whispers.  

The roof is dark. Even the tiles below them are almost impossible to see. Yet the city beyond, lit up with hundreds of different, colorful light, provides a backdrop pretty as the stars near the Alluveterre River. They aren’t alone in this night.  

Fitz takes a deep breath in. His teal eyes are dark in this gloom, only tantalizing hints of their real color showing through. “I’ve been thinking about soulmates.” 

Unconsciously, Dex rubs his arm, where he knows it’s you  is written, where he can trace its every curve even without seeing it. “So have I,” he admits.  

“And... I just—I wanted to tell you that I’m happy. Happy that we got to meet and I get to know you and be part of this rebellion, against all odds.” Fitz smiles, sweetly, sadly, and it feels like their bodies are aching towards each other.  

The ground has dropped from underneath Dex. Because what he wants to say isn’t what Fitz said, and... and...  

Screw this . If this is it, if this might just be the last chance he ever has to look out at the world and into Fitz’s eyes and dare to hope, then he’s not going to squander it. And maybe this moment won’t be selfless... but he’s sacrificed himself his whole life.  

Dex shakes his head, tearing up. He intertwines their other hands. “I’m sorry.” His voice chokes on the words.  “But—Fitz, I... the thing is, I’m beginning to trust the universe. Because of you. Because of us. And I’m happy too—so, so happy. No matter what happens. And I know you don’t—” 

Fitz surges forward, and then they’re kissing. At last, at last, at last. They’re holding hands, and their lips are pressed together, blood and tears dripping between them. It tastes like salt.  

Dex’s eyes flicker closed. If he was burning, this is worse—fire and ice and something gooey melting through him, turning his systems to mush. And then he isn’t thinking, just kissing, and somewhere out there he’s sure the universe is cheering them on, crying, laughing.  

They split apart again, both smiling. Dex rubs his thumb across the bruise on Fitz’s forehead. The city’s lights seem to shine even brighter beyond them, but the only sparkles he’s interested are the ones in Fitz’s eyes.  

Dex has never been this happy. He's never been this heartbroken.  

Savage sorrow taints this moment, the most perfect thing he’s ever held in these broken hands of his, but even if the future holds a dagger to both their throats it only makes the time before the cut all the more wonderful.  

“I think the universe knew what it was doing,” Fitz says softly, and now that Dex knows what it’s like to kiss him, that’s all he can think about. “We make it to the other side, okay? We make it together.” 

“Okay,” Dex whispers, and if it’s a promise, it’s a fool’s.  

They stay there, lost in each other or a dream or a doom, until they find the courage to pull away.  

The two of them settle, shoulders pressed tight together, watching a balcony with bated breath to wait and wait. Dex is still caught up in a glorious dizziness.      

He tries to tamp it down. Right now, the last thing he can risk is letting his mind wander even slightly off course. These are the last moments. The last time he’ll have to risk everything and yet come out on the other side breathing.  

The first figure steps out onto the balcony. Keefe. “I don’t  care  how stressed out Father’s been lately,” he’s saying, walking forward to lean against the railing. “I’m not coming back to Lumenaria. Not for the world.” 

An exasperated sigh and Councilor Gisela follow. “You can’t seriously be making me have this conversation,” she snaps. “Really. Did we manage to instill any sense of filial piety in you whatsoever?” 

“To be honest,” Keefe snaps, “I’m surprised you managed to teach me how to tie my shoes correctly.” 

With each inch Gisela moves forward, the tension grows. Any moment now Sophie will come hurtling out of the shadows and the trap will be sprung...  

Gisela rolls her eyes. Keefe keeps going. “I’m not a kid anymore, in case you haven’t noticed, and any parental control boat has sailed.” 

She stops, smirks, knife-sharp. “Perhaps you’ll no longer see my as your mother... but I’m still a Councilor, Keefe.” Her chin tilts imperiously up, and she turns back towards the door. Dex could swear she looks right up at him, a nasty glint to her eye, as she does. “I expect to see you’ve decided to stay tomorrow morning. I’m going inside—it's cold  out here.” 

The door is only a couple feet away from her.  

“Wait!” Keefe calls, whirling and reaching out a desperate hand. “You can’t...” 

 “Can’t what, Keefe?” Gisela snarls, but... she’s definitely smiling, smiling with lipstick so red it’s like she coated them in blood. “Can’t walk away from your half-baked trap?” 

The world freezes, reinvents itself. She knows. And yet she’s choosing to stay out here, toying with her son... what does she know that they don’t? What makes her so confident in the face of a plot for her death? 

Keefe’s mouth gasps open. “What—” he stammers out, the word shaking. His eyes are wide and helpless. “You can’t really think...”  

This would be the perfect time for the Moonlark to burst in.  

Gisela laughs, high and sharp. “You really never had a chance, you know.” 

“Don’t we?” Keefe glares at her, vicious as any look could be. His jaw is set. “It’s over. You can’t worm your way out of this one... no matter what  you know. It’s finally, finally over.” 

That grin cuts across her face. “Is it ever over?” She raises her fingers and snaps them, once, the sound echoing like condemnation.  

And then three more forms step out onto the balcony. Two Council soldiers, menacing and seemingly emotionless.  

Each of them is half dragging someone else, their arms tightly locked around her elbows.  

The third is Sophie. Red drips down her front half. She struggles weakly, breaths catching loud enough so they can all hear each one. Her head is bowed.  

But the truth is clear from her eyes. They seem... broken. Not like she’s delirious or in pain, but like she’s—she’s...  given in.   

All the air escapes Keefe. He stares forward, horror playing across every line of him, as he tries to go to Sophie.  

“Ah ah ah,” Gisela says, turning dramatically and wagging a single finger at him. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Just, you know, in case someone’s weapon slips.” 

The Council soldiers stop their march forward below Dex and Fitz. The world is tearing itself apart. It’ll end here, Dex knows. It ends here, after years of fighting and hope and desperation, their last chance collapsing in on itself.  

Gisela extends both arms, gesturing around her. “I think,” she drawls, slow and malicious, “you’re right, Keefe—it is  over.” 

And it may just be: Keefe is still reaching out, heart slowly breaking on his face, knowing he can’t go further, the Moonlark is captive and seemingly without her spirit, the enemy is in the center of it all, untouched and mockingly triumphant, seeing through the entirety of their defeat.  

It would  be. If all the players were stuck in their places, that is.  

Fitz leaps from the roof. His movements are sure. A dagger’s in his hand. He heads for a losing warzone of a balcony.  

Dex cries out, hand extended.  

Fitz lands, momentum and force driving his blade into the left soldier’s back. Surprise and pain send the man reeling. His arm is wrenched from Sophie’s.  

But Fitz lands hard. He’s in the middle of it all, making his way to his feet. Gisela yells. Keefe laugh-sobs. Sophie stumbles forward. Fitz’s chin tilts up, pretty face a tapestry of fear and hope— 

Dex screams, trying to reach them in time— 

The other soldier’s spear enters Fitz’s right leg. It slides in, merciless, metal driving through the other side with a sickening noise and Fitz hits ground. His body sprawls out, blood gushing, his mouth moving in words between his cries, each one gutting Dex.  

Over him stands Gisela. She’s still smiling, making a flicking motion— 

Several things happen all at once.  

Sophie lashes out. The two soldiers don’t stand a chance. They fall before they realize what’s happening, her knives a blinding flash of light, then nothing. Gisela starts back.  

Sophie’s knees crumple like they’re made of paper, her face crashing into a sob. Keefe is running, running to catch her— 

From the roof, Dex acts, finally, an ocean of grief and terror and desperate love. His feet hit ground but he’s moving already, knives finding homes one by one.  

In Gisela’s eye. Her shoulder. Her stomach, her chest, her leg. She sinks from standing and goes into death like a flower blossoming.  

Dex doesn’t stick around to watch. He hits the balcony floor, too, rushing to Fitz’s side with tears already streaming down his face like a fountain. He isn’t sure they’ll ever reach their end.  

Fitz’s breathing is erratic, strange, his face pale and clenched together. But his eyes are open yet.  

The spear is still driven through his leg, blood pooling around it. It’s horrific to look at, but Dex thinks it missed the artery.  

He cradles Fitz’s head in his arms. The hiss of pain at the action is a stab to his heart. “You’re... you’re going to be okay, you hear me?” Dex murmurs, unable to stop the way his voice breaks.  

Fitz doesn’t answer, but something in him seems to relax, just slightly. Pain has settled deep into his eyes. He curls into Dex. 

“We made it. We... we made it to the other side, alright? Just—just a few more minutes. That’s it.” Dex strokes Fitz’s hair, his tears splashing onto Fitz’s face. He wonders at how ironic it all is—for Fitz to live years thinking his soulmate was going to kill him, only for Dex to lead them here after realizing he’d do anything to keep Fitz safe.  

Don't think like that. No one’s dying here.  No one.  

“I know,” Fitz manages, gasping slightly. “I—I know.” His hands grip loosely at Dex’s arms. 

Everything inside him slowly shattering, Dex leans down to press a soft kiss to Fitz’s forehead. “Hang on,” he whispers. “Please. Hang on.” 

Fitz smiles, even if he winces as he does it. “I... I,” he coughs, body heaving, head rolling listlessly closer to Dex, “l-love you.” 

Dex does his best to hide the shudder that comes with his sob. It rolls through him regardless. “Love you too,” he says, holding onto the words as if they’re too fragile to let go of. “Stay—stay with me, ‘kay?” 

The universe is toying with them. The universe was a monster all along.  

The universe will be golden if only they both live through this.  

The balcony. A boy bleeding into another’s lap, the cruel curling script across their wrists the tie that binds them, guides them, condemns them. The Moonlark (a girl) breaking, broken,  tired , blood sunk deep into the lines of her palms, held by a boy staring empty at the limp, alone body of his mother, of the malicious tyrant of Eternalia. The balcony.  

Soon, the Black Swan will come. They’ll take the old regime’s place and set to the messy business of change. Soon, they’ll be lauded as the heroes that ended the war, their broken pieces polished up into saviors. Soon, the scarlet will be scrubbed from these floors.  

Soon, everything will change.  

But in this night, it’s only the stars that watch them, children clinging on to one another with desperate hope and seeping scars.  

Just waiting for the sun to rise.  

Chapter Text

Dawn; brilliant, blissful, breaking over Eternalia. A new age.  

(they’ll call it fitting, later, those historians with stories to twist tell—but for now no one has time to think of all the metaphors that come with victory) 

It happens like this: Marella spends the darkness of the night working tirelessly, making sure Lumenaria knows things are about to change, setting up the transition of power and doing, as always, the Collective’s dirty work.  

Dawn; Marella isn’t finished, because no one is, but word of victory spreads through the Black Swan personnel and she hears it early.  

First she thinks of Linh (on a different assignment, presently) and what they can finally have, but Marella is a solider at her core and she rushes to the Black Swan Lumenaria headquarters next. 

Spark, she’s told, won’t be taking visitors at the moment.  

Marella raises one eyebrow and shoulders past them. She doesn’t have time to be slowed. “Where are they?” she demands, barging into where Spark’s meeting with perhaps a dozen others.  

Spark (to her credit) doesn’t ask who or charge Marella up for insubordination. “Receiving treatment,” she says. “They should all be fine—the Moonlark was suffering mentally and emotionally more than physically, however, so we can’t be sure there. You may see them if you like. Anything else, soldier, or can I go back to organizing a massive political operation in peace?” 

“I want to talk to you about what happens after.” Marella sets her chin firm, level and refuses to feel small. “Let them live after this. Away from it all, if they want that. Don’t make them your heroes. They don’t deserve it.” 

“We all need legends,” Spark says, dismissively. “There are worse things to be.” 

“Are there?” Marella scowls. “You’ve used them enough. Don’t force these broken people into these new roles, parade them in front of Eternalia... you’d be doing them no kindnesses, just another cruelty.” 

Spark sighs. “I know you care about them. But Eternalia needs  its heroes, Marella. You’d forget this country in the name of five soldiers?” 

“I would,” Marella says, without hesitation. “All I ask is this: give them the rest of their lives. And I swear, general,  by whatever means I can, you and whatever else must will come to regret it if you don’t.” 

She keeps her voice cold, casual. But there is iron in it just the same.  

Spark studies her a moment, calculating. “Well.” She narrows her eyes, but smiles, as if to say you win, well done, watch out. “Granted, soldier. Now get out of my sight.” 

Marella does, entire body slumping in relief.  

Her steps don’t slow. She needs to get to the infirmary, to find Linh.  

Today is beginning. Today is begun.  

Dawn; and there is life after ‘the end’—so much of it, because there was no ending. There was victory, but victory does not scrawl those final words across life’s page. Nothing does. Life goes on, because there is much that needs doing, and no time to pause.  

(that’s not what they’ll say, later, but a story is for after it’s over—not the people still battling through it) 

Dawn. Marella needs to start breathing and finally get those she loves  home .  

three months later   

A mile out from the nearest settlement, tucked neatly next to a hill and lying low against the earth, a wooden farmhouse hunkers down. Out from it spread rows of messily planted crops, barely sprouting from the earth in vivid greens, and a small orchard of fruit trees lanky in adolescence. The chickens squabble about their little pen.  

The home is painted a fresh blue and white, not yet given time to flake, its porches still too new to creak. Tall grass rises up around it. It's big, for a farmhouse, one story but a sprawling one.  

The closest neighbors whisper. In the end, they  say  nothing.  

The other side of the bed is cold when Linh wakes up (but there’s tea steaming warm on her nightstand).  

Around her legs, the sheets are tangled, leaving her top half bare. She yawns and presses her palms into her eyes.  

The tea is just how she likes it. Linh takes a moment to sit up and sip at it, hair spilling around her shoulders and eyelids still drooping, before she finally forces herself to stand.  

In the kitchen, Marella’s apparently freshly back in, a basket of eggs in one hand. “Sleep well?” she asks. 

“Nightmares.” Linh shrugs, and at Marella’s frown, laughs and adds, “Nothing you can do about it, my love.” 

She goes to lean against the counter, soaking in the sun streaming through the window and giving her soulmate a quick kiss.  

Linh never thought, before, that they’d get to have this.  

There are so many things she can’t forget, that none of them can. All of them know what it’s like to have horrors run amok in their heads and to wake empty, gasping, guilty at midnight, to flinch at some loud noise or something the wrong shade of red. To never manage to pull themselves out of bed some days.  

But they still have  this , the quiet mornings, the easy ones. And it’s so much more than Linh ever thought it would be.  

(she’s pretty sure it’s all thanks to Marella—she's never said, but the Collective paid for it all and hasn’t ever asked for them to come back to Lumenaria) 

Linh twists the ring on her finger, smiling.  

That's the other (the best) thing she didn’t think she’d get—to be married to her soulmate, her love, her wife.  

The farmhouse door swings open again. Dex and Biana walk inside, him carrying her duffel bag.  

(technically, she doesn’t live here—but she still has a bedroom just for her, and it’s filled often as not) 

 “Morning all,” Biana says, with a dramatic sweep of one hand. “Only you three up yet?”  

“Nope,” Keefe calls from the living room. There's another sound of agreement that might be Sophie.  

Biana rests her upper arms flat against the counter, propping herself up by her elbows. She lets out an unending huff of a sigh.  

Dex knows that, if any of them ever asked, she could tell them what’s going on in the rest of Eternalia. The politics, the people, the problems. None of them do, even if some days, the words wobble on the tip of his tongue and he almost lets them tip out.  

But, in the end, he doesn’t want to know what kind of mess he left behind.  

Just a week after the night they changed the world, they came out here and barely looked back. It wasn’t easy on any of them, some injuries not yet healed, but there was the driving sense that they needed to get out of there before something pulled them back in.  

Eternalia’s better—getting more so by the day. Dex knows that much, and it’s enough.  

The six of them end up in the living room, attempting to be quiet (mostly failing) in the spirit of not waking Fitz up. No one feels up to making actual breakfast, so they end up with two-day old homemade bread just torn into chunks.  

Dex takes in Keefe and Sophie, both in the clothes they were wearing yesterday, dark circles sitting under their eyes (though that’s normal, now—or is it normal still?). “Did you ever get to bed?” he asks. 

“Sophie couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up with her,” Keefe explains, shrugging.  

The thing is, it’s been harder on Sophie than the rest of them. She doesn’t know how to help things grow, how to help herself  grow. She knows blood and blades and sacrifice.  

Dex remembers, one night, talking in hushed voices a month after  the  night (just days after Sophie started talking about all their horrors).  

She'd said, staring forward, that she’d been telling herself for so long, during the war, that she just needed to see it through to the end. But that night, as they finally took the Council down, she couldn’t make it—not all the way.  

These days Keefe and Sophie speak an odd language of intuitive kindnesses and meaningful gazes. Dex isn’t sure whether they’re together or even just getting there, and he doesn’t ask. They’ll figure it out.  

Noises from down the hall. Fitz steps in, yawning, leaning heavily on his cane. “Nice to know how much you care about my sleep,” he says.  

“Don’t know what you want us to say,” Biana says, “but you’re not getting it.” 

Fitz laughs. His hair’s messy, gorgeously so. “Someone’s watered the garden already, right?” 

A chorus of negatives greet him. He sighs, grumbles something about the tomatoes, and sits down next to Dex on the couch.  

Dex kisses the side of his head, gently, and curls closer to him.  

No matter how the shadows creep in his mind, every day he thanks the universe for bringing them together (for letting them stay that way).  

Wind stirs the leaves on the back porch. Above, the night descends upon daylight, the sun nearly sunk already.  

From the bench, Fitz gazes out at it, cane resting beside him.  

His right leg hurts. It’s not unusual, the little pangs and aches there that have become part of the map of him. Fitz is still getting used to it. He can’t help out as much as he’d like, can’t walk far or fast, but Dex likes to shake his head and say that he saved Eternalia. He’s got leave to figure out the rest.  

“Hey,” Dex says softly, slipping up behind him.  

Fitz smiles and pats the space beside him.  

Dex fills it, settling in next to him, and unconsciously they move together. They lean into each other, Fitz’s head resting on Dex’s shoulder, Dex’s arm around his shoulder.  

They know each other’s lines well. They've got separate bedrooms, if they want them, but most nights one of those beds ends up cold.  

“Do you ever think about going back?” Fitz’s brow furrows.  

“Every day,” Dex admits. “I don’t know what’s there for me, but I want to see it. I want to see what we fought for... why wouldn’t I? And yet I can’t bring myself to do it.” 

“Yeah,” Fitz says. “Me, too. And then—there’s my mom, too, you need to meet her  sometime . Atlantis, my house. Maybe even Alvar.” He bites his lip, trying to keep the sorrow in. “Why haven’t I?” 

“Someday.” Dex rubs Fitz’s back, gently. “Okay? Not until we’re ready.” 

The sun is nearly gone. It casts strange shadows across the porch, across the fields beyond. Long grass sways in the wind. Insects hum. Somewhere out there, a coyote cries into the night.  

Fitz glances up at Dex, a smile curving at the edges of his lips.  

It’s all so much. The war, the memories, even just the seven of them. Eternalia, out there, waiting, not done with them yet. This peace is the most fragile thing he’s ever tried to hold. 

“Breathe,” Dex whispers, almost against his lips. It’s a reminder, their reminder, to keep going.  

They'll take it all one step at a time.  

Fitz cups Dex’s face, running his thumb along the softness of his cheek. “Breathe.” The night swirls cold around them.  

Softly, sweetly, their lips meet. They kiss and drift apart and breathe. The world doesn’t stop being what it is, too huge and complicated and messy.  

He and Dex melt together here, kissing in the night, and it’s beautifully theirs. Their hearts beat and their lungs stretch, expand and their souls meet and drum out a rhythm of I love you.    

The thing is: Fitz has a different world now. A better one.  

It’s you, he thinks, kissing Dex, it’s you.