Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Giza: 2600 B.C.

The sun reigns high in the sky, scalding all the poor men hauling tons of limestone through the burning sand. Although, one man doesn’t seem to mind. A mask in the semblance of Bastet covers his face, save for the tight line of his lips. His arms show no sign of strain as he rolls blocks with the other workers. His entire body is coated in a layer of dust. The others look at him, marveling at his stead-fast focus and tireless dedication, but the young man’s mind wanders. He thinks of the Pharaoh’s daughter, with her twinkling eyes and brilliant smile. As soon as he finishes this section, he is free to go see her. Those supervising his work allow him to go eat and drink, but the masked worker declines. The very idea of her makes his heart pound. Besides, he is not hungry and there isn’t even sweat on his brow. He will work until he can see her.

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting reds onto the waters of the Nile. She sees him on the river banks, unmoving. She runs to him, jewelry smacking against her skin. A heavy, golden necklace slaps against her chest. Various bracelets adored with precious gems bite into her arm. Her wig, along with an intricate headband, tumbles from its perch, revealing two red stones set in her ears. She collapses beside him and cradles his head in her lap. The Bastet mask dissolves, revealing a very young, worn down child. A black creature flies out of the boy’s ring. He is exhausted, and he takes shelter in the recently discarded weave. A familiar red face greets him.

She says his name, his real name, over and over. Her voice gets louder and louder until she is finally sobbing. Her tears land on him and carve paths through the dust. She shakes his body violently when her voice stops working. He does not respond. The wind whips around their forms as the evening suddenly shifts from blazing to freezing.

Careful a tiny voice cautions. There’s a sandstorm coming. The girl shakes her head and makes a decision. With the utmost care, she slides the metal band off her lover’s finger, cradling it in her palm before giving it to the black creature. Then, she pulls the stones from her ears and tucks them into the band of her wig.

I’ll find help. She says, determined. The tears dry from her face as she heaves the boy onto her back. Her sandals leave imprints in the sand, but the growing wind soon erases them.

Chapter Text

Troy: 1905 B.C.

I am Eros, God of Desire, and you have something which I desire. A beautiful young woman jumps from her bed, startled at the voice. She believes she is alone, but, out of caution, she morphs her face into that of a cat. She pulls back the curtains and sees a stranger. There are two large, white wings that pulse from his back, and he could be an angel if not for the wicked grin on his lips. Purple light shimmers around his eyes, and he pulls an arrow from his quiver. Afraid, the woman attacks, her nails ripping through his robes and digging into his flesh. Eros cries out in pain, but he still shoots the arrow. It sails directly into the woman’s heart, then disappears. Feline features fade from her face as she falls to the floor. The wounded man takes the opportunity to escape.

Moments later, another man arrives, this time through the window. He is clad in red armor, black splotches across the chest plate. Seeing the fallen maiden, he rushes to her side and checks that she is alive. Breath. Pulse. Life. Her eyes snap open, and the man is consumed by their beauty. They roam his face, drinking in the rugged curve of his jaw, the soft tilt of his lips, the rounded form of his nose, and the endless blue of his eyes. Suddenly, she surges forward, crashing her lips into his. Teeth painfully bang together, and lustful fingers pull him impossibly closer. It is a surprise. The man has never met this maiden; all he knows of her is that she is the most beautiful woman in all the world. Her lips move from his lips and down his neck, stopping to playfully nip at his Adam’s apple. Her legs wind around his waist, urging him to come closer. The man cannot help but notice how her night clothes ride up past her thighs, and he becomes drunk on her passion. That night, the man’s innocent intentions are overwritten by carnal desires. He will never know of the arrow in her heart.

Their love starts a war. Men all over the seas are calling for the death of the man in red armor. Blood is spilt over once clean soil, and after years, the man can no longer take it. He cannot stand the fighting. His wife and he sit in a small house in Troy. The soft light of a fire is all they have. He came to the decision to return her. She is used, obvious by the swell of her stomach, but she is even more radiant than the day he first saw her. There is so much love in her eyes that he cannot bear to look at her. When the dawn breaks, he will leave her here, alone.

The silence of the night is broken by battle cries. Immediately, both transform. They look completely different, with the small exception of a silver ring and a set of red earrings. They burst out the building and are greeted by a large, wooden horse. Warriors pour out from its belly, setting fires and wrecking the city. The two exchange a glance and know they must fight. Feet pound against the ground, and they launch themselves into the fray. All around them, men fall, but the chaos continues. The lovers grow tired, and their movements slow. The man’s earrings beep. One beep. Two. Three. Four. In a blinding light, he transforms back to normal. Battle rages around him, and he tries to hide. Greek soldiers notice his weakness and fire a volley of arrows. The man cannot escape, so he shields himself and waits for death.

Death does not come for him. His wife throws herself over him, saving his life. An arrow pierces her heart, for the second time, but now, the tip pokes out her back, red and glistening. She slumps on the road, and her lover drags her body into a nearby building. This time, he sees the cat-like features fade. A black spirit rolls from her ring, only to be caught by a red embrace.

This is my fault. The man whispers. His hand rests gently on her stomach. All of this was a mistake. His fingers slide across her body and into her hand. He hesitates a moment, wondering if he is making the right choice. Then, he removes her ring and gingerly offers it to the black creature. Tiny paws accept it. He does the same with his earrings. His red companion cries. Finally, he walks out the door, head held high and eyes peacefully closed.

Chapter Text

Rome: 200 B.C.

The roar of the coliseum reverberates even in the dark maze beneath the arena. Two men huddle in a corner, fully dressed in combat gear. Their spear and sword are carelessly thrown on the floor. A heavy silence hangs between them, but they lean against each other, completely at ease. A Roman governor has died today, and the crowd expects a bloody fight. Usually, it is two prisoners who fight each other, but today is different. In the corner, there is one slave and one ex-soldier. They have completely different skill levels, so much so that it’s obviously unfair, but they were chosen for the fight. The silence breaks when the soldier starts to cry.

A calloused hand tries to comfort, rubbing circles into the sobbing man’s back, but it is clumsy and rough. Still, the soldier calms. He leans into his companion, lacing his fingers with the unoccupied hand. Heat pools in the area of contact, except for the small section occupied by a cool, metal ring. Shifting, the two press against each other. Legs overlap and broad shoulders jostle together. The slave peppers soft kisses up the soldier’s jaw, starting at the chin and ending at the studded ears. They sit like that until the pounding sound of drums calls them.

The crowd screams with delight as one of the gladiators falls to the dirt, blood coating the front of his tunic. The fight lasted much longer than anyone expected. The slave danced around the arena, a devilish green glow in his eyes. The soldier attacked viciously, but just wasn’t lucky enough to land a solid hit until the very end. Perhaps the slave was just too tired to move out of the way. The fallen fighter throws his spear on the ground and looks up for mercy. People shout praises, calling this the best fight in all of Rome’s history. Both men smile softly, relief washing over their burning bodies. The champion turns to the emperor, awaiting his signal. A line of purple light outlines the ruler’s eyes before he declares his decision.

Slay him. Blood chills at the stern command. For a moment, stunned silence overcomes the entire coliseum. Then, emotions burst from even man, woman, and child. Many oppose, too pleased with the valiant display. Many agree, burning with a lust for carnage. Two stare at each other, eyes filled with pity and despair. Again, the emperor says his command.

Slay him. The slave spreads his arms and grins at his opponent. A sword swings down, and the man’s head lands softly in the dust. A black creature flees from the dead man’s ring and cowers behind the decapitated head.

I shall take his head as a prize. The victor yells above the crowd. Leaning down, he pries the ring from his friend’s finger, before hoisting the head up for all to see. Without a word, he turns and walks back into the secrecy of the tunnels. There is no one there, so he crouches down and calls out.

A red bug responds, tears streaming down her face. The victor gives her three gifts: the first is the head, the second is the black creature, and the third is the pair of stones in his ears. Silently, the man abandons all he has and walks into the depth of the underground maze.

Chapter Text

Pompeii: 76 A.D.

The streets of Pompeii are filled with laughter. It is the beginning of the harvest season, and the wine is especially good this year. It is only mid-day, but there are already many drunk on the new wine. Raucous laughter fills the taverns, and the wise stay far away from the sound. One woman braves the noisy street on her way to the docks. She barely walks past the door before a group of intoxicated men spill out and crowd around her. She scowls, and tries to push past them. They form a wall. One man asks how much she costs.

If you want a bed mate, I suggest you follow the signs on the road leading to your sister’s home. She snaps, pointing to a phallus etched in the cobbles. Burning with shame, the man swings a fist at her head. Easily, she dodges, but she is still surrounded. Sunburnt arms wrap around her waist and worn hands clasp around her wrists. She struggles, but they are too strong. Her attacker laughs at her, alcohol burning on his breath. As his arm pulls back, she cries out for help.

Her attacker suddenly crumples to the ground. Another drunkard stands behind him, a broken glass bottle in his hand and a shit-eating grin on his face. He staggers a bit, almost as if he can’t stand properly, but he grips the pointed remains of the bottle like a small dagger. His eyes are clear, burning with sick excitement and cold warning. A chill runs up everyone’s spine. The other men exchange glances before letting the woman go and quickly slinking back into the tavern. The two left in the street silently look over the other. The drunkard still smiles, but it is softer. Kinder. Familiar.

It has been nearly a decade, cat. The woman says. The man tosses the bottle to the side and saunters up to her; she puts out her hands, keeping him at a distance. She doesn’t smile, and instead of gratitude or joy, her face is marred with disgust. When he sighs, her nose crinkles at the overpowering stench. You’ve really lost yourself since we defeated Hawkmoth. You disgust me.

She walks away, bumping shoulders with her old partner. He doesn’t say anything, but his vision blurs with tears as soon as she too far to hear him cry.

No one is ready when the volcano erupts. No one pays attention to tremors and rumbling sounds; the mountain did that on a regular basis. But when the ash falls, it falls fast. It is light, but it piles upon the rooftops and streets with a dangerous speed. Each speck is just a drop of warmth, but as they pile, they form a smoldering mass. Except for the fires at the top of the mountain, the world is dark. The people begin to panic when news of Herculaneum’s destruction arrives.

One man helps the people evacuate. His glowing, green eyes guide them to the bay and onto leaving boats. He often looks to the Isola d’Ischia with a pained longing before running back into the city. Hundreds escape to safety due to his help, and he continues his ventures into the city. He is digging a woman out of her home when it happens.

Suddenly, the air around him jumps up a few hundred degrees. A black cloak protects his body from harm, but each breath sears his lungs, scalding him inside out. Pain rips through his throat, screaming. Dry and harsh and hot. He curls up into himself, pulling his ringed hand close to his chest, protecting it. His last thoughts are filled with the colors around him-all red and black-but they cling gently to a beautiful, kind-hearted woman. He smiles.

The people are telling his story.  The south is buzzing with tales of a cat-like man saving the people from the fiery wrath of the mountain. He is praised for his selflessness and bravery, and the survivors flood the nearby temples to pray for his safety. It isn’t long before his old partner hears. She sits on the shoreline of Ischia, pointed towards the destroyed city with glazed over eyes. She regrets her last words to him. She is so proud of everything that he did, both now and years ago. She hopes he is alive.

Her hope is shattered when a black dot appears over the water. A cat spirit speeds towards her, clutching a ring in his paws. Beside her, a red bug cries, saying something about ‘it happening again’ between her sobs. The cat comforts her, then looks up at the woman with expectant eyes. Before she even knows what she’s doing, the woman takes off her earrings and drops them in the sand. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she understands. Closing her eyes, she lays down on the beach. Waves lap at her feet and the wind chills her skin. Her mind fills with thoughts of him laughing and dancing and whispering sweet things into her ear. Memories of years gone by. Everything he would want to be remembered for. Her soul feels like its missing a piece.

When she opens her eyes, she is alone.

Chapter Text

Constantinople: 1203 A.D.

It is too hot. The summer sun blazes cruelly, and the people run around the city, sweat slick on their brows. That alone makes the heat unbearable, but a fire also spreads from one house to the other, engulfing the world in an inferno. The Venetian attackers started the flames earlier that day, as a means of escaping the battle, but the simple diversion grows into a death trap with each passing hour. Buildings topple, leaving piles of debris and ash. Citizens cough through the smoke, praying that they will avoid the other danger in the city. The Crusaders ride their horses through the streets, beating down all who cross their path.

One holy knight is particularly vicious. He all but ignores the fires, marching through them on foot. His armor is a smoldering mass, interrupted by black spots of ash and soot. The metal glows red, as if it just came out of the forge, yet he walks without a hint of pain. Unlike the other knights, who all retreat or perish in the fires, he practically parades himself through the wreckage. His sword is wet with blood. Out of all the horrors in Constantinople, the people fear this man the most.

No one notices the child. Amidst the smoke and ruin, no one sees the small girl. Her arms strain as she pick up the rock. Jagged edges cut into her palms. She stumbles under the weight, but her eyes remain locked on her target. With a furious grunt, the child hurls the stone at an unsuspecting crusader. The rubble smashes into the man’s back, pushing him off his feet and into the ground. Pebbles rain down on him, creating a metallic symphony against his armor. Cautiously, the girl sneaks over to the body. The knight doesn’t move, and she starts to worry that he is dead. She prays that he’s not dead. All she wanted is for the Crusaders to leave, not to die. Tiny hands roll him onto his back and gently brush dust off the body.

Large hands, covered by heavy gauntlets, speed out and crush her tiny digits. She screams out in pain as he rises to his feet, pulling her into the air. Her feet kick wildly, yet he can easily evade her attacks just by holding her at an arm’s length. The man is enraged, and his vision tunnels in on the girl’s face. He does not notice the black spirit. Needle-like teeth sink into his hand, and he flings the child away, spitting curses all the while. The girl screams for the creature, and it speeds into the ring on her finger. The fatigue fades from her muscles, and her senses sharpen. If the crusader was an ordinary man, she could escape with ease.

But the crusader is not an ordinary man. An ancient power and disgusting rage surge through his body, pushing him forward with unearthly speed. His fingers clamp around her throat, powerful. Crushing.  She claws at his hands, nails scraping against metal. Black spots swarm near the edges of her vision, and she has an idea.

Catacly- The word dies as the crusader slams her body into the dirt. Limbs bend, bones crack, and, worst of all, a neck snaps. A black cat bolt out of her ring and hisses as the flames singe his whiskers. The crusader laughs. He stops when a red light flows over him, transforming him back into a mediocre soldier. The fire is too hot, and he begins to panic. Pain tears through his head when a red spirit rips the stones from his ears. Blood drips onto his shoulder.

You don’t deserve these. The voice is soft and small, but it somehow terrifies the knight. He stumbles backwards, and the fires lick at his boots. His eyes look up, hoping to see a sweet, familiar face, but he is greeted by dark, cold eyes and a furious snarl. You never deserved these, you beast. The man swipes at both creatures, but they simply phase through his hand, judging him like angels of death. They float, menacingly, and the man stumbles back again. This time, he falls, and this time, the fires eat away at his entire body. He screams in pain, begging for mercy, but there is no one there to hear him.

Chapter Text

Vienna: 1680

Vienna is dying. Black rats skitter between buildings, dragging bits of carpet or scraps of clothing in their greedy little jaws. Dirty water sloshes in the streets, flowing around piles of garbage and human waste. Every inch of the town is saturated with the odor, driving many people into their homes. Still, they find no sanctuary. The world is churning, and there are only a few willing to stabilize the city.

Nurses hurry between homes, faces covered in damp rags and hands red from the cold. They don’t know how to comfort all the diseased-changing the sheets and wiping sweat can only do so much-and they nervously tug at their blood-speckled aprons. One woman drags a body through the streets, towards the large, gaping pits at the edge of town. The sound of crying children follows her.

She bites her lip, pushing back the bitter tears that threaten to fall. No matter what, she will be strong. She will be strong for those who are weak, loosing hope, and alone. Besides, misfortune is not a stranger to her; misfortune has followed her for years in the form of an annoying, black cat.

A plague doctor comes to Vienna. The children are afraid of the beaked mask and heavy cloaks, but the adults cry for joy. This physician is different from the others, ordering that the town be cleaned before getting to work. Those healthy enough to work shoveled sewage into sacks and toss them in with the deceased. It’s disrespectful, but the plague slows. The doctor, along with the local holy men, set up a hospital, gathering up all the ill for treatment. The nurses are taught to wash their hands, although they don’t work with the patients anymore; they just wash the blood and vomit off the sheets.

No one is sure why the doctor won’t let them watch the treatment. Everything happens behind a drawn curtain, but the results are nothing short of a miracle. White light bursts from the edges, bringing a sense of comfort, then the patient returns, fully recovered. Everyone shows their gratitude, leaving miscellaneous gifts on the hospital doorstep. Some people even believe the healer has divine powers, and there are a few worshippers scattered along with the gifts.

However, the beloved medic does not want this. There is something else. Each night, a beaked figure tries to hurry across town, and each night, the watchman escorts the physician back to the hospital. You cannot just roam around. The watchman says, over and over. The disease clings to you. Do not bring it into the town.

There is someone who needs me! The doctor replies. They argue about death and clean streets and cures. The watchman always apologizes, but there is no sincerity in his words. There is, however, fear. Back at the hospital, the doctor overturns tables and punches the make-shift walls.

The only time the medic is allowed into Vienna is when the patient is too ill to move. Now, someone sits by death’s door. A local authority escorts the cloaked figure through the street, yelling for everyone to make way. The two make their way to the patient’s house; the sister answers the door, her eyes lighting up with joy. She ushers the doctor into a small bedroom. The physician requests privacy, and the door shuts with a heavy thud.

Vienna’s best nurse lays in bed, fingertips and nose blackened with disease. She casts a weary glance at the medic before laughing. It is too late for her. She believed she could overcome misfortune, and it had swallowed her in retaliation. You can’t save me. She chuckles. I know that better than anyone. Soft giggles float from the mask, and the nurse frowns in confusion. Clasps are undone and knots are untied. The doctor places the mask on the table and lets the cloak fall to the floor. The nurse stares in amazement.

But I know better than you, you feral stray. Despite the mean words, the voice is light, teasing even. Padding over to the bedside, the physician runs slender finger’s through the patient’s knotted hair. The sick woman is still in a daze, running her eyes up and down the person before her.

My sweet and loving lady. She chokes out. The doctor smiles brightly and nods her head. Years of absence stretch between the two, but they still connect. Unspoken words, filled with love and yearning, pass between them, and the doctor plants a gentle kiss on her partner’s dangerously warm forehead.  Shaking hands reach up to urgently pull the lips down. Noses bump, and heads tilt ever so slightly, slowly closing what little distance remains. It’s been so long, much too long. A shrill tone breaks the moment.

Both look at the ring, black and bright green. There is only one paw print, and it flickers frantically. The doctor looks at her patient, confused. Why? Her ill partner answers with a bitter smile. You can’t save me. She sighs, twisting the ring around her finger. He can’t keep this up forever, and we know that better than anyone.

Again, the ring shrieks, then fades from black to silver. A black cat plops out onto the sheets, shaking uncontrollably. A red bug scoops him into her tiny arms, but he pulls out of her grasp. He takes his ring and curls up in a patch of sunlight by the window. The physician stares down at the creature, then forces herself to look at her patient. A small smile graces her face, and her eyes are closed as if she’s sleeping.

She isn’t sleeping.

The doctor bites her lip, holding back tears. She isn’t sure what to do. Looking back at the cat, she makes a decision. She kneels nearby, taking off her earring with unsteady hands. Her tiny partner looks on with concern, but doesn’t intervene. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her. She offers her jewelry to the cat spirit, and, after a moment, he takes them. Small paws wrap around her fingers in a hug, and a single tear falls from the creature’s eye.

Thank you for being there in the end.

She scratches lightly between his ears, eliciting a small purr, and then, she gets up, puts on her uniform, and walks out. ‘Sorry’ echoes throughout Vienna as the doctor trudges along the stony roads out of town.

Chapter Text

London: 1889

Cataclysm. This is the last word a young prostitute hears. A sharpened claw just ghosts across her neck, and she suddenly cannot breath. She feels her body fail; she feels her lungs deflate, bones crumble, heart sputter to a stop. Yet, she somehow does not die immediately. As she collapses to the ground, she can see her attacker. He is cloaked in black and two points-horns, she guesses-sprout from his head. With the last of her strength, she screams. It isn’t too loud, but it echoes through the empty, darkened streets.

The murderer chuckles, amused at her last attempt to call for help. One of his hands is still covered in a dark energy, so he drags his claws across her stomach. Her shirt crumbles, then her flesh dissolves, leaving a neat window inside her body. In the low lamp light, he admires the canvas that is her body. He adores the reds and blacks. Blood soaks into brown cloth, blossoming around the window. The man shivers with excitement. A gloved hand reaches down, ready to grab and tear and crush, but it doesn’t move. Confused, the man struggles against the unknown force until the light glints off a thin thread. His eyes follow the line back to a woman across the street.

She is red and black, but not like the corpse on the ground. She is red and black and grace and beauty, with spots and lines and curves. Famous artists of centuries long past couldn’t capture the way he sees her: like a goddess. She is his reason to live, to strive, and to kill. The man desperately wants her to just know his existence and to let him bathe in her divine presence. His intentions shine in his eyes, and the woman shudders in fear. He moves towards her, and, in a panic, she rips the thread back. The man jolts forward, and his face smashes into the stone street with a wet crack.

The man wakes up in a neat bed, hands tied to the bedposts. He tugs at the knots, and they only tighten around his wrists. Tilting his head, he examine his surroundings. It is a small room, damp seeping through the walls. A window lets in grey light, dimly illuminating a lady slumped over the table, sleeping. She stirs as the bed creaks under his shifting weight. Her eyes open, blurred with sleep, but the man immediately recognizes her.

My lady! He cries out. Startled, the woman bolts out of her chair, back slamming against the wall behind her. She is scared. Her knuckles turn white as her hands twist in the fabric of her skirt. Again, he pulls at his restraints, and she lets out a pitiful, strangled yelp. The wooden bedframe cracks, sending tiny splinters across the floor. He rolls off the mattress and slowly stalks towards her. A red creature tries to fly over to the distressed woman, but the man smacks it out of the air. The woman begins to cry.

My lady, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve worked so hard. To finally meet you… it’s a blessing. The final word is barely a breath, but he’s so close that she still hears. His hands shake as they brush the tears off his lady’s face. She recoils at his touch. He is hurt by her reaction.

Leave me alone. She chokes. Their eyes don’t meet. She doesn’t notice the fragile look on his face. Perhaps she wouldn’t care. The man stumbles away and holds out his ring hand like it’s an offering. The woman glances at it, but she doesn’t react in any way. There isn’t even a hint of recognition.

My lady… you know me. The phrase comes out like a question.

No. I don’t know any monsters like you. His spirit breaks. All of his past sins crash over him, and he cannot handle the blood on his hands. All he wanted was for his goddess’s love. He knew that he was her other half, ever since the black spirit gifted him the ring, but she didn’t see him like that. To her, he was a monster. Like everyone else, she thought he was a monster. It hurts. Well, then, he would leave like a monster should. Green light envelopes his body.

Cataclysm. She expects him to attack, and she drops into a fighting stance. Instead, he bows before her, glowing hand on his chest. It’s his final good-bye to his goddess. Horrified, she watches her murderous partner shrivel and disintegrate. There is no blood or bone, neither reds nor blacks. He must have poured all his energy into this, because it is clean. All that is left is a silver ring, clanging softly as it hits the floor. A tiny cat slips out of the ring, coughing and twitching. The red spirit weakly floats over, comforting him.

You know that monster? The woman asks, voice trembling. The creature merely nods, cradling her injured companion. Her tiny brows knit in confusion as her chosen removes her earrings and laughs.

I knew you were evil… The earrings are thrown to the ground, and the two spirits zip around the room, avoiding toppled furniture and a swinging broom. Both creatures grab their miraculous items and fly as fast as they can out the window. They only slow when the woman’s angry screams disappear in the morning haze.

Chapter Text

Philadelphia: 1945

GODDAMMIT! The yell is drowned out by the overwhelming noise of gunfire. Bullets spray across the dirt, spewing dust into the air. A green-eyed man weaves between a thin covering of trees, hauling a wounded friend on his back. Lead peppers the trees, and splinters rain down on his back. The young soldier stumbles, sliding down into a dried out river bed.  He huddles down, keeping his head below the lip of the ditch. The deadly rain of metal continues, but for now, he’s safe. His friend needs his attention. Now.

He quickly pushes large rocks out of the way, then rolls his companion onto the ground. With the pressure off his back, the soldier can feel the blood coating his jacket, horribly warm and wet against the cold, dry air. His hands frantically fumble with the latches on his bag, and he just dumps everything out when it opens. Empty cheese tins scatter around, and he grabs his water and some bandages. He puts the water skin to the injured man’s lips, then goes to work. He tears at the clothing around the wound, using his claws to get a better look. Shit.

There’s so much blood. The earth just soaks it up, turning into a horrid mud. He doesn’t know what to do, and the bandages unravel the harder he wraps them. His friend looks on weakly, sipping water all the while. Then, he looks surprised. A shaking hand travels up and wipes the dampness from his savior’s cheek. He’s crying. The young hero is surprised too, maybe even startled, but he continues wrapping. It unravels again. It’s okay, his injured friend sighs, Leave me.

No! He shakes his head, but moves away. No…no… I’ll go get help. Don’t die on me. He crouches to one side, and his uniform ripples, changing into black leather. A bell clinks as he races away. The immobile man closes his eyes, finding comfort in the soft ringing. He has not heard a sound so soft since he came here. It reminds him of the stray his sister took in and tamed with a ribbon collar. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Comforting.

The sound stops as another wave of bullets speeds overhead.

The doorbell rings, a lovely chime in an empty house. A woman races to the door, expecting cheerful faces and long over-due reunions. She pulls hard on the knob, and the door slams into the nearby wall. Her smile fails when she sees the lone stranger outside. He looks almost ashamed, as if he personally ruined her mood, and he pulls out two envelopes from his bag. He solemnly hands them over, offering soft apologies and an empathetic farewell. The woman nods, then closes the door with a gentle click.

She drags herself over to the sitting area and slumps over in the big armchair. This is her husband’s favorite chair. A red spirit floats by her unsteady hands, silent but ready to comfort. The woman opens the first envelope. Inside, there is a letter and a dog tag necklace. She holds back a sob when she reads the name. Her brother is dead. According to the letter, he bled out on the battle field. The writer said he was brave and valiant. She nods; he is brave and valiant and funny and kind and a little bit annoying and oh so very young. So very young. Barely seventeen. She places his tags on the coffee table and opens the next letter.

Her heart shatters as she reads the note. Her husband… her husband was gunned down in an open field. She bites her lip, thoughts running through her mind. Why? Why? Why? What was her silly kitty thinking? What was he doing? Why would he leave her like this? The letter doesn’t answer any of these questions. She doubles over, hugging her knees while the red creature rubs circles into her shoulder. There is a soft tapping at the window, and the spirit departs for a moment.

She clutches the paper to her chest, breathe leaving her body is pulsing waves of air. Her bun unravels, and her hair sticks to her dampened cheeks. She hopes this is just a bad dream, and she’ll wake up soon. Tiny claws dig into the sides of her nose, snapping her face up. Electric green eyes stare at her. Do you want to know why? The creature asks, and he continues on without any reply. He was getting help for your brother. And he was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The cat spirit shakes the dog tag out. Along with the metal plate, there is a simple ring. Tiny paws present the silver band. He is a hero.

The woman worries her bottom lip between her teeth. She opens her mouth, then closes it smiling, frowning, and finally settling on some expression in between. Her fingers comb through her disheveled hair, spilling pins across the seat. In the end, she nods her head and softly strokes the cat’s ears. He is a hero. And so is she. And the world needs heroes. The war might be over, but there is still a great evil out there. Her eyes focus on the ring, and she asks a question.

Do you need a find a new chosen? He nods. Then, please, take these too. She removes her earrings and proffers them to both spirits. The red one takes them. I’m suddenly very tired. If you need me, I’ll be upstairs. The woman gathers up all her mail, reminds that there are cheeses and cookies in the fridge, then trudges up to the darkened second floor.

Chapter Text

Paris: 2016

“Good morning class. I’ve got some exciting news for you all; we have a new student joining us today.” The general chatter in the classroom dies down as every turns to the door. There is excitement in the air, something that always come with the new and unexpected. Some students notice the knowing glint in Madame Bustier’s eyes, and they lean forward in anticipation. She opens the door, and a beautiful blond model saunters in. His eyes shine as he takes in the classroom, and a very genuine, warm-hearted smile forms on his lips. Everyone is stunned into silence. The teacher clears her throat and continues. “This is Adrien Ag-“

“ADRIKINS!!” Chloe’s scream sends the class into chaos. Chairs scrape again the floor and hands bang again the tables. The overall volume doubles as people point out the giant billboard across the street, the little kiosk on the corner, and the tween magazine in every girl’s bag, all featuring their new classmate. Alya even whips out her phone, snapping a few pics for her absent friend. Adrien seems a bit nervous, but he waves at the camera. He gets a wink in return. That’s new.

“Calm down, everyone.” Madame Bustier laughs. Nothing changes, but the woman is willing to wait. She chuckles at Chloe’s dramatics, Kim’s attempt to look uninterested, and Rose’s faint blush. She knows all of her children so well, and she directs the new boy to the empty spot by Nino. The young DJ is especially welcoming and friendly, kindness only surpassed by one other student. A student who happens to not be here. Madame Bustier frowns slightly at Marinette’s empty chair. She would never understand why Marinette only shows up just moments before class starts, especially since the Dupain-Cheng bakery was literally just down the street. Well, she should be here soo-

The door slams open just as the class bell rings. Everyone stops—Adrien is poised lightly on the stairs—and turns towards the entrance. A blur of black hair and pink pants darts across the room, repeating ‘I’m here, I’m here’ around a croissant. Both of her pigtails fall out, and hair covers her eyes. But, even if that didn’t happen, Marinette still wouldn’t have seen the person blocking the way to her chair.

Marinette barrels into her new classmate, and the two of them sprawl across the floor. Papers filled with design sketches and notes fly through the air, then gently float onto the bodies on the floor. Concerned, Madame Bustier steps out to get the school nurse.

“Ow ow ow…” Marinette pushes herself up and rubs her scraped elbow, hissing slightly at the pain. She shifts her weight to her knees and hears a pained groan beneath her. Oh gosh, did she run into someone? She could be such a klutz. Pushing her loose hair behind her ear, she apologizes. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see…”

His eyes are such a vibrant shade of green, and the way the light catches his hair makes him almost glow golden. Marinette sucks in a quick breath; she doesn’t remember having such an attractive classmate. Yet, something seems familiar about him. So familiar. A wave of emotion crashes over her. What is this? Compassion? Pity? Fear? Or maybe love? It’s a bit disorientating, and Marinette can’t really function. And, if the way he looks back at her is any indication, he is feeling the exact same way. And even though he’s right there, she can’t believe he’s real. Her hands ache; she want to touch his lovely face.

“MARINETTE! GET OFF OF HIM!” Chloe’s shriek snaps Marinette back to reality, and she scrambles backwards. How long had she been like that, straddling the new kid in the middle of the classroom? She flushes, completely embarrassed. Chloe glares at her, then turns to the fallen boy. “Oh Adrien, I’m so sorry that walking mess just ruined your first day here. If you want, I can call daddy and get her expelled.”

“Oh, no. It was an accident. I don’t mind.” Adrien pulls himself up by the edge of the table, then walks over to Marinette. He smiles slightly, and the girl’s heartbeat starts racing. He offers a hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

His touch is euphoric. Marinette stands up, but can’t seem to look her classmate. A tinge of pink colors her cheeks, and she says a quiet ‘Sorry’ followed by a ‘Thanks.’ She shuffles past him, skitters up the steps, and slides into her seat. Madame Bustier returns with the nurse. Heads are checked and scrapes are disinfected, but otherwise, the class continues as it normally would.

With a sigh, Madame Bustier begins lecturing on French folk tales, cueing everyone to pull out textbooks and note paper. Marinette follows the actions, but her mind is elsewhere. Adrien. She knows him. Somehow. And it makes her uneasy not remembering why. She studies the back of his head, but nothing comes to her. Even worse, the feeling is fading, and she fears she’ll forget.

“Chloe, I’d greatly appreciate if you’d follow along in the book.” Marinette looks over just in time to see Madame Bustier snatch up a magazine poorly hidden between the textbook pages. Oh god. The face on the cover… Marinette suddenly can’t breathe. Of course he was familiar. Adrien Agreste, one of the biggest names in the fashion industry and her celebrity crush, is the newest member of her class. And she had made a complete fool of herself within the first 30 seconds of meeting him.

Oh my god…

“Hurry up girl, or we’ll be late for gym.”

“Just give me a sec, Alya. I’ll be right there.” Marinette places her bag in her locker, then whispers into one of the pockets. “Are you sure you’ll be okay in there…uh….”

“It’s Tikki,” the red kwami giggles, “And don’t worry about me. Get to class, Marinette.” Marinette smiles, then shuts her locker door. Tikki listens to her chosen’s footsteps, and when the room sounds empty, she morphs through the locker door.

“Hey, Plagg? Where are you?” She calls softly. No response. “Plagg, don’t be a stubborn kitten. I know you’re here.”

“Ugh, can’t you just let me sleep.” A black cat phases through a nearby locker, grouchy and tired. “This kid had so many questions. Like ‘What’s a miraculous’ and ‘Who’s Cat Noir?’ He didn’t even feed me, and I had to fend for myself.”

Tikki shook her head. “We have to do this every time, so stop complaining. Focus more on the good stuff. I mean, isn’t great that both of our chosen met so early! This hasn’t happened for centuries.”

“You mean like in Vienna? Considering how that turned out, I’m not gonna count that as a good thing.” That little comment receives a tiny smack to the shoulder.

“You pessimist. Those two did a wonderful job, and they had such a strong bond, too.” Tikki sits on the edge by the window and looks wistfully at the sky. “And I’m sure these two will have an equally strong relationship. Oh gosh, did you see how they looked at each other, Plagg? That was love at first sight!! Ah~”

Plagg snorts, then settles down next to his overly romantic friend. “Love at first sight, huh? Remember Helen and Paris?”

“That was an akuma, so it doesn’t count.” Tikki huffs. “I’m thinking it’ll be more like when we were in the Americas. Ladybug and Cat Noir were so enamored with each other, and the wedding! Hmmm…. That cake was amazing.”

“Why is your chosen always a sweets fanatic, just perfect for you? It’s not fair.”

“Oh shush. I’ve had a few bad ones too. Like…” During the crusades. Tikki reaches out and squeezes Plagg’s paw, troubled that she had been part of Cat Noir’s murder. And, now that she thinks about it, she’s been bringing up times when Plagg died in the ring. A tiny shiver runs down her back just imagining it, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “…I’m sorry, Plagg. I guess… I guess I’ve been touching on some bad memories.”

“Oh no. Stop that. Don’t start crying.” Plagg rubs his head against her shoulder, purrs rumbling through his tiny chest. “I’m a god of misfortune; I’ve learned to deal with it.”

“Still…”

“Shhh…You’ve already cried too much over things we can’t change. I can’t deal with Giza level water works anymore.” Tikki wraps Plagg in a hug, so he tucks his head under her chin, never breaking his soothing purring. “You probably flooded the Nile three months early.”

“Plagg…”

“And you know what?” He cuts her off, “This Adrien kid does have some perks. Apparently, he’s rich, so there’s never going to be a shortage of cheese. I can almost smell the camembert from his room.” Tikki shifts, and Plagg glances up. Oh no, that looks like a very sad face from this angle.

“Jack was rich.” Plagg scowls—he hated his chosen from London most of all—but before he can say anything, Tikki bops him on the nose and floats away. “I’m just teasing, kitty. I don’t focus on the past like that. If I did, the present wouldn’t seem so bright. I’m really happy that you two are getting along.”

“Tikki, you little sh-“

“AND,” Tikki practically shouts over the cat kwami’s words, “Since they’ll be together both in and out of costume, I know Marinette and Adrien will make a wonderful team. It’ll be like…like the gladiators! A bond forged through shared days and fiery passion.”

“Too much passion, if you ask me.”

“Well, I’m not asking you.” Tikki laughs, dodging Plagg’s little tackle attempt. “I can feel it, Plagg. They’re going to be great.” The cat kwami frowns, still frustrated with his bug counterpart, but he shrugs it off.

“Yea. Maybe we’ll even defeat Hawkmoth this time.”

“Hm…The last time that happened was… Pompeii?”

“Yep.”

A relieved sigh.

“I really do feel something, Plagg. This time is going to be special.”

A twitch of the whiskers.

“I believe you.”

A shared smile.

“Come on, their class is almost over. Let’s head back.”

“Uh-huh.” They float over to their respective locker “And Tikki?”

“Yes, Plagg?”

“I feel it too, so it must be extra special.” The black cat disappears, leaving a pleasantly surprised and very happy ladybug.