A/N- No spoilers, but the chapters ahead might be more gruesome than usual. I wouldn't say that it's worse than the previous chapter but please read this with care for your health.
Air.
He was gasping and inhaling, choking back air into unused lungs. His lips parted to breathe as if starved. He was unconscious but desperate to live. And the wheeze of new breath was glorious noise in the darkness, like the squall of a newborn. Rue stared, stared with a thumping heart and an almost nauseating disbelief. Her body was shaking so hard, her muscles felt numb.
Moments ago, grief had hollowed her out, had fucking ripped her to shreds. It had torn through her body with blunt claws and poisoned fangs. A part of her had died with him. Something inside her had been broken. A clean, devastating cut. A part of her had mourned.
In those never-ending seconds, she'd seen him in her head. Every memory, every touch. His raspy flirtations, his fucking laughter that curled like smoke. She'd seen it all burn into ash, pushed into history. The end of a chapter in her story. She'd fucking schooled herself, a tight slap to the cheek. Because fucking hell she couldn't give it all up for the dead; she had to keep going for the living. She'd been logical, dismissive. Kieran was first. Her survival was first. They had to get out. She could not cry like a pussy and collapse on the ground like an idiot.
This was war.
Levi was dead.
Even so, in her head, she had offered everything to the universe that had never shown her any greater mercy. She'd been insane with it. Take it, she'd snarled. Take years off my life. Take my dreams. Take my fucking limbs. Fucking take it all. She would have given up too much for Levi's life in return. In that moment she was drowning in pain because she loved him.
She loved them, and that made her wail harder, hurt more.
She knew it because there was so much regret that boiled inside of her, threatening to blow. And it was regret that she didn't do more, that she couldn't be better. She was just so fucking stupid. The same questions cycled in her head.
Love? Why love them? Was it Stockholm syndrome? Was she right in the fucking head? Why love idiots who'd hurt her again and again? Why love men who used her? Why love men who'd placed her in this fucked up predicament? (Honestly, she was beginning to doubt that they had any control of the situation, considering the aftermath.) Was it all chemicals? Her Omega? But the heart was a fucking bitch, and there she was realizing that she'd always loved them. That the months with them had been care, concern and a life that she had not known before. A normalcy that she had enjoyed. Good old days that she'd look back on and smile like a sappy idiot.
A pack.
A family.
Port 69 was a fucking shit hole of malnutrition, an insane mother, and a place for no child. Port 69 would have raging mothers in her inbox, talking about how her story had no place in the world. Because it was too explicit and too raunchy. And fuck her because even if it was real, even if it was her story, it had to be buried into the ground.
Dormitory Louise was laughter, assholes, care and love. Alphas who thought with their cocks, had more brain cells in their dick than in their head. But they were Alphas who tried their best to make her happy. Alphas who still gave a damn despite it all. Alphas who worked for her love. And she craved that kind of care. She missed the good times.
It was an insane kind of love.
But it was love.
She was devoted; she was attached. She was determined to see another day with them, to go through life with her assholes. She wanted to stay. She…Rue scrubbed a hand across her face. She cared for them. She cared for them more than she thought. It had ballooned into love. She loved them. Loved them so much that the thought of existing in a world without them seemed more than a little impossible.
How the fuck had love blossomed in the worst situations? In the most ungodly of places? The scar on her neck stung for the first time in forever. Dante's fucking bite. Her wrongful place in their fucked-up pack. But now, she did not care about marks and labels. They were hers. They were always hers. She was claiming that right. And now here she was dealing with the aftermath of the worst whip splash of her life.
Dead Alpha.
Alive Alpha.
Repeat.
She wanted to scream. She must have. Rue stared as ink spilled from his nose in thick black streams, his chest jerking beneath her hands. Another beat and the impossible rise and fall of his chest had robbed her of truly coherent thought. She was circling through it all. She still couldn't process it completely.
He was alive, her mind reminded her again.
Her vision blurred. A sob tore from her lungs. It felt like she was fucking dying. Her hands flew to his face. Warm. He was warm. Her fingers hovered under his nose. Steam, heat, breath. She knew it. He wasn't dead. Thank fuck. Thank fuck. Thank fuck. The words repeated endlessly inside her head as she threw her arms around him and sobbed. Ugly, violent sobs that shook her entire body. It was sobs dragged from the deepest part of her soul.
She clung to him desperately like a maniac. For a fucking moment, she wondered if he'd die if she let him go. If it were all just her hallucinations, her losing her fucking brain in the darkness. She'd seen enough movies for that. The fucked-up plot twist of hallucination, amnesia and some kind of brain damage. It was cliché for everyone to be actually dead, and for her to be fucking stoned. She dropped her head to his chest in desperation, fingers to his neck.
Again, she was repeating those questions in her head.
His heartbeat thundered beneath her ear, and she slapped her hands around his throat for a pulse. The sound of life had never been so beautiful, the throb of it in his veins was glorious. And at the very same time, she was biting her lip, tasting blood, feeling pain. Surely, surely pain was a sign of truth? A second confirmation. She laughed and cried at the same time, a strange broken noise escaping her lips. She couldn't stop giggling. The emotions were too large. Relief flooded every corner of her body so quickly it burned her alive. The adrenaline had her heart throbbing so hard in her chest it hurt.
How the fuck were they all still alive?
And now, her mind was back into logic, steaming in the twists and turns of life. A rollercoaster of the most fucked up of situations. God. Days ago, she'd been wasting away in her boredom and hunger. She'd begged for something, to see anything, for events and drama. And now she was so fucking tired of everything. Peace. She'd kill for some peace and protection. Not quiet, because she'd had enough of quiet.
The grief she'd been drowning in moments ago hadn't vanished. It remained lodged inside her chest, heavy and aching. It would stay. Her body still remembered the horror. Her mind still replayed the memories of them dying. The terror. The agony. The grief. The relief. The joy. The emotions were exploding within her. It was difficult to breathe and she must have hyperventilated at some point because she had her hands to her lips and nose. And then she was counting her breaths.
One. Two. One. Two.
God, she was losing it.
Eventually she pulled herself together, eventually she stumbled to her feet. Tears still streamed down her cheeks. Her face hurt. Her throat burned from screaming. Her hands shook. She wiped her eyes and looked. Stop. She told herself. Stop fucking losing it in the same goddamn cycle of agony. She was a big girl and a big girl had to fucking stand up and work. She stared.
Two badly injured lovers.
Her fists curled. They were Gods but they were clearly so weakened that they needed treatment. They needed food. They needed water. The good ink was still doing its magic, weaving through wounds. It continued working and the sight filled her with a gratitude so thick it had tears in her eyes. For the first time in her life, she understood what it meant to witness a miracle, to see something impossible.
The good ink was a goddess.
The first thing she should do was to be grateful.
"Thank you," she croaked. The words came out rough. Tears dripped onto the ground. "Thank you for saving them." The urge to throw herself flat against the floor was overwhelming. To prostrate herself before whatever the fuck the ink was. To do anything to offer appreciation. "Thank you," she repeated. The ink continued its work and Rue lowered her head and wept until there were no more tears left to cry.
*
Dante
Dante's kingdom was falling apart.
A day was all it took for his world to end.
The cockpit was full. Advisors, generals, diplomats and scientists swarmed the massive spaceship. There were always going to be issues with resources, politics and hives. Those motherfucking hives. His fists clenched tight. The seven used to scramble to destroy them all, to finish every task, wearing themselves down just to keep the world running. But the universe would never stop moving, there would always be problems to settle, things to fix. It was never-ending. A continuous loop of work, work and more fucking work.
None of it felt real.
Not anymore.
Dante could not care less about the issues that billions could not figure out. Fucking hell, they could deal with it. They could fix it. They didn't need him for everything. He was just one fucking man. Did he really have to wipe their asses with his bare hands? Did he really have to fix every stupid little spat, every idiotic little problem, every goddamn wrong? It was a waste of his breath, a waste of his time.
Dante was so fucking tired.
He was so fucking tired of working, of pushing himself to be better, of thinking of the greater good. What was the point of the greater good if it did not even benefit him and his family? What was the fucking point of working himself to the bone? What was the point of saving people who did not want to save themselves? For fuck's sake, why did he have to do everything?
Dante sat on his throne and stared.
He was a fucking idiot for only realising this now.
The voices were just noise, meaningless colliding sound in his brain, synapses firing. Every face was blurred. Every report dissolved in his mind. Conversations through his ears, and he did not remember a single fucking thing. The empire could have burned to the ground and he wouldn't have fucking cared. Because his world had already ended.
No.
It was ending.
When they had first discovered the truth, they had done everything for more time. Time to figure things out. Time to save their mates. Time was what gave them hope. With science, there could be a dilation in time. They bought hours with all the energy they could muster. It was a feat that would never have been possible if not for the dire situation. Millions of zeus had been called upon, told to direct their strength to power a spaceship. A spaceship that was going to be forced to travel faster than anything they had ever used before. They purchased days of time.
And for what?
His eyes slid to his mates.
Altair was only a few feet away. Tubing disappeared beneath layers of thick bloodied bandages, feeding medicine deep into a body struggling to sustain itself. His feathers, once so beautiful it made fanatics wheep, now hung blackened and skeletal. Entire sections had been burnt into ashes. His cheeks had hollowed so severely that the bones in his face were so fucking sharp, it stretched translucent skin. Dante could see the veins. The bruises. A memory ago, Altair had prodded his own plump cheeks, had pouted in the mirror with a nasty scowl.
"Alpha," he'd said. "I wish I could lose this weight. I've been working at the gym and it won't fucking go. And before you say all that shit about body positivity." The aphrodite had spun and placed hands on his hips. "I have my right to want to look a certain way."
"Don't be daft," Dante had answered, squeezed his cheeks. "Those cheeks are cute."
Altair had a tongue to the corner of his lips, rolled his eyes. "Only you'd say that." He'd flexed. "I want to look so fucking good, everyone will cream themselves when they look at me."
Dante had raised a brow. "We already do."
Altair rolled his eyes. "Not Rue."
Dante wanted to see those cheeks. Altair now seemed so haggard it hurt to look at him. The exhaustion in his face made him look decades older than he actually was. Cetus' poison. Dante's lips had pursed grimly. When he'd been freed from the haze of medication, he'd roared at his mate for putting himself in the fire.
"Why?" he'd screamed, lightning flashed. "You know Cetus' power. You know what it does to Espers of our strength."
"I had to."
"Why Altair? Why burn your wings—"
Altair had merely stared with eyes so broken it'd frightened him. "If I did not try, I would not have been able to live with that." He'd curled into himself after, but the lack of emotion terrified Dante. It was as if a part of him had died with Cetus fire.
Across from him sat Seraphim. Or at least, what remained of the poseidon. The oracle had his hands submerged in a large basin of water. Blood continuously dripped from his nose in a slow meandering stream that stained his lips and chin. But he did not seem to care, eyes rooted into the silvery circle, a mantra on his tongue.
"Poseidon," his lover repeated emptily. "Take my bones, take my blood. Take my mind. Take my soul. Show me hell, show me pain. Show me the forbidden. Show me the truth." A different Seraphim would have never started a water reading like that, would have never offered so much for so little.
"It's sacrilegious," he'd once said to Dante with a haughty sniff.
They'd been reading on a case of a religious fanatic who'd blown his head open, desperately trying to see a different future. He'd sacrificed many, had been charged with murder. His bloodline would suffer in prison; they begged for mercy. Mercy that Seraphim refused to give.
"Poseidon knows to show only what can be seen. To force a reading of the future would be stupid and pointless." He'd snorted. "Even I know that there are limits to the future."
Pointless.
Seraphim did not have to offer living sacrifices. His own body, his own blood, was enough, as pure and as powerful he was. The strength and energy of an SSS-class Esper was the best of offerings, and that was what made him the strongest oracle. But even the strongest could not see a different future.
Seraphim's eyes were bleeding tears. His lower body had become increasingly unstable. The transformation occurred more often than not, forcing attendants to keep him immersed whenever possible. But the flash of what was once a gorgeous tail was now a mess of crumbling scales soaked in blood. The waters had turned pink. Then red. Eventually his attendants did not bother replacing the basin for fear of Seraphim's fury. And besides, the water was always stained with blood.
The reading was tearing him apart from the inside out. It showed a future he could barely see. He'd screamed once hours ago, just minutes into the reading. His hands had been shaking, eyes wide. The terror in his voice had frightened them all.
"Poseidon you do me wrong!"he'd wailed into the air, snot, spit and tears. "Poseidon, what am I to do? What can be done?" His hands were raised into the air, shaking with his plea. "Poseidon, please. You've gifted me this ability. There is always a way. There is always another path. Please." His voice had dipped into a broken whisper. "You must exist. You must."
"Seraphim," Dante had stammered. "You need your rest—"
His mate had merely thrashed away from his grasp with a new found fury, plunged his hands into the water and refused to speak to him, to anyone. There was no pulling the oracle away from his bowl. But everyone in that room knew that the future was deep, dark and violent.
Violent.
Unchangeable.
Enough to test Seraphim's faith.
It did not matter that Seraphim cycled through a trillion different possibilities, broke his mind searching for the best outcome. The bloody tears in his eyes told Dante that there was no other way. No other choice. A fucking death star. A goddamn cataclysm. Dante watched another drop fall from Seraphim's nose and disappear into the basin. Nobody reacted; the people continued their endless tirade. As precious, expensive time crept by, they had all become accustomed to the suffering of their supreme leaders. That understanding alone was fucking horrifying. Dante's fingers drifted toward his own nose. When he pulled them away there was blood. The sight no longer surprised him. Everyone was breaking.
Everyone.
So quickly, so rapidly. Their hope was dwindling.
His gaze shifted toward Valentino. Valentino who sat lifeless in his own bed, huddled with tails that had disappeared into thin air. He looked like a ghost, a corpse, eyes wide, still shaking from withdrawals, drool dribbled from his lips. A mess of ink ran all over his flesh like the roots of a tree, spreading across his chest. The Lonely's ink was circulating within him, corrupting his soul, turning him into the monsters they knew. But their doctors had assured that its progress was slowed from his strength. They'd taped electrodes to his head to monitor his progress. Still, he clung to Altair like a child, a hand to his sleeve when the aphrodite allowed it. He had finally awakened, screaming and screaming and screaming.
For days, he had been unconscious buried beneath enough sedatives to incapacitate an army of men. But they had decided that the induced coma would not help him. Not with four soulmates in danger. Valentino would be stronger awake, he needed the support from his mates. He needed the reassurance for his soul. They would gently rouse him from his slumber. But a small drop in the pump of drugs and it took mere seconds for him to sit upright. Screaming. His hands at his chest. At his throat. At his own skin. Because he had seen it all in his sleep. Through the connection he had with Rue, he had witnessed everything. Experienced it in its slow dragged-out horror. The agony of Cetus and the Titans. The terror Rue felt. Every second. Every fucking sensation. It had all been amplified and transferred directly into his mind. The aftermath had nearly crippled him.
"Our mates!" he'd wailed. "Alpha, Alpha! They're dying! I can't do anything. I can't do anything. I'm useless. I'm useless. I'm useless." He'd been inconsolable, darting circles, running as if there were somewhere to run to. He'd slammed into the walls in his terror, then collapsed, shivering. It was only Altair's touch that calmed and quietened him.
The image haunted Dante. Yet somehow Valentino wasn't what terrified him most. His eyes darted to the reinforced medical chamber that occupied an entire corner. Hundreds and thousands of glowing tubes ran across its surface. Tubes carrying oxygen and medicine deep into the figure lying within. Halcyon barely resembled himself anymore. The sight hurt him every single time. It hurt them all, and he knew that from the hitches of breath and the taste of salty tears in the air.
Their youngest.
Their bunny.
He was stained in ink.
The monster had consumed him from the inside. His blood. His organs. His powers. Something had gone catastrophically wrong when he pushed his magic towards Rue, connecting his soul. The fire within him had turned inwards and devoured its own host, desperate to free himself from the poison. Muscle had disappeared. Entire sections of his nervous system had boiled before the doctors managed to stabilize him. Every medical professional from Two had been summoned. Every guide capable of providing healing. Thousands had poured their strength into him. And still he laid suspended between life and death. Skin stretched tightly across bones. His eyes sunken. Hands trembling.
The machine breathed for him.
Dante still remembered looking toward his father after the slow collapse of his mates. Glass in his throat, shards in his heart. For the first time in his life, the Emperor Emeritus had looked frightened. True fear. It stripped away his power, removed centuries of experience and the pompous stick up his fucking ass. And now all that remained was a man. A weak useless old man.
His father's face had been a bloodless white. His hands had shook. Eyes wide. That look disturbed Dante more than anything else. Because his father was never afraid. Never. And after proud, declarations of severing bonds, he stood witnessing the suffering. At first, he'd been fucking insufferable.
Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.
The feed of the planet was slowed from their travels. Sensors showed the first 'death'. Halcyon who had erupted into phoenix fire on the planet. His body on the ship had concaved, skin pressed to bones. Blood had erupted from his mouth and he had seized, a cardiac arrest. The ink was burning, but so was he. In response, they'd all suffered, the pain was unbearable. And perhaps that was where the fear began. His father had trembled.
"Cease your dramatics!" he'd snapped. "Cease your—"
And Halcyon's fingers began to die, crumbling slowly. A strange smoke whispered from his orifices. He'd watched as the doctors poured out everything to keep him alive. He watched as they tried desperately to quell the flames of his phoenix. His jaw had slackened as Altair's own heart had stuttered weakly, required an additional pump of medication. More blood had spilled from Seraphim, enough to stink the room of rust. They had all the best medical professionals in the world and it was still not enough. They shouldn't be working, shouldn't be here trying to fix everything. Dante realised with clenched teeth. They should be in a fucking hospital. His father had collapsed to the ground at the sight, his eyes on Dante, weakly, a smile.
"Dante, surely you must feel alright—"
"We're more tied to each other than you are to your mates, father," he'd answered, hollowed. The agony had tears in his eyes. Halcyon. He'd watched his lover, but could do nothing. Halcyon did this for Rue. He could only gently take away some of the pain, holding it within himself. It was unlike any other agony he'd ever experienced. "We're not like you. We're soulmates. You've never experienced that. And you will never understand, why we are so strong and yet so weak."
"But I—"
"You will watch us die," he answered with more venom in his voice than ever before. "If you kill them now, your strongest soldiers will be gone. The seven will be gone. The only line of defence for the kingdom will be gone. This world will turn into ash and I will die laughing." His lips had spread into a cruel smile. "Laughing because it's all your fault." It was his fault too.
"I—" His father had choked on his words. His rage had purpled his face. "Do not spite me, Dante!"
"I'm only stating facts," he'd answered, his voice was thin. "This is the weakest I've ever felt. You can see it." He brushed his fingers over his cheek. "Look at me. We will only worsen." His father had been tight lipped after that. Everyone could do nothing but watch their downfall. And they did fall.
Dante remembered falling.
He remembered electricity detonating from his body. The massive cockpit had been consumed by a storm. Columns split. Floors shattered. Lightning scars on the walls. The pain was so overwhelming that his body struggled to function. There was no need for dignity in agony and grief. He had collapsed onto the floor and screamed until his throat tore. His muscles spasmed. His vision had turned black. At some point he lost control of his bladder.
They all did.
The understanding came later when healers tried to move him. His mind could not process it. But somehow, he managed to sit up. Valentino was seizing. Altair stopped breathing twice. Seraphim began bleeding so heavily that healers thought his heart had ruptured, blood pouring from his mouth. Halcyon was on fire.
The machinery was screaming, alarm bells ringing. Water rained over Halcyon, but he continued burning. Dante was struggling. All he could see was the fire, all he could feel was the pain. The torture. As pack Alpha, he had to stay strong, he had to keep the bond steady. He tried to stamp out the sensitivity of their connection. He tried to mute the bond. Eight strings. Silencing the pain was like touching livewire, it was like flayed nerve endings.
"HALCYON!" He'd screamed. Then he was running to the chamber, plunging his hands into the flame, trying to calm their mate, trying to save his life. The fire was a blinding gold, the gold of his soul. His soul was trying to save him. "Halcyon, you cannot let it take you," he'd snarled, but his words were choked in tears. "We are waiting for you, you can do this, you—"
Then came Kieran. Kieran's death which he had experienced in all of its explicit, agonizing detail. Kieran whose skin had been melted, clawed and chewed. He died crushed into smithereens, but still regenerating, still alive until the end because he was a high-ranked Esper—Dante had vomited once, twice. And then Levi. Levi whose body was pulled from all angles, ripped apart. The hades had been gasping through torn muscles, blood in lungs. He couldn't see. He struggled. The bond thrummed, with each ignition, with each pulse there was pain until there was nothing. Cetus, Dante's mind repeated. Fucking Cetus. He wailed into the ground, collapsed to his knees.
Each death was a blade to his heart. Each death tore at his soul, ripping apart. Dante could no longer tell where his own grief ended and everyone else's began. The pain was everywhere. Inside his bones. His teeth. His body. His blood. His thoughts. It was in his very being.
The screams were indescribable.
He remembered Seraphim desperately clawing through futures that no longer existed. More blood poured from every orifice. Because Seraphim refused to accept it. It was as though somewhere, a future still existed where they lived. Dante hated him for it. Because couldn't he see that they were dead? Couldn't he see that they were done? He choked back a laugh. All they had done with time was extend the pain.
He'd screamed at them to stay strong.
And then Rue died, and everything changed.
He hadn't felt her pain; he was not able to see or feel her end and perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. But he could feel the connection close. The door slamming shut, never to be open again. He could feel it all end. He could taste it. The swift shut of their bond. The collapse of his world. He seized. He knew she was dead. Dead. His body had stuttered. His mind had broken.
The Omega you rejected. The Omega you left behind. The Omega you did not protect. This is all your fault. This is all your doing. You are weak, selfish and ignorant. You have paid the price. You have killed your soulmates. You are the worst pack Alpha in the world.
The Seven would never be whole again.
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