Desmond x Freya

The tension in the air between Destrian and the girl was palpable, and Desmond felt uncomfortable, as if he had intruded on a lover’s quarrel. Destrian’s answer, however cold, made him sigh with relief. The girl couldn’t be released, not now, not ever, and it was reassuring to hear that Destrian thought so as well. He watched the girl deflate, shrinking into her herself and retreating and it made him pull Freya closer to him. It reminded him of Freya’s earlier days at the compound, when she still had tried to fight him, and it made his heart ache. It was hard to imagine her as a tall, unstoppable wall of smoke that left a trail of bodies in its wake – but then again, it was also hard to imagine that the small, frail girl in his arms could raise the dead. The difference was, Desmond reminded himself, was that Freya deserved to be saved.

Desmond nodded mutely in agreement to Destrian’s rule. Even if they had the strength and supplies to leave, they had nowhere else to go. He sunk onto the couch next to Freya, pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms protectively around her. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl, Cyra, who had defeatedly sunk into a chair in the kitchen. She was still well within ear shot and the idea of talking about such sensitive matters so close to someone so dangerous made Desmond uneasy. Information was a form of control and it felt inherently reckless to speak candidly in front of Cyra. She had hardly taken notice in them up until this point, but that was all liable to change once she learned what Freya was capable of. He couldn’t allow her poisonous influence to infect Freya – not just for the safety of countless people, but the sake of Freya’s humanity.

All Desmond could do was force himself to believe that Destrian had enough control over Cyra to keep her obedient. “I’m Desmond. You probably don’t remember me, but I was probably seven or eight when you disappeared. I remember you. I remember how important you were.” His eyes shifted back towards Cyra, but she seemed lost in thought. Desmond continued cautiously, “After you left, things changed.” It was understatement of the century, but he just left it at that. It wasn’t pertinent to the conversation right now.

“This is Freya. She came in about eight or ten years after you left, and she was given to me. I was supposed to do what you didn’t do with her,” He paused again, trying to choose his words carefully, “I taught her to repress her abilities, that they were a threat. I did everything they asked me to. I don’t know why they ordered her death – I was just expected to carry it out. It was around the same time as the first sighting of her,” His gaze shifted towards Cyra again, but she still didn’t seem to be paying attention, “so maybe they wanted to avoid another natural disaster. But I couldn’t do it. I’ve spent the last six years taking care of her, and I’m not going to let her die.” By the end, his voice was full of conviction that hadn’t been there when he started.

“She can… talk to the spirits. Summon the dead.” Desmond didn’t go into detail, mostly because he didn’t know how far her abilities extended. It was something he had never allowed Freya to explore. As he spoke, he absentmindedly ran his fingers through Freya’s hair, comforting her as she hid against his chest.

“I found you the same way they will find you. They’ve probably already put it together that we went in search of you, but I altered their data enough that it will slow them down before they narrow it down to this location again.” Desmond paused, shifting to look at Destrian and his voice dropped down to what was hopefully low enough that Cyra wouldn’t be able to hear, “They were going to find this place regardless. Her escape was the largest blunder in the history of the organization; they’re coming to kill her. If we give them her, they might let us go.”

---

The curse coiled around her like a snake, forcing and compressing Cyra's explosive rage down. Sparks of pain radiated down her limbs, leaving her fingers and toes burning. It was unnecessary, he had already ensured that the curse prevented her from shifting into her more explosive form, but he made a point to show how much control he could exert over her. It was humiliating. Destrian's words effectively silenced her, and she numbly stumbled back as a step as he shouldered past her. Her gaze followed him but he was already done with her, moving on to something more important. Embarrassment burned through her, hot enough to dissipate any urge Cyra had over exploding, and she dropped her gaze to the ground and fled to one of the kitchen chairs that lived behind the living room. She quietly slipped into it, bringing her knees up to her chest and hugging them before she lost herself in the turbulent sea of her thoughts. For someone as powerful as herself, Destrian was a master at making her feel like the smallest and most unimportant thing in this entire universe.

Cyra couldn't clearly remember the night that Destrian abandoned her, but she remembered the nights that followed. She remembered the feeling of relief, the intense gratitude that someone was finally saving her. Even if she hadn't been drugged, she would have blindly followed him up that mountain. It wasn't until the drugs wore off a day or two later that she finally tried to leave, tried to look for him, only to be stopped by an invisible fence. It took sixteen days after that of foolish, naive hope for her to accept that he wasn't coming back for her. She tried to kill herself for the first time three days after that.

Those first few weeks in her mountain prison were the worst. She hadn't ever asked him if he knew that she would survive when he abandoned her up there that night, too afraid of hearing what she already knew. He had stolen her away from people who wanted to kill her, just to leave her to waste away and die in the side of a mountain - to save himself. At first, the idea of dying terrorized her. Once she realized she couldn't leave, death was imminent; there was simply no escaping it. Her mind played tricks on her and the faceless shadowy figures from her blurry memories haunted her from the corners of her eyes, threatening to drag her away to someplace horrible. By the time of her first suicide attempt, she was weak from hunger, unable to do much more than sit listlessly on the ground. The thirst was unbearable; even though it had rained twice since Destrian had left her, the lack of water was enough to leave her delirious. Death no longer frightened her. The shadowy figures with the long, grabby fingers didn't scare her anymore and she wished they would take away, somewhere dark and peaceful. But Cyra was impatient and death wasn't coming quick enough. So, with her last bit of strength, she picked up the sharpest rock she could find sawed into her wrists so deeply that she nicked the bone on her left wrist. The blood flowed freely from her and the last thing she remembered was relief, ready for death to take her pain away.

There was no preface; Cyra simply awoke. It was evident time had passed because Cyra was encircled in a ring of red that had long dried and the garnish wounds on her wrist were starting to close. Once the disbelief wore off, she was too tired and too weak to even cry. She was forced to endure life, and it became clear that Cyra didn't need constant food or water for survival. After a few weeks, her body adapted to the lack of resources and her strength returned, but not her will to live. Then the seasons changed, and winter rolled in. For months, all Cyra could do was pass in and out of consciousness, unable to do anything more than violently shiver from the freezing temperatures. The seasons changed again, but the summers proved just as miserable, leaving her soaked in sweat and grime with no way to wash it off until the next rainstorm. Time passed, and no matter how many times Cyra prayed for relief - for death, for Destrian, for anything - it never came.

Sometime during the dry heat of her first summer, Cyra started to fuel herself with hate. It was so easy to focus on, so easy to cling onto the burning resentment. It distracted her from her inability to die and it gave her renewed energy to live. She had all the time in the world to dissect each and every moment of life's injustices. Over the years, anger turned into an obsessive hatred, and the only thing that kept her sane was the desire to exact her revenge. But she had never really thought about the lives she had destroyed beyond the righteous feeling of impersonal revenge. They deserved it because they had everything that she never had - families, friends, normalcy. If she couldn't have it, then no one could.

Now, it was abundantly clear that she would never get that opportunity. Justice would never be served, the wrongs would never been righted. Life wasn't fair, and she had no choice but to accept it. Life hadn't been fair when she was abandoned with no knowledge of who she was and where she came from, life hadn't been fair when they had captured her and subjected her to sick experiments and torture, life hadn't been fair when they cursed her to Destrian, life hadn't been fair when he abandoned her and life definitely hadn't been fair when he freed her ten years later. She didn't have a future; she was never going to have friends or family or anyone who cared for her, she was never going to feel love, she was never going to be free again. It was hard to let go of all that hate that had fueled her for all those years, but it was becoming harder and harder to hold onto it.

The conversation dropped into a low whisper and it was enough to draw Cyra’s attention back to what was happening in the living room. The man spoke lowly, as if he didn’t want Cyra to hear, but she did anyway.

The solution was glaringly obvious, with a back-up foolproof plan if it didn't work. Destrian was right, this wasn't about her. It never had been, and it never would be. Suicide clearly wasn’t an option, but Cyra doubted she could survive something irreversible as getting her head cut off. Destrian had always had divine control over her, it would only make sense to die at his hands. She doubted that the curse would cause him to perish with her; the power and control were one way, and while her death might have been imminent following his demise, it was unlikely that it worked the other way around. The motive, while undoubtedly selfish, was the closest to selfless that Cyra had ever been. Her death would free Destrian of his life sentence and allow the escape of the two runaways. Cyra pushed herself up from the chair but too nervous to close the distance between her and Destrian.

"If...," Cyra paused, the words getting stuck in her throat. She forced them out, "If I make sure you get away, will you kill me? Will you allow them to kill me?"

Destrian was a generally bitter and brooding individual, but it was his signature stoicism that proved to be unshakable under most circumstances. No matter what storm was raging inside, his physical exterior remained comparable to that of a statue. That is, until his explosive temper reached a breaking point and got the best of him. He'd developed many survival tactics during his time with Paragon, some of which were instrumental to his eventual escape. But the lesson that he deemed the most important was one he abided by every day; never show them what you're thinking.

His dark eyes shifted between Desmond and Freya and occasionally Cyra as he was filled in on the much needed information. His disapproval was evident when he noted the way that Desmond and Freya interacted with each other. Whatever changes they'd implemented had caused these two to become unhealthily codependent. If they weren't already sleeping together, he had a feeling that it was bound to happen now that they were free. They'd broken another important rule of his, one that he'd perhaps taken too far when it came to Cyra; never become attached to the subject.

Desmond. He let the name float around in his head, searching for relevant fragments of memory. He remembered younger children in training. He remembered ignoring them. It was never personal, but he hated the celebrity status he'd achieved amongst the members of Paragon. He was important because he was good at what he did, because he followed the rules, because the experiment with Cyra had been a success, and because he could contain their greatest abomination. They'd never anticipated his betrayal, and that's how he got away.

Freya had his utmost attention as Desmond explained her origins. It didn't surprise him that Paragon had did away with the old method; placing the power in someone else's hands was only a temporary solution. However, he was inclined to believe that Cyra would not have been tamable. Freya was meek and weak and easily malleable. Cyra had never been that way, and deep down Destrian respected her for that.

It wasn't until the girl's ability was revealed that the first cracks in his armor were visible. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, recalling the exact location that their two parties had collided- the grave site. She knew. The girl might've been a borderline mute, but he could imagine that she held treasure troves of knowledge and power that she probably had no idea about. He wanted to mull over the details, but Desmond was intent on overloading him with information and a bold suggestion that pushed Destrian right to the edge.

Silence filled the room. Destrian remained motionless. Unreadable. And then Cyra spoke up and the facade shattered all at once. He looked at her and suddenly his entire perspective was flipped upside down. Realizations flooded him one after another, as though the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle had been jammed into place. She wanted to die. The times he'd felt inexplicably weak over the years- incapacitated even. In those instances, he'd thought that maybe their tie had finally been broken. It felt like half his life force had been sucked out of him, but then it would return the next day as though nothing had happened. Cyra didn't just want to die; she'd tried to kill herself. Many times. He'd been willfully ignorant to her suffering- the suffering he'd inflicted- because he was too busy wallowing in his own self pity. He was far, far more selfish than she was and, now that the blinders had been lifted, he felt the guilt flood in.

"Cyra, I..." It was a sentence that was impossible to complete. He didn't know how to apologize, or where to even begin. He was suddenly in a foreign sea of emotion, and he needed to latch onto something familiar before he drowned.

Anger. His gaze shot to Desmond and he launched out of his seat, "How dare you," he snarled, "You don't know her. You only know what they've told you. It's not your place to decide her fate. How dare you say that in front of her!" He was desperate to release his anger. It would have been so easy to pry Desmond away from the girl, throw him to the ground, and beat him until he couldn't feel anything other than the burning pain in his fists. He wouldn't actually follow through with it, but the threat was there- in his eyes. "You're foolish to believe that they would stop at her. They will not stop until we are all dead," he promised, his outburst settling back down into a more careful, seething anger. Just because he was an ass to Cyra didn't give everyone else the right to be, "Stop looking at her like she's a monster, or I’ll show you what a real monster looks like.” He was absurdly incapable of telling Cyra how truly sorry he was, but he could only hope she understood through his twisted reaction that he didn’t want her to die; he wanted to change.

The threat had barely left his mouth when the front door swung open to reveal Ari. He turned to face her, looking utterly lost for several moments as he tried to ground himself again. If only she’d appeared moments earlier, before he went off like a bomb in front of his guests. Although his first instinct was to play it off like he had everything under control, he knew that Ari would see right through him. Not to mention the suffocating tension in the room. Instead, he stepped toward her, seeking the stability that only she could provide. He raised his hands slightly, signaling that they were not an imminent threat, “They need our help.” More importantly, he needed her help.

---

Freya allowed Desmond's voice to lull her back into a calm state, only half absorbing the information that he was sharing with the others. Slowly, the tears receded and she simply curled up in his lap. With the medicine now completely out of her system, she was starting to notice details that weren't there before. The gentle rumble of Desmond's chest against her cheek as he spoke. The pleasant tug of his fingers in her hair. Every touch was suddenly more vibrant than before, and she began to wonder what else her newfound freedom and clarity would bring her.

She forced herself to focus once she was brought into the conversation, finally lifting her head from its place on Desmond's shoulder. The conviction in his voice was heart warming and was enough to solidify her fractured trust in him. He'd risked everything for her, and she suddenly felt undeserving of his devotion. It dawned on her that she couldn't think of a single thing that she provided him with. Their relationship was completely one sided and for the first time she felt compelled to ask him: Why? The question would have to wait, but she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently as a silent apology for how she'd behaved in the forest.

Although she was busy dwelling over her inadequacies during the men's conversation, Cyra's voice was enough to drown everything else out. She turned to look at the other girl, not with fear this time, but curiosity. The disturbing request confused her, but nothing could have prepared her for the outburst that followed. She nearly jumped out of her skin as Destrian turned on them in an instant. The reaction seemed to come out of nowhere, leaving Cyra unprepared and now sandwiched between the man and his apparent target- Desmond.

A tremor wracked through her body and suddenly she saw him- the man with the broken neck. He was standing outside the cabin, framed in the center of the window just behind Destrian. She could see his expression again and this time he looked...urgent. Like he was trying to warn her of something. His mouth was moving, but everything was drowned out by the sound of Destrian's booming voice. It was maddeningly frustrating to be caught in the crossroads between reality and the underworld, where nothing was clear enough to make sense of. She felt the sudden urge to call out to him and find out what he wanted, but then front door swung open and in the single blink of an eye- he was gone.

Ari took in the scene in front of her- the woman curled up in the lap of a man she had never seen before, Cyra talking about dying, the heavy thickness of tension in the air. It seemed like there was a connection between the four people in this room, and it didn't take Ari long to understand why. Destrian had told her of his curse, of his background, of his escape. Cyra had been another piece to his backstory, and now, there were two more sitting in this room. They had to do with the Paragon, and it sounded like they were runaways. As Destrian approached, she saw the relief in his eyes at having her back, and she stood a little taller. She wasn't an authority here, but she was going to stand at Destrian's side and help in any way she could. Perhaps the others in this room couldn't see through Destrian's rage, but she could.
"You'll have to forgive my sudden appearance- my name is Ari," she introduced herself to Desmond and Freya, wondering if they would welcome her into the conversation now that she'd appeared. "What are we discussing, exactly?" She asked directly. Ari had a logical mind; she liked to have all the facts, all of the possibilities laid out before her so she could piece them together in a solution that would find maximum benefit.

Destrian could immediately sense that his speech did not have the desired effect on his audience. His eyes flickered between everyone, struggling to fixate on Cyra for too long as he felt her emotions peaking and sensed a breakdown on the horizon. The silence was unbearable, like hands squeezing at his neck until it was physically impossible to breathe, and he began to question his own words as everyone looked at him like he had had sprouted a second head.

Destrian didn’t want to lead anyone. He was aware that he lacked the charisma of a competent leader, and the communication skills necessary to sway a group. He thrived on his own and forcing himself into the role seemed futile. Working alone was in his nature, and if he couldn’t work alone, then he resorted to taking orders and fulfilling them. From slave of Paragon to dutiful soldier of Raevaryn, he knew how to fly under the radar; comply, conform and, carry out orders to the highest level of perfection. Only then would he be left alone. It wasn’t until Ari came along that he gave up on a life of isolation. Suddenly, loneliness was no longer an option, and their relationship had eventually found a perfect balance. But now that unforeseen circumstances were intruding upon his life and he felt the pressure to make decisions for the group, Destrian felt the desire to follow Cyra right out that door and run.

Destrian stared at the front door as it swung closed, feeling a sense of acceptance settle uncomfortably into the pit of his stomach. Mending his relationship with Cyra was hopeless, and he was resigned to that fact. It didn’t matter anymore; there was a bigger picture to worry about. The looming threat of Paragon and the impending war between kingdoms were far more pressing issues than the hopeless pit of despair that Cyra seemed intent on throwing herself down. No matter what she thought about him, he understood the overwhelming sense of helplessness that she was facing. It would be so easy to give her what she thought she wanted, but the risk was too great. The repercussions of her death were a mystery, but the real and selfish truth was that he needed her.

His eyes shifted back toward Desmond and narrowed at his response. As anticipated, the man wasn’t even taking the time to consider his decision, but Destrian couldn’t blame him. He knew that it would be unfathomable to face the demons on their tail after experiencing the slightest taste of freedom And the girl…Of course he was going to protect Freya. Just like he was going to protect Ari.

He closed his eyes as he listened to Ari vow to stand beside him, knowing he would have to at least try to turn the offer down, or convince her to take care of the runaways. He had no right to drag her into such a dangerous and personal battle. The realization that she expected to fight alongside him made his head spin with contention as he once again questioned his own rash decision. He needed to think with a clear mind.

At the mention of food and water, his eyes flickered open and landed on the uninvited guests. The thought had not even crossed his mind to be hospitable- just another reason to be grateful to Ari. He gave her hand a squeeze, “Help yourselves,” he muttered, taking the opportunity to separate himself from the group. Releasing Ari’s hand, he slunk toward the small bedroom near the back of the house, leaving the door cracked for Ari. He collapsed face down on the bed, pulling a pillow over his head in an attempt to retreat into himself and forget about the problems that loomed unforgivingly over his head.

---

Demond’s unexpected order sent Freya spiraling with confusion as her mind tried to make sense of the monumental shift between them. He was breaking their number one rule, and it was difficult for her to jump that hurdle so suddenly. She momentarily squeezed her eyes shut as the cognitive dissonance sparked a war within the confines of her mind. The persistent pull of his arms was enough to ground her and when she looked back up at him, she felt her uncertainty begin to melt away. The way he was looking at her was…different. His gaze halted her frantic thoughts and enveloped her in a warm blanket of security. When he looked away, she yearned to turn his face back to her so she could revel in the feeling for a moment longer.

Unfortunately, the tension in the room had returned and Freya reluctantly faced the others. Everyone seemed to be in a state of avoidance, particularly toward Cyra. But not Freya. She stared directly at the girl when everyone else turned away, her eyes unblinking and filled with curiosity. She had feared the stranger upon their first encounter, but she felt herself inexplicably drawn to the one person in the room whom she might be able to relate to. Whereas Cyra had appeared powerful before, Freya could now sense the utter defeat emanating from the other girl. She followed Cyra’s every step as she fled the house and, for the first time, Freya felt compelled to say something or do something, but Desmond’s arms kept her carefully tucked in place. The door slammed shut behind Cyra, and Freya lost her chance.

Freya had no choice but to swallow the flood of disappointment and she reminded herself of the fact that she shouldn’t go out of her way to affiliate with these people. Not after what she’d seen; they were dangerous. Despite this truth, she still found herself yearning to connect with Cyra, even though she was sure that Desmond would disapprove.

Freya tentatively began to ponder the choice they’d been given, testing the waters of what it would be like to make the choice for herself. It was freeing to even consider the options, but Desmond’s quick response left her floundering. He’d already decided. She felt the familiar stir of resentment bubble within her, a reminder of how it felt to lash out at Desmond back in the woods. Even Freya was beginning to understand the unfairness between them. Watching Ari stand in front of Destrian and take control of the room left her feeling envious and even Cyra’s ability to walk off on her own was a tempting display of freedom. It was an overwhelming amount of information to take in, and she finally attempted to sit up, subtly distancing herself from Desmond’s tight grip. “I would like some water, please,” she announced to Ari, her voice coming out soft but rising in volume to make sure that she would be heard.