Chapter Text
Screaming.
She hears screaming.
Why does she hear screaming? It’s loud, skipping on the inside of her head like stones on a pond, and Light Spinner draws another rune. The magick is burning, scalding on her fingertips. It isn’t enough. More screaming. Loud and shrill, metal shearing shrieks and a blast of heat pushes hair away from her face. The veil she wears flutters, but it doesn’t block the smell of charred metal-dust-flesh-acrid smoke. She wants to gag.
Screaming.
“Light Spinner!!!!”
Wait – she knows that voice. It calls to her in the halls, echoing off Mystacor’s grand archways like a sacred thing. Eager and bright and vibrant. A child’s voice.
“Micah. . .”
It leaves in a whisper, echoed by a shriek of panic, and her heart goes cold.
Light Spinner is not a good woman. She knows this, deep in the bottom of her soul. Because her morals are flexible on a good day and near non-existent on a bad. Because she is sardonic and cold and her temper is bitter like a winter snow, freezing and relentless. Because she craves power to the very marrow of her bones and, stars, Norwyn was right, the bastard. Some power is not meant for her.
The spell does not work without the root. The root grows nowhere but the Whispering Woods. And so, naturally, she brought Micah out of the safety of Mystacor to obtain it.
And now there is bots-screaming-soldiers-burning-pain and –
She turns and Micah is being dragged away by soldiers. His magick is bright and lively and blue and the shadows it casts upon his young face are haunting. The only thing he knows is light. He is panicking. His shields do not hold, and his spells do not damage, and the hands that hold him are relentless. She can hear them mock the boy from beneath their helms.
Children should not look so very frightened. Children should not be covered in bruises and blood. Children should not fight like cornered animals, bared teeth and wild eyes, and he looks at her and it hurts and –
Light Spinner screams.
The sound rips from her throat like a blade. Cold and visceral and serrated about the edges. It echoes in the clearing, and she is unsure of how the Horde unit managed to get this far into the Whispering Woods. But they will regret it.
Because Light Spinner is not a good woman. And her magick knows this.
It blasts out in lightning arcs, violet and pink and crimson. Robots explode. Soldiers flee screaming nonsense. There is a tank, and it overturns in a surge of iron and crunching bones and sparking electronics. All is dust, screaming, and fire. The Whispering Woods twist around them. Defend, they say, protect ourselves for We are Ancient. Micah fights, claws at those binding him. He loses. The soldiers still grasp his arms. She cannot see their faces beneath the protective helms, but there is fear in the line of their shoulders, and one bashes her pupil across his cherubic face. It splits. Bruises. Blood drips from the wound in his eyebrow.
Light Spinner feels her body move and they fly, crimson in an arc. Her nails come away bloody. Flesh gives way beneath her hands, charring as blood spills. She pours magick into each one, dark and violet and cloying. Someone gags. Another screams. They all fall away. One by one, pathetic sniveling things, until there is nothing left but acrid smoke and bodies and –
“Light Spinner, I’m okay. It’s okay, you can stop. I’m okay, please just stop.”
Micah.
There is blood beneath her nails and spattered on her face and Light Spinner wants to gag. She is not a soldier. She is a sorcerer, magick in every pore and not all of it good. But Micah looks at her with big dark eyes that shine with adoration and a smile that can light a new-moon night and she almost lost him and now. . . . there are tiny arms twisting around her waist, holding tight, and Light Spinner goes still. Her personal space is a sacred thing. Everyone in Mystacor knows this.
But Micah is a child, and he is frightened, and her heart is pounding right into the tips of her pointed ears with adrenaline. He is bleeding and bruised and frightened. She shakes with raw hatred. They’d hurt her Micah and she’d let them. She brought them to this place. This is her fault.
The least she can do is allow her pupil this trespass.
Light Spinner clings back just as tightly, one hand up to cradle his head. His hair is dirty and matted with sweat. But it’s also baby-soft and fine and smells like smoke. Everything smells like smoke, blood, rot, ash. This is her fault. All of it. Every bit. Tears prick her eyes but the do not fall. Micah doesn’t need tears. He needs an adult, needs strength. Every inch of his small body trembles with nerves, and he looks up at her through wet eyes.
“I thought they were gonna take us!” Micah chokes. “I’m not strong enough. We need the spell! I’m not strong enough!”
Mere hours previous would have seen her rejoice at the vehemence in his voice. But now her heart leaps into her throat. Because this is a frightened child she’d pulled into her machinations, a boy with a soul of pure gold now tarnished. Light Spinner swallows thickly. Brushes the hair from his eyes.
She shakes her head. “No, Micah. You don’t need the spell. You are so strong, my child, so brave. Coming to this place was a mistake on my part.”
Micah trembles harder, tears dripping down his soiled cheeks, and he sniffles. “B-but you had to save me! I c-couldn’t even keep a shield up. How strong can I be?!”
There is shouting behind them. The sounds of whirring tanks and stomping boots through ruined foliage. The Whispering Woods is dangerous, yes, but these soldiers move quickly. They may just make it out alive with prisoners in tow.
She cannot allow them to take Micah.
She will not allow them to take Micah.
Light Spinner smiles at her student. Micah, fourteen and impatient and impossibly kind. Micah, who views her as a saint when she is anything but. Micah, who is bloody and bruised and crying because she craves power. Blood drips from a gash in his eyebrow. His clothes are torn. His hair is loose and dirty. Tear-tracks cut rivers down his cheeks. And still, his eyes shine bright, and he looks to her with impossible trust.
This will be the last time she sees him, she thinks.
“You, my child, are the strongest enchanter to ever grace the halls of Mystacor.” Light Spinner whispers this like a secret, one hand tracing a teleportation rune to the back of his ruined tunic with the last of her stolen magick. “And it is not only because of your talents. It is because of your heart. And I am so very proud of you, Micah.”
His tears stop. Micah looks at her in wonder, forever in wonder, and Light Spinner smiles just for him. The shouts are closing in. She can hear the grinding metal of tanks, the whirring of blasters, the stomp of metal boots. They will take her, she knows, but they will not take Micah. She will not allow it. And so she removes her veil in the presence of another for the first time in years. Her student’s eyes widen further. Shock. Awe. Confusion. Fear.
Light Spinner kisses Micah hard on the forehead and murmurs, “Do not stop fighting, my child.”
There is no warning.
Horde soldiers burst through splintered trees in a wave of metal and shouts. She activates the rune and pushes through the resistance she meets. Magick has a price, and it burns, lightning racing down her arms even as Micah is taken back to the safety of Mystacor. Just before the soldiers reach her, she replaces her veil and moments later something strikes a vicious blow across one shoulder. Crushing blows are painful, incredibly so.
But nothing hurts as much as the look of utter betrayal on Micah’s bruised face.
Light Spinner does not stop until he is nowhere to be found. Safe and free and damaged. Norwyn will have the last laugh, she thinks, bitter old goat that he is. But, she supposes, this may be the price for her hubris.
Footsteps descend upon her. She does not fight. The soldiers force her to the ground and beat her with weapons. They wrench her arms behind her back and bind them in shackles. The magick flees from her veins and leaves her weak, defeated in the charred remnants of flower beds. The power will not be hers.
Blood stains her teeth and Light Spinner still does not fight.
This was not the plan, but perhaps the best way to slay the beast is from inside.
She remembers the sound of Micah’s laugh and the warmth of his faith and smiles.
A pain in her temple.
The world goes dark.
~*O*~
Light Spinner wakes and her mouth is tacky with dried blood. It tastes like dirty coins, disgusting. She cannot see. They’ve placed a bag over her head, rough cloth that smells of vomit and sweat and whatever else has soaked into the cursed fabric. Her shoulders are screaming in agony, twisted as they are behind her. Her wrists are raw.
She still cannot touch her magick.
The panic comes in a wave. Deep and consuming. She is powerless and damaged and dirty and weak, so damnably weak. How could she have let this happen?! The spell is there, a rune engraved on the back of her eyes, gleaming and calling to her like a siren’s song. She can have infinite power, drain it from the Moons of Enchantment. She could have wiped the Horde from existence, forced Norwyn to trust her, watched as he begged at her feet for a mercy that would never come. But here she is. Beaten. Broken. Bound. Weak.
She can’t breathe.
She can’t. . ..
She can’t breathe.
Light Spinner has not had an episode in a long while, but she remembers the feeling vividly. She claws for air and tries to find something, anything, to keep her in the present. To stop her thoughts from spiraling down a very dark abyss of doubt. The shackles are rough on her wrists. She can feel cold seeping into her knees. Something presses against the back of her neck. The clasps of her veil tug. Dried blood on her tongue. Magick in her vein. . . no magick. No magick.
Her heart thunders in her ears and Light Spinner gags, twisting in place to keep from retching inside this cursed bag. A sound reaches her, rough and deep, followed quickly by thick hand wrenching at her damaged shoulder. It hurts. Hurt is good. Pain is an old friend. She embraces the ache and blinks when her eyes are assaulted. Her hair is matted with dried blood. Her skull throbs. How has she not noticed this?
A large reptiloid snarls down at her, all sickly yellow eyes and the smell of old scales. His claws dig into her flesh through her robes. They hurt.
Thank the moons.
Reptiloids are not verbose, nor are they known for their gentle natures, and Light Spinner is not delusional. He can shatter every bone in her body if he so desires, without even the effort it would take to snap a twig. His eyes are vicious and cold, and a rattling hiss rushes over her skin. His breath smells like rot. Light Spinner forces down her revulsion.
This is a warning, that much is clear.
“Hey, Deimor, easy on the witch!” Someone else barks. “They’re delicate, you know. And don’t look her in the eyes! You saw what she did to Kevin.”
Light Spinner does not rise to the bait. Instead, she catalogues. Knowledge is its own form of power, and she intends to gather every scrap she can on these people. There are four soldiers in this freezing box. The reptiloid is named Deimor, tall and broad. A woman had spoken, equally as tall with long white hair and vicious-looking fangs protruding from her smirk. The two others snicker. They do not remove their helmets.
The transport bounces. Rattles. Then grinds to a halt. Light Spinner stumbles and falls. It hurts, knees aching on cold steel and her face collides with a protruding bench. Blood pours from her nose and it blinds her, eyes watering. Everything hurts. Nothing is broken.
Focus.
Some opportunities are painful things and her mother taught her this lesson well.
More hands. They force her upright, and the world spins, and Light Spinner fights down another wave of nausea. There is something wrong. The woman with her teeth and tattoos smirks, filthy bag in hand.
“Lord Hordak’s waiting for you, witch,” she sneers. “Let’s see what punishment he can come up with for killing all my men.”
Her world descends into darkness and the smell of vomit-blood-sweat-panic is stifling. She can’t breathe. Everything hurts. Each step is a greater task than the last. But Light Spinner is not weak of will. She is stubborn and defiant and they will not break her.
Her arms are bruised. It is difficult to breathe through the clotted blood in her nose. The soldiers pay her no courtesy and drag her like a child’s ragdoll. Light Spinner notes these trespasses and tucks them close to her heart. They will fester. They will rot. And when the moment comes, she will allow them to destroy these weak, cowardly beings and laugh at the terror filling their bodies. She is not a kind woman. She is not a good woman.
They will die screaming.
Something crashes into the back of her shoulder again. A hand. Large, rough, cool. The reptiloid. He growls at her. The others laugh. Snickering, cruel sounds like children torturing insects, and Light Spinner feels hatred fester. This is not where she is meant to be. This was not the plan.
And then she remembers Micah, blood on his face and bruises on his cheeks, terror in big dark eyes. Self-hatred is a bitter tonic. This is a fate of her own making, the consequence of her decisions. The debt must be paid.
For her pupil, she will do so gladly.
They march for what seems like an eternity. Endless moments of stumbling and bruises and scathing remarks that are far from clever. Light Spinner detests insults without purpose. Brutes, all of them, and she is now their prisoner. Her magick is bound away. Her body is bruised and weak. But she still has her mind, and that is the most dangerous weapon of all. They do not seem to realize this.
And then, finally, they stop.
Light Spinner is forced to her knees. She hears the soldiers follow moments later. The air is tense, thick and fearful with an energy she has never experienced before. Norwyn is not a commanding presence by nature. He is firm and stern, but warm in the base of his personality. Soft in a way she has never been. But this is. . .. another beast entirely. It feels like a serpent sliding down the back of her neck, a shadow brushing through her hair, a monster whispering in her ear. It is cold and it is strong and apprehension pulses in time with her heart.
“Lord Hordak, sir. The prisoner, as you requested.” The woman again.
A pause. Then, “Excellent work, Force Captain. You reported she is a sorcerer, if I am not mistaken?”
The voice is deep and cultured, tinged about the edges with an accent that lilts in a way she has never heard before, and Light Spinner feels her throat close.
“Yes, Lord Hordak,” is the prompt reply. “She and another sorcerer ambushed our battalion along the edge of the Whispering Woods. We lost nearly a third of our men but managed to apprehend her. She is. . . strong, sir. Dangerous.”
He hummed. “Is that why she is bound so tightly? Do the magic suppressors not work to your satisfaction?”
“The suppressors work perfectly, Lord Hordak. But she did something to one of my men by looking at him. We had to knock him unconscious. He wouldn’t stop screaming. I thought it was probably a good idea to cover her face.”
Light Spinner remembers that man. He’d been holding Micah. He’d bashed the dear boy across the face, sneered at his tears. She remembers reaching through threads of consciousness, sorting through memories, pulling nightmares to the forefront and twisting, relishing in the sounds of his screams. Her powers are not typically so overt, but that soldier had made her angry. She does not regret it.
The voice of Lord Hordak scoffs, and Light Spinner steels her spine. “You feed a delusion, Force Captain Huntara. She is bound with the suppressors and powerless. Remove the covering and leave us. I will contact you if I require your assistance. Dismissed.”
He does not fear her. Does Lord Hordak fear anything? She has heard rumors but has never once glimpsed his face. Whispers say he is horrifying. A monster to behold. Around her, the soldiers intone “yes sir” as one and rise. She can hear shuffles. Someone rips the bag from her head and with it a sizeable chunk of hair.
Light Spinner hisses. Pain along her scalp, pain in her shoulders-knees-elbows-fingers and pain in her eyes. It isn’t bright here. But her eyes are not adjusted. Spots of color dance in front of her. Everything spirals.
And then her world is consumed by red.
Red, red, red, her entire existence is drowning in it. It’s all she can see. Dripping like blood and glowing amongst shadows like a wicked thing, cold and all-consuming, assessing, and she feels them bore deep into her chest. Her blood is ice. She can’t think. Can’t breathe. All she can see is his silhouette, eyes bright in the dim, and nothing is right. What is he?!!
Lord Hordak looms above her, a wraith, and the world drips carmine.
“So you are the one so thoroughly frightened my troops.” He has a smooth voice, deep and lilting, and she thinks his chest must be huge for all it rumbles. “You aren’t what I was expecting.”
No one ever suspects the scarred ones.
Light Spinner feels fury bloom in her chest, a deep anger. An old anger. An anger that sat and thrummed in time with her magick, with her soul, with that incurable thirst for power she possessed. It tightens her jaw and makes her brave. Makes her foolish, reckless, stupid.
“What were you expecting? Perhaps a knight? An old man with a beard and a staff?” She feels the acid in her words, and they drip off her tongue like pure venom. “You think so small, Lord Hordak.”
Lord Hordak narrows his eyes. Tilts his head. His ears are pointed, she notes, larger and more prominent than her own. Light Spinner is not unintelligent. She knows vitriol will do nothing to help her situation. But the anger hisses through her veins and clouds her judgment and she can’t help but glare at the large monstrous figure looming above her. Another low hum. Hordak steps closer, illuminated by the lights overhead, and her mouth goes dry.
He’s massive. Broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Fingers that end in wicked claws. His teeth are the same color as his eyes, massive and sharp, with fangs that glint once he steps into the full light. Cold washes down Light Spinner’s body. Her spine straightens. She tries not to shake. It doesn’t altogether work.
The sound of his boots echoes off the high ceilings, the pipes, the metal that seems to make up every surface in this place. Heavy thuds. They ring like a funeral dirge. Goosebumps rise along her arms, the back of her neck. Sweat breaks along her hairline. But Light Spinner does not cringe. She does not shy.
She continues to glare as Hordak kneels before her.
“You are a defiant creature, aren’t you?” he murmurs, soft and questioning. “What is your name?”
Light Spinner swallows. The cuffs around her wrists are bruising, and she feels the absence of her magick acutely. “They call me Light Spinner.”
Recognition lights the man’s alien features, and his smile is a slow, mocking thing. “Ah! Of course! You are a member of the Sorcerer’s Guild, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve been studying your ranks for some time now. I’m rather astonished my troops managed to capture you at all – the skills of guild-mages are legendary.”
“I was outnumbered and outgunned,” Light Spinner answers Micah’s bruised and Micah’s bloody and he’s crying a child desperate to know why stiffly. “It would have been foolish to continue fighting a battle I could not hope to win.”
Hordak tilts his head again, and the line of his fangs sends her heart into her throat. “Most who fight us would have done so to the death.”
She cannot stop the sneer that curls her lip. “Dying when one could live to fight another day is nothing noble. It’s stupid. Reckless.”
There is approval and mild surprise in the warlord’s hellish eyes. He leans closer, and his breath ghosts across her cheeks. It makes her recoil. Not the smell, but the nearness, the absolute wrongness of another person invading her space, and Light Spinner can feel her heart pounding violently under her breastbone. She is powerless and afraid and those teeth are going to give her nightmares, she can feel it.
Hordak does something then that surprises her.
He leans away. Stands to his full height, hands behind his back, and does not move to touch her. Light Spinner feels relief and utter confusion in equal measure.
“Some would argue that being captured by the enemy is a fate worse than death,” Hordak growls. “You do not know what I have planned for you.”
His point is valid. Light Spinner hates that. Because she has been beaten and mocked and man-handled by brutes. She is bruised. Bloody. Powerless. She does not know what they do with prisoners of war, particularly those who have killed so many soldiers. Or one who drove one soldier to insanity, in fact. But she cannot find it in herself to regret her decisions.
“I do not,” she replies. “But I do know I intrigue you. That I’m likely the first sorcerer you’ve captured alive.”
One pointed ear flicks in what she perceives as irritation, possibly intrigue. “You presume much.”
Light Spinner shrugs and attempts to feign confidence. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m more attuned to what the Horde’s plans are than you realize. I could be an asset if you wish to utilize me.”
The words make her nauseous, but she needs him to keep her close. To learn to trust her. Dismantling this place will be easy enough if she can just. . .. maneuver into the right position. And once the Horde burns and Hordak kneels before her, she can lean into that monstrous face and smile and watch the light drain from those bloody-red eyes. Etheria will prevail and hail her as a hero.
She can go home and they will trust her and Micah will turn his smile upon her once more and she will be powerful, be loved, be everything her mother told her she would never be and it will all be perfect.
Hordak narrows his eyes and leans a little closer. “An asset, you say? You would betray your guild, your people? Your cause? Your ideals?”
She can see Micah again. His fire when she showed him the images of Horde destruction. The determination, the focus, on his cherubic face as he focused on her lessons. How he and Castaspella would run about the halls and cheer and play games, bursts of light trailing them. She pictures all her students and their admiration. Her peers and their passive acceptance of the Horde situation.
Light Spinner does not flinch when she meets the monster’s gaze. It is like looking in a mirror, she tells herself. “To believe in an ideal is to be willing to betray it. We are all liars, in the end. It merely depends on whether or not we choose to lie to ourselves.”
A scoff escapes Hordak, and he sneers down on her. “Spoken by a woman who covers her face. Guards! Remove her. I want her placed in a holding cell until further notice.”
Hatred swells in her chest, and Light Spinner does not move as more bruises bloom on her knees. Everything hurts. It is still difficult to breathe. Her nose is not broken, but it is swollen and caked with clots of dried blood. Her mouth tastes like death.
She is not broken.
This is just fuel.
Two guards enter from behind. Their steps are hurried, fearful, and she does not need to look to know that they wear their helmets. That they do not look their lord in the eyes. That they obey and do not question and then will beat her the moment they are not watched. Light Spinner straightens her shoulders. She does not flinch. She lifts her chin and glares at Lord Hordak and tries to ignore the sinking, twisting feeling of despair in her stomach.
Their hands are rough on her shoulders. She is dragged to her feet though her knees feel as though they will give out any moment. Light Spinner fights the sensation.
Lord Hordak holds her stare as his soldiers frog-march her out the door. It is hard, and harsh, and it scrapes at her nerves in a way she hasn’t experienced in years. But there is the barest hint of intrigue underneath it all, and Light Spinner considers that a victory. Minor, fragile, but a victory.
The halls are a labyrinth, and the soldiers seem to take great pleasure in ramming her bodily into whatever obstacle they passed on their way to the cell blocks. One shoves her into an exposed pipe, laughing all the way. She thinks a rib cracks but can’t be certain. Light Spinner doesn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
She lifts her chin and glares and relishes in the fear that lines their shoulders.
Finally, finally, they reached the prison. Rows upon rows of cells. Cold and empty. There are no bars, rather an energy field. It surprises her, even as the soldiers toss her head-first into the one assigned. Because she was not expecting to see energy, magick derived from science, instead of cold iron bars and dank, dripping cells.
Instead, everything is cold and dry and smells of metal. She is hungry. She is bruised and battered. She feels empty, grasping for the slightest bits of magick that simply will not come, and the suppression cuffs on her wrist are damning. This is nothing like what she envisioned for this day.
Light Spinner curls at the back of the cell. She inhales a breath full of blood and closes her eyes.
She pretends the moons are warm on her face. She pretends the air smells of moonflowers and jasmine. She pretends that she can hear the children playing, maesters whispering amongst tomes of ancient spells, and above it all a bright call of her name, joyous and full of wonder.
She imagines she is home.
Light Spinner is not a good woman. She is not kind, nor patient, and her heart is full of festering anger. But today, during that one shining moment in the Whispering Woods, she hopes she made the right choice.
At least here, in the dark, no one can see the tears slip down her face.