Attraction to Zenith (UC,Mi/L,TEEN) Letter Q 9/8 [WIP]

[Ashita]

keepsmiling7 - Thank you for that. I'm glad that it came off as evocative as I was hoping. To me, Max wasn't a bad person, but he definitely had flaws. Just as all of the characters do. But that is what makes them human and easy to relate to and that moment with Tess was definitely one of those moments I wanted to smack him across the head.

mary mary - Even if it had been a criticism, I would have taken as meant, an honest critique. I do understand what you mean though by it having a biased slant and colored by my own thoughts of that scene with Tess and honestly what felt like excuses to me. [I am a diehard Polarist. ] But I'm happy that you loved the scene and that Max and Liz came off as believable. Thanks for your comment!

Whimsy - I've missed you!! I have to say I feel the same about your Michael and Liz. Especially WDC and FF. And you are notorious for sparking my muse as well, which is why I love working with you. I'm glad you're still enjoying the stories and I really need to finish that chapter to our fey sequel. Sorry. Getting struck with the flu and trying get those darned HP stories out of my head have messed with my writing schedule. Soon. I hope.
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K is for Karma. What goes around, comes around. We reap what we sow. What you send out into the world will come back to you in threes. Every culture and religion has a form of karmic law, or a saying that in essence vows that anything you do in the past will be revisited upon you, usually multiplied by x-times in the future or your next life.

Looking at the remains of the dingy, dirty tin can that once posed as his home, he can't help but wonder what he had done in the past to deserve the rough, violent beginning of his life here on Earth. He had no memories of Antar, but he must have been a right bastard to have fallen into Hank's careless, brutal hands. And if he searched deep enough, he could remember the cries of the men that fell beneath his sword, the pleas for mercy on a smoky battlefield, the glares of the condemned, those declared traitor to their state, as they were systematically executed without reprieve.

But he disliked touching on that violent part of him; not because he felt shame for his ruthless actions, as he saw them as justice done, or as protecting his loved ones; no, he avoided it because a dark part of him welcomed that sweet call of blood lust. It sang to him, a siren's call beckoning him to pick up blade and war once again, especially every time a Skin or Special Unit member got too close to his loved ones for his comfort. It was only cool, rational brown eyes that pulled back from the brink when that happened.

Because, for all the violence in his heart, he also wondered what he had done to deserve her. His abusive youth made sense in a sick way; poetic justice given all those he'd struck down in the name of Antar. But then, if he were paying for past mistakes, why would the gods, the fates, the muses, or hell, the purple and blue butterflies everywhere, or whatever you wanted to attribute the rise and fall of man; why would they grace him with such bounty?

He could see nothing in his life, past or present, that stood out and screamed, 'I'm worthy!' In fact, everything he saw screamed 'whipping boy' or 'not salvageable.' But it didn't seem to matter to her; she looked at him with those quiet, loving eyes that spoke volumes above the chaotic, destructive thoughts in his head; and for once, he almost thought he too was worthy of redemption.

K is for Keep. He'd seen her writing in it often, that little black book that she seemed to protect and guard as if it held all the secrets in the world, and it had instantly made him suspicious. He knew how girls were due to Isabel – or really, her silly, giggly girlfriends who seemed to catalog every, single, unimportant, mundane moment of their life into pretty pages pasted between jewel-toned covers. But she'd never seemed like the type to fill her pages with frivolous prattle about some boy looking at her or wondering when her next date would happen. Frankly, unlike most girls their age, she seemed to to have her head screwed on straight and ignored the many admiring eyes that followed her throughout the day; it had given him a certain amount of grudging respect for the petite brunette Max was obsessed over.

Which is why, now that she was filling pages of a plain black journal, he couldn't help feeling leery. It screamed of secrets, and as far as he was aware, the only new secret she'd learned was theirs. He'd hoped that he hadn't been right; that she hadn't filled the pages about them, but he had to know the risk, had to know what it said and whether he needed to destroy it to keep his tiny family safe. So, of course, he snuck into her room and stole it.

He hadn't meant to cause a panic, although, he should have realized it would given how closely she guarded her secrets; how careful she'd been with theirs. But once he had gotten his hands on her journal, he had been reluctant to relinquish it. Not because of the information it contained – although, it could have been a serious breach in their security if it had fallen into the wrong hands – but because of the soul he'd found in those pages. Written between the lines, was a heart that stunned him and truly made him feel a bit envious.

A sentiment he shared when he returned the journal to her; that is, once he'd heard the uproar he'd inadvertently caused when it went missing. And staring into those relieved, glowing eyes, a soft flush suffusing her cheeks, that stab of envy reinstated itself. And he couldn't help but think as he'd sauntered away that this one was a keeper.

K is for Kaleidoscopic. 'Changing form, pattern, color, etc., in a manner suggesting a kaleidoscope. Continually shifting from one set of relations to another; rapidly changing.' He'd once had a kaleidoscope; he'd found it lying in the middle of some rubbish heap one day when he was eight, looking worn, weary, beat-up and abandoned by the one who'd once owned it – just like him. Out of curiosity, he'd picked it up and had been instantly amazed at the bright, bold jewels that laid within a seemingly boring, ordinary package; their shapes and patterns rapidly changing and fluctuating with every shake and twist, and yet each of it's versions remained bright, sparkling, wondrous – beautiful.

So is it any wonder that he would chose this word to describe her?

When he was younger, and Max would prattle on and on about 'Liz this' and 'Liz that,' he'd remained unimpressed. Yes, truly, she had been pretty in that almost forgettable, girl-next-door way. And yes, she was sweet, but she remained serious, aloof, untouchable and seemingly nothing like the bright jewels he'd hoarded, concealed away where Hank and the others couldn't touch them. That kaleidoscope had set his impression of beauty long before it was ever a conscious thought in his mind. He really should have learned from its packaging that the seemingly bland can shelter the most stunning of beauties.

It wasn't until she had crash landed into his world that he understood what Max had been babbling about for years. There was just something about this girl that made her stand out above the others. The quiet, unassuming beauty on the outside, hid a stunning mind and a soul, which shamed him for his uncharitable thoughts in its sheer resplendence.

How could he have missed this the first time around?

But the most amazing thing was, for all the twists and turns their lives had thrown her, for all the times some alien event had shook the foundation of their world, for every time the alien abyss forced her to change, mutate and adapt to whatever crisis had arisen; she remained the very definition of his favorite childhood treasure.

Kaleidoscopic – ever-changing, rapidly fluctuating, but bright, sparkling, wondrous...

Beautiful.

K is for Kiss. He hadn't meant for it to happen; in fact, he had been avoiding being alone with her for weeks, hoping to keep the growing feelings in his heart from spilling over and making him do something they'd both regret. Something that would irrevocably rock their world. But fate had other plans.

The first time their lips met, he swore it was as if his soul had caught on fire. The world dimmed around him and narrowed down to those two lips brushing across his, sending his head reeling and his heart pounding, his skin tingling as those liquid flames rushed through his veins like magma. It was intoxicating, illuminating and felt like nothing he had ever felt before.

It was also forbidden fruit, but his mind didn't concern itself with that assessment at the time, too caught up in the kiss as he pulled her closer still, his every nerve jumping to life, as if shocked by electricity, which shot through and tangled and danced along his system at the first, tentative touch of a soft, warm tongue against his. And he reveled in it, let the fire consume him and drag him into the heart of the inferno, uncaring as to the destructive force they'd unwittingly unleashed.

And when he pulled back, drowning in molten chocolate eyes, as she laid flushed and breathless beneath him, something inside him hit the flashpoint as he watched bridges burning in their depths. The stark realization of what they'd done, and the potential devastation that it could leave behind, sucked all the oxygen from the air as they stood in the middle of the beginnings of a firestorm, ashes raining down around them as their safe, happy little bubble imploded.

Scrambling away from one another, they stared at the remains, a cold horror stealing over their hearts, both mute as the structure of their lives audibly snapped and collapsed around them in a shower of embers. Shaking her head silently in denial, she'd fled, intent on forgetting the wildfire that had burnt so brightly, consuming them for one frantic, unbelievable moment.

But it was for naught. As once a firestorm is unleashed, it's nearly impossible to contain, as everything, from the merest whisper of wind, or in this case words, to the bright, unyielding heat of the sun, or the simmer of bronze eyes, fueled and fanned the inferno, creating a fire whirl, that natural, spinning vortex of flames, that would end up burning them from the inside out.

K is for Kerosene.

[Ashita]

keepsmiling7 - thanks as always! I liked that episode as well and was disappointed that we never really saw more than a few sentences exchanged because I think that's where Michael really started accepting Liz into his little fold (whether it was for friendship or more, it's up to individual interpretation) but unfortunately, the show let a lot of good potential plotlines fall through the cracks. Which is good for us as writers as we get the opportunity to explore them all.

AN: So this is pre-polar, set after the journal incident, but obviously before Michael's emancipation.
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L is for Lost. He had been wandering aimlessly for what felt like hours, but honestly must have only been one at the most, the freezing November rain plastering his clothing to his skin and hiding his tears in plain sight, not that he would ever admit that he'd let a few fall. After another rousing evening of needling, and being told he was nothing more than a worthless freak only good for the check his fostering provided, he'd stormed out of the stifling tin can Hank called home and headed for his sanctuary, completely forgetting that Max and Isabel were visiting family that weekend until he was nearly halfway to their house.

He had been far more concerned with and concentrating too hard on not losing the fragile hold he had on the reins of his volatile powers, that it wasn't until he managed to curtail the crackling anger surrounding him that he recalled the locked and empty house.

After standing on the corner of Magnolia and Vine streets for several minutes, feeling utterly discouraged and a bit astray, he shrugged the discomfiting feelings off and turned to the left, walking on a directionless course until he stumbled onto a street that had become familiar in his night time 'strolls' (read his escapes from Hank's questionable brand of love and fatherly concern). Staring at a pretty, cozy house in the middle of the block, he gave a bitter laugh that he was drawn to this home filled with hope, happiness and laughter, touched here and there by something slightly kooky.

But then again, what else could one expect from Maria and her mother?

It shined cheerfully in the dimming light, slightly off kilter, but a warm, inviting and solid beacon in the cold. It was yet one more place closed off to the likes of him – his kind didn't belong in bright, golden place like this.

Scuffing his foot, he ignored the pang in his heart that yearned for a touch of kindness, knowing that silent cry would fall on deaf ears and the wish a useless endeavor, and he continued down the street, practically invisible to the blithe, laughing families that lined it. The only exception to the rule, were those that watched him with wary eyes, as if they expected him to bum rush them or break down their, pretty, cookie-cutter doors and cart off all their dubious treasures.

Scoffing to himself, he sneered at one such person as they peered out of their cold-frosted window, tracking his progress and he couldn't help smirking at the slight touch of fear that sparked in the woman's eyes when she realized she'd been made and shut the curtains with a twitch of her hand. If they all were as Godly and benevolent as they liked to believe, they would have offered him a place to wait out the storm, rather than left a cold, wet teenager out in the pouring rain.

But that was for people like Max – the perfect son and student, who gave shy smiles instead of bitter smirks.

Which lead him to where he was now standing; his feet always lead him here eventually, no matter how long he wandered or how desperately he tried to say away, he always found himself staring into the brightly lit windows of the Crashdown. Saturated and frozen down to the bone, he stared in, debating on whether he should enter the diner or not, but he never had the opportunity to reach a firm conclusion as bright brown eyes stared up at him and a low husky voice broke through his reverie.

“Michael, what are you doing out there?” Liz asked as she came to the door and stared out into the darkness, a halo of light surrounding her. “You'll catch your death. Get in here before you get sick.”

L is for Longing. She had grabbed his hand and pulled him int the brightly lit diner before he could protest, the light so blinding after wandering in the darkness for so long, it made his eyes water. Or at least that's the excuse he gave himself as she bundled him off to the bathroom with a towel and a change of clothing; it definitely had nothing to do with ache building in his chest and constricting his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. And it most definitely had nothing to do with the sweet smile she tossed him as she told him that a hot cup of coffee and a slice of cake would be waiting for him at his usual booth, 'on the house.'

Because he was immune to such sweetness.

Sliding into the booth in what could only be her father's sweats, he picked up the steaming cup, letting the warmth of the glass leach the icy cold from his fingers, one that had built during night time wandering, while Liz gathered his sodden clothing, chirping something about putting them into the dryer for him. Watching as she all but floated out of the dining room, he tried to fathom out what he was feeling. She had always been a bit of an enigma to him, and often brought a flood of uncomfortable emotions in her wake, which is why he often went out of his way to avoid her.

Sipping the scalding beverage, he sat, quietly observing as she came back in, chatting brightly with a couple of customers, but he could tell from her lack of uniform that it was her night off and she was likely down here doing her homework. Smiling wanly when looked up and flashed him that winsome smile that Maxed so often waxed poetic about, he inhaled sharply and averted his gaze, a stab of envy slashing through his heart.

What would it feel like, to have that warm, open acceptance all of your life?

Closing his eyes, he ignored the stinging in the backs of his eyes, attributing it to sudden dryness due to the warmth of the cafe after the damp, cold night. It couldn't be anything else. When he opened them again, Liz was perched on a stool at the counter, leaning against it and chattering at her grinning father,obviously weaving some story about school or her earlier shift, her hands waving in emphasis to some point as the other man let out a hearty chuckle.

Swallowing thickly, he looked away as his throat closed up, the coffee traveling down it like shards of glass as it worked its way over the lump lodged there. He felt like he was intruding on a deeply personal, private moment between father and daughter, but it found it difficult to look away for long, drawn to them like a moth to a flame. And in their typical open way, father and daughter invited the scrutiny, entreating the world to share in their joy.

A concept he never understood.

L is Laughter. It was bright as sunshine and twice as warm as it spilled over her lips, each sparkling note tugging at something he'd carefully buried long ago for his own sanity. But that reserve never worked around her – she was one of those people that seemed to suspend all rules and formalities until you were lost in a sea of light and air and radiance; and you didn't quite know how to close off those cold, dark places once you'd been exposed.

Shifting his gaze away from Liz and her father, his heart hitched when her mother came through the door, drawn by the effervescent, delighted laughter that rang through the diner; one that garnered soft smiles and answering chuckles, although he doubted anyone knew why they laughed. It was just that infectious – a perfect vision of familial bliss as Liz's mother slid onto the stool next to her and wrapped an affectionate arm around her shoulders, listening to the remaining conversation with a half-smile.

And it made him ache.

There, he admitted it; it wasn't just Max Evans that he envied.

Swallowing the rest of the now lukewarm coffee, he set the empty cup onto the table, startling when it was instantly filled by a passing waitress, who smiled blandly at him when he looked up before she moved on; he felt momentarily confused at the attention, but then he caught the glance between the waitress and Liz, and realization dawned. Of course, Liz had talked to the waitress and asked her to watch over him.

Swiping a hand over his face, he wanted to let out a bitter chuckle, but that would negate the kindness Liz had shown him this evening and it wasn't her fault that he was viewed less than favorably by most of the town.

Keeping his eyes pinned to the swirling dark liquid in his mug, he flinched when those silvery tones echoed through the dining room again and he noted Liz slipping from her seat to head to the back room and her parents exchanging a fond smile from the corner of his eye. It made his insides twist, a flutter of resentment and jealously fluttering through his gut before he quashed it ruthlessly. She didn't deserve his antagonism when she had done nothing to earn it.

All because a dark, secret part of him longed for her life.

L is for Love. It was apparent in every move and gesture that her parents made towards each other – the loving looks that spoke volumes, the tender touches that were made without thought, all done without words because they weren't necessary.

But most apparent tonight was their love for her. Their faces just lit up when she entered the room- the pride and joy they took in her evident and bled through all their actions. It was patently obvious that she was the light of their lives; that she always had been and always would be no matter what she did with her life. Especially as she came back out with a bundle of clothing, flashing them that irrepressible grin that told everyone just how happy they made her, before she walked over to him with his now warm, dry clothing.

Those looks made him burn inside.

“Here you are, Michael,” she smiled, setting them on the other bench. “For whenever you're ready.”

Smirking at her, he toasted her with his mug and downed the hot liquid, only wincing slightly as it scalded its way down his throat. Grabbing the stack of clothing, he quickly made his way to the bathroom and changed, carefully folding and placing Mr. Parker's clothes aside. Sighing he walked over to the sink and washed his hands, startled by the sadness that shined out of his eyes. Closing his eyes to the pain lurking in them, he reconstructed his 'I don't give a damn' mask and stepped out the door, swiftly making his way to the dining room.

“Michael, come join us,” Liz called out as he entered, waving him over to where she was sitting with her parents, both of whom also sent him a welcoming smile. It was tempting to join them, to pretend that he was a normal teen for just one night. But he didn't have the luxury of clinging to impossible dreams; it made the harsh, cold reality of his life that much more heartbreaking.

“Can't,” he shrugged negligently, not allowing them to see how much it hurt to stand there and watch their joy and smiled weakly as he nodded the door. “Have to get going.”

“Are you sure,” Liz asked, frowning thoughtfully. “We could call...”

“I'm sure,” he interrupted, desperately trying to quell the fear that rose in his chest, choking off his air supply before he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He could just imagine Hank's reaction to a call and the vitriol that would spew from his mouth at the mention of his 'beloved' foster son. He didn't need any more pity. “Thanks for the invite, but you know how Isabel is – I should get moving.”

“It's a terrible night to be out,” Liz hedged, turning concerned brown eyes to the still falling rain, looking as if she were about to call his bluff. Flinching internally at the thought, he waved her off impatiently and headed towards the door. The last thing he needed was for her to find out that he had nowhere to go.

“It's okay,” he smirked, hoping to get out of there before she recalled that Max and Isabel were away that weekend. “I like walking in the rain.”

“Well,” Liz said, walking over to him and gently placed something in his hand; he looked down questioningly, his breath hitching slightly when he saw an umbrella and a Crashdown bag. “At least take these with you. No need for you to get drenched before you get home. Next time?”

“Ummm...yeah, sure, next time,” he stammered, knowing it for the fabrication it was as he stared at her blankly even as she smiled brightly at him, once again at a loss of what to make of this girl that had crash landed into his world. “I should go.”

Stepping out into the night, he let the darkness descend over him, making him feel at ease. He was comfortable with the dark and didn't need the bright, garish happiness that seeped out the Crashdown's door. Placing a hand to the frosted glass, he looked in at the warm, joyful scene one final time and then squared his shoulders, tucking the umbrella under his arm, turned and walked away, the rain falling quietly around him.

He didn't need the light; it was better this way, lost here in the dark. It was known and never expected too much of him, unlike those bright, blithe faces in the happy, shiny houses.

L is for Lie.

[Ashita]

Thanks keepsmiling7; yes, Michael has always had self-confidence issues and I always felt that he judged himself harshly, and at times, felt he didn't measure up to the others.
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M is for Masquerade. Shakespeare once said, 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts...' His life had often felt like a stage, a grand script being acted out on an intergalactic level, written by some not so benevolent being that had no care for the players so long as it entertained the masses. And he thrust into a part that didn't fit, as if they were trying to force him into some preconceived mold; one he had no intention of ever embracing. It was abrasive, tight, suffocating and cast by some other's design, not through any will or composition of his own. Yet he was stuck, playing it out like a good, little soldier, unintentionally fulfilling their slightest whim.

So to save himself from losing hold onto the thin threads of his sanity, he'd donned a masque of his own; one that was cool and uncaring, indifferent to the hurtling plot encompassing him. A facade he presented to this world, and his own, to protect the far too fragile heart that felt the slings and blows and bruises far more deeply than he'd wanted those ice cold deities that orchestrated his life to know. He was nothing more than a game to them, a toy, a story to be told and retold, playing out in the same manner in an endless, heart-wrenching cycle and he refused to allow them any more pleasure in his pain than necessary.

It wasn't a perfect masque; he'd never mastered true indifference, being far too fiery and passionate for his own good. He couldn't hide himself away completely; but he embraced it nonetheless and had been satisfied when most shied away from it, the chinks subtle and unapparent to the mindless masses. He'd hidden them far too well behind the cynical smile that graced his lips, twisting his face into something not quite human at times, and the bitter light shone through his eyes.

Not that it mattered; few dared to question the smoke and mirrors he hid behind; no one cared to...until her.

She challenged him, with spirited, bronzed eyes that saw into the depths of his soul and scoffed at the lie he'd built, bringing to life emotions best left drowning in the abyss he'd created in his heart. Artfully chipping away at his guise, leaving him bare, naked, exposed – free – with nothing more than a few words, a soft touch, a look that told him that she wasn't buying his act, by the role he'd been shoved into through circumstances beyond his control.

Treating him as if he were worth something; treating him as if he were deserving; treating him as if he alone was all that mattered.

It was difficult remaining unattached, unaffected, unmoved, when she wove that spell around him, morphing his world and creating, casting him into a part that he'd never thought he'd live to see. And it made him want. Made him ache. Made him forget that he hadn't been born into that shining crowd, that shining light that suffused her and others of her ilk.

Made him think, that one day, he might find that light too. One day.

This power of hers confused him, frightened him and yet, he couldn't help craving more. And the closer he drew to that beacon, the more he had been changed, until the mask fell away, laying in nothing but tatters at his feet, broken beyond repair. But he didn't care, because, in her eyes, he was whole, loved, and he felt completely, utterly, irrevocably...

M is for Mesmerized. He knew that he should be wary of her draw; it would only lead to heartache, as love and fine things weren't meant for people who lived in tin shacks and barely could afford enough to keep themselves alive. But she had this pull on everyone and everything she touched, and he was no different; all he could do was watch on helplessly, in dumbfounded awe as she spun her web, uncertain what it was about her that captivated him so readily.

But whatever it was, it was intoxicating.

Most people would have assumed that this power came from the bright, bubbly blonde that was forever at her side, always sparkling and grabbing for attention, but he'd studied them for weeks and soon came to the conclusion that the world was blind. Although, he had already seen evidence in that due to the part he had been unfairly cast into. But rather than her being cast into the shadows by her friend's natural vibrant, effervescent personality, it was the reverse.

She had always been the center of their universe, thoughtlessly casting out drops of her own brilliance to all who stood near, so that they too could shine and share in her radiance. Thus making them appear larger than life.

He found it ironic in a way, that the bright, glittering blonde was actually the one that orbited around the quiet, cool, elegant brunette. It seemed to defy the natural order of things. After all, had they not been taught that those with a lesser luminescence always circled those with the higher? That it was the moon and Earth that orbited around the sun?

But then, she'd always defied the odds.

And he thought, perhaps, they needed to shift their perspectives just a touch; because, to what purpose does the sun exist without the Earth to give it meaning?

Without it, it's just another star.

M is for Marked. She'd changed his life, this slip of a girl; opened his eyes to a whole realm he'd never understood. One he'd never wanted to understand, because, to taste heaven, and then have it ruthlessly and viciously ripped away by the puppet masters that had engineered his life, it would have been more heartbreaking than he could bear. It was a sweetness long denied to him – everyone's favorite whipping boy – due to careless caretakers and family untrue.

He was only fit for scorn; fit only for chastisement.

He didn't want to set himself up for his inevitable fall at the hands of those who tried to tell him they were his betters; that looked down their noses and cast him into the sewer because he wasn't one of them.

But she...she never played by their rules, and when they tried to rein her in, she'd thumbed her nose at them, blatantly defying their world order and ignored the loaded whispers that warned her to leave well enough alone. How many times had she stood at his side, gloriously defiant and unrepentant in her stance? How many times had she had his back, protector and a very demon when properly riled? How many times had she stood in front of him, his shield and the first line of his defense?

Too many times to count; and all done in that unselfish, thoughtless way that showed the world that he was essential to hers. And for this, he'd gladly wear her brand, bright and bold, glinting on the third finger of his left hand, a ring that screamed to the world that he was hers; and then he'd follow her into hell itself if she asked. Because she proudly and defiantly wore a matching ring, that spoke volumes above the fray.

M is for Melt. It's what he did every time she was nearby.

His thaw began when he first met her, that brave young girl who had stood in his path and stared him down, a fierce, desperate light in her eyes despite the way her body had quaked under the force of his best glare. The way she had looked at him, half-afraid that he might strike her down where she stood, and half like she was going to drop kick his ass if he didn't stop being an utter idiot, standing her ground, had earned his reluctant admiration and melted a bit of the icy fear that held them apart.

That thawing grew as time marched on, reaching a small stream when she'd once again stepped in front of him, but this time in defense, shielding him from the pretty little alien hunter that had used her guise of teacher to gain information on him and his kind. The FBI agent had thought that she was oh-so-clever, posing as a harmless guidance counselor, and able to outsmart a few teenagers if not the world.

But not her.

She had seen through her friendly act, and the angelic looking face, ripping away her mask for all to see with just a bit of help from their friendly, neighborhood hacker that just happened to be her best friend. To protect them. To protect him most of all when she went against the fearless leader's dictates and showed up on his front doorstep, facing the vile scum he called a foster father, all to make certain he stayed safe. Because his life mattered to her.

And then...he'd held her in his arms, and he'd been lost.

A chance meeting.

An unforeseen accident.

A kiss.

And that was all that it had taken to start the deluge. It had been one simple kiss and yet it had rocked the entire world with them as the epicenter. A nuclear bomb exploding, and them ground zero. A level five hurricane, and them the eye of the storm. It had the power to undo his world, and to remake it; to reshape it into what he had today.

He'd drowned in that heat; in those sweet kisses that set his soul on fire, that burned and flamed and eventually cracked, then shattered and finally completely obliterated the ice that he had so carefully wrapped around his heart. Those kisses were his own personal sun – one that warmed him on the coldest of nights; one that had, indeed, finally brought that elusive, shining light that eventually annihilated the dark clouding his life.

She was nothing but a slip of a girl; one he had never intended talking to, much less let so far into the play, the farce that was his life. But in her typical, stubborn way, she wouldn't take no for an answer and rewrote the script, firmly insinuating herself into what was supposed to be his one-man show. And to be honest, he couldn't even complain. The truth was, he didn't miss that masque, and it felt great to give those, now, not so smug deities the finger, as he'd finally had the last laugh.

M is for Metamorphosis.

[Ashita]

A/N: Hello, this is actually Whimsy, I'm posting for Ashita since her computer kind of died (evil thing). I know she appreciates your feedback and patience














N is for Nightmare. He awoke, gasping for breath, visions of what had been dancing before bleak, blank eyes, sending a spike of pain slicing through his breast like a red-hot knife, the brackish taste of defeat, failure and betrayal lingering on his tongue. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to clear away the cries of the helpless sounding in his head, making his ears ring, and inhaled deeply, swiping away the sweat that had gathered on his brow and pooled in the hollow of his throat.

It was the same every night since he'd undergone the reawakening of his memories – dreams of what had been, and what could have been, haunted his mind, filling him with a chilling sense of dread, leaving him weak and broken under the unrelenting sense that he'd failed his family, his people, his king and queen.

He'd once wanted nothing more than to understand his roots, to know the place he'd been born, to find the answers to the questions constantly swirling in his mind. He'd burned with an all-consuming need to know his alien past, hoping that once he'd learned that, he would feel comfortable within his own skin; that he would know from whence some of those self-destructive thoughts and whispers in his ears had stemmed. So when the man named Kal, one of their supposed protectors, who’d abandoned them to their fate, had contacted them in an uncharacteristic burst of remorse, and offered the chance for answers, he'd jumped at the chance.

But faced with the images of a broken world, his people crying out for mercy under Kivar's reign of cruelty and drive for the throne; of betrayal at the hands of a woman he'd once loved more than life itself, he wished he'd resisted that siren call. It had brought nothing but heartache, as by the end of the ten-year war, sparked by a family squabble – his cousin had disagreed with the way Zan had allied himself to Savo, the newest in their federation and wanted Rath on the throne – Antar had been destroyed, broken, blackened beyond redemption by unnatural fire. And he – he had been a twisted parody of the man that had begun the war.

The longer the feud went on, dragging innocents into a spat that should have remained behind closed doors, the more embittered and cold he had grown; a ruthless warrior with no care to the precious lives he'd once set out to protect.

It left him sickened and disillusioned; heaving up the contents of his stomach as the smell of burnt flesh, singed by his own hand, filled his nose. And aching, completely lost in despair for what had become of them in the final days.

N is for Nadir – the lowest point; point of greatest adversity or despair. In the last days, he'd been an empty shell of a man. The king he'd sworn fealty to was dead, slain by his own sister's hand, his wife's hand when she aligned herself with their enemy, having always coveted the throne. He couldn't blame her in some ways. She had been the eldest, the first born, and in a fair world, the throne would have been hers by birthright. But old men's suspicions and prejudices set her aside in favor of her younger brother.

But to betray your own flesh...that he couldn't comprehend.

His queen fell next, her throat slit before his eyes by Kivar while he was held down by his disgusting, sniveling sycophant Nicolaos, too broken and beaten to even raise his head. He only saw her death as Nicolaos took great pleasure in holding his head aloft by his hair, a vindictive cackle rumbling from his throat that he, the great warrior that had bested him far too numerous times to count, was riven at his feet.

He owed that little pipsqueak for being forced to watch that horror; if ever he ran into him again, his life was forfeit for being party to the desecration of his queen, the woman he thought of as a sister, one he loved heart and soul. The one he had sworn to protect with his very life when he'd sat by her mother's death bed. Nicolaos would die by his hand for seeing him foresworn, unable to fulfill that deathbed promise.

He figured once Avalina was dead, he would be the next to fall; but that would have been a mercy to what happened next, and his cousin wasn't all that keen on showing mercy to the one that had denied him. In punishment for not banding with his cousin, for remaining faithful to and holding true to his king and queen, he was forced to play witness to the destruction of all they held dear. He'd been strung up, tied to a post and held there for days without food and little water as Kivar systematically executed the entire royal family and those loyal to them, until finally, terrified and broken, the people cowered and prostrated at his feet.

It was then the beatings began; the whip slicing through his skin until it hung from his shoulders and back in ribbons, blood pouring from the open, festering wounds, drenching his clothing and pooling on the ground. Kivar sought to break him, to make him admit that Kivar had been right and he should have joined him while he'd had the chance. He could have lived the life of a king, with his beautiful, treacherous, foresworn wife at his side – but he had refused to capitulate.

Instead he'd spat in Kivar's eye and called him eweling droppings, not even fit for gracing the bottom of his boot.

And in a final show of defiance, he'd used the last of his flagging strength to break free and struck down the traitorous bitch at his side with a single, decisive blast of his powers. He'd grinned smugly when her eyes had widened a split second in surprise before the dimmed, lifeless as she crumpled to the ground. And then he too had fallen, drained by that final defiant blast; he hadn't even felt the mortal blow as Kivar exploded into a rage, infuriated that his ties to the throne had snapped when Vilondra took her last breath.

N is for Nebulous. The memories always left him feeling dazed, lost, scattered; drifting between reality and dream, vacillating between the past and the present.

Confusion reigned as he gazed at the ceiling, his heart still thrumming madly as he swiped a weary hand over his face; he knew there was no point in him staying in bed as sleep would be elusive until he made sense of these new images. Pushing aside his blankets, he sent a cursory glance towards his wife, making sure she was still asleep, and when he met with a serene face, still lost in dreams, he let out an inaudible sigh of relief. She really needed the sleep this late in the pregnancy and their nights had been interrupted far too many times to count by these dreams.

Sliding from the bed, he padded into the kitchen and set about making himself some cocoa, one of those soothing rituals they'd adopted when they were still teens and their love was new. It never failed to bring clarity and order to the chaos in his mind, brought on by visions he barely understood. Shivering lightly, his skin pebbled as a wave of unknown apprehension flowed over his body, the adrenaline still pumping through his system, prompting him to take flight despite the fact that there was no visible foe.

He hated this feeling, this ambiguous, nebulous sense of dread that came over him, pushing his warrior instincts surging to the fore; because there was also nothing to fight. You couldn't slay dreams or memories no matter how hard you wished. They were always there, floating under the surface, lying low until a prodigious weakened moment and then creeping up when you least expect to ambush you – usually in the dead of night.

It was in times like these that he envied amnesia victims; it would be pure bliss to forget, to live in that oblivious little bubble he'd shattered with his own curiosity.

Running a hand through his hair, he heaved a ragged sigh and sipped his chocolate, startling when a hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Looking up into soft, concerned brown eyes, he felt the edges start to melt away under that gaze and sighed in relief when she eased her way into his arms.

N is for Nepenthe – something, like a drink, capable of making one forget suffering. Her touch was a balm to his soul, smoothing away the rough jags, comforting and washing away the sting of betrayal, of failure. Pulling her gently into his arms, he buried his face into thick, molasses strands and just breathed in the scent of her – strawberry and vanilla and something he could never define, but uniquely her. It always amazed him how she had the ability to heal him with nothing more than a look and a soft kiss; one that said she understood, that she was here if he needed her and she'd never leave him to face his demons alone.

She never spoke in these moments; she'd never had to because her actions, her loving gestures always stated everything loud and clear.

Pulling away, he looked down into her face, and cupped her jaw, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of her cheeks. He didn't bother to smile, as it would have been a lie, and there were no secrets between them, and no false reassurances; they'd come too far in their relationship to jeopardize it with falsehoods, even if they were meant with the best of intentions.

Instead, he leaned over and kissed her softly, letting the caress say all that he couldn't – thank you for being here, no, I'm not okay, but I will be; I couldn't have made it this far without you; just being with you brings me greater joy and comfort than I can ever express. Letting out a shuddering breath when he felt soft hands running through his hair, he pulled away and leaned his brow against hers. They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, and he finally felt the last threads of the dream...vision...memory snap, fading into the ether as a sense of calm took its place.

She pulled back, one hand resting on her baby bump, caressing it as she reached out with the other and entwined it with his, gently tugging him back to their room and pulled him into bed, where she wrapped her arms around him. Closing his eyes, he let sleep overtake him, knowing that she was there, that she'd always be there, to soothe away his aches and pains.

N is for Nurtured.

[Ashita]

AN: Thanks to keepsmiling7 and Yasmania for your comments. Glad you're still enjoying the drabbles. A big thanks to Yas for her beta work as well and to Whimsy for her posting for me in my down time, plus her continued support, soundboarding (is that even a word? Likely not but who cares) and beta work! You both completely rock!
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O is for Outcast. He had never really felt as if he fit in on this world; had always known something was different about him. And for each and every smart ass out there who gaped at him like he had suddenly sprouted horns, he didn’t mean the obvious answer. Yes, of course his alien origins made him different; his ineloquent brother had even used those very words to explain why he and Liz couldn’t be together prior to their non-relationship.

But he didn’t mean that.

That difference was compounded by being fostered on, as they say it, ‘the wrong side of the tracks,’ the charge of what had to be one of the most reviled men in Roswell, further leading to his label of ‘misfit.’ No matter what he did in the beginning, how hard he’d tried to please, he could never overcome the stigma of being ‘Whitmore’s boy,’ despite his name being completely different from the man who kept him as a meal ticket. After awhile, he simply gave up, buried his hopes under an avalanche of bitterness and let them fade into obscurity.

But even that wasn’t the issue really – he had always felt like an outsider, felt that there was something different about him that set him apart from the other hybrids. A memory, deeply rooted and suppressed within the confines of his mind, whispered in his dreams that he had always been this way – aloof, standoffish, cold, indifferent, detached, solitary – they all fit the image that would occasionally crop up in the recesses of his brain, taunting him.

The black sheep of the family.

The dissenter.

Images would flow before his eyes as he slumbered, of a difficult child, who rarely opened up to anyone and marched to his own tune, and never accepted anything but on his own terms. The word ‘obstinate’ rang through his ears, in a voice coated in disappointment and disapproval, and lead to opprobrium – disgrace – and ostracism. If he managed to chase down those elusive images, he was faced with the man the difficult child grew into, one who followed his own rules, sneering at the overly officious and mocking the obedient, who had more care for society’s frivolous dictates than true justice.

A man who, laughing in the face of adversity, thumbing his nose at the masses, sought to right the wrongs in his world, often to his own detriment.

Or at least, that was his public mask; his outer appearance.

In truth, deep inside, it was the opposite; the mask protected him from careless words and actions, allowed him to move through their society, inciting unrest for the compliant, mindless hogs that sucked up their precious resources without thought and slowly obliterated them. In time, this man would rise from the shadows to heights no one could have foreseen, becoming the second in command to his planet and viewed as a revolutionary, with his own cult following.

Which was why, when Tess barged into their not-so-happy sextet, and stirred up Max and Isabel’s complacent, ordered world, a part of him rejoiced. Recognizing a kindred spirit, one that would do what was necessary to right their current world, had excited him and awakened that long dormant part of his soul. And although he made a fuss and pretended not to like this interloper in their midst, a part of him grew hopeful that they were finally on the right track.

O is for Overture. It was also why he was one of the first to embrace her when her mask was finally ripped away to reveal that she was one of them; the missing fourth that he had long sought after, even before pictures revealed there was another alien. Max did as he always did, and buried his head in the sand, following Liz around like a whipped puppy, avoiding the truth before his eyes. Isabel shied away, hesitant to embrace someone who would disrupt her anally controlled, comfortable life and buried herself in her endless human frivolities and projects in an effort to maintain that carefree life, despite the fact that it was nothing more than a pretty mirage.

But he – he saw it for what it truly was – the opportunity to learn, for knowledge, for a chance to belong to something bigger and grander and better in every way than the humdrum existence he’d been forced into by circumstance beyond his control. It appealed to the rebel in him, the one who wanted to get back to his origins and a life he had been long denied. He wasn’t cut out for this mundane, simple life.

So, when she approached him, offering to teach him their ways and help him hone his chaotic powers, he clutched at it like a starving child would to the first palatable tidbit, desperate to quell the ache raging viciously in his breast, in his gut. The desire to know all of himself, led him down a path that finally felt right for the first time in his life – he was working towards a goal he believed in. And even if that previously unplanned kiss with a certain, small-town brunette had shook his world, momentarily making him question his own opinions of this pathetic, dense rock they lived on, he remained true to his quest, pursuing each succulent nugget of information that fell from lying lips.

Not that he knew it at the time.

O is for Octet. Through his accord with Tess, they managed to form a hesitant truce between the eight members of the Alien Abyss, although Liz was less than happy with Tess’ induction. Having never forgiven her for driving an irreparable wedge between her and Max with that rainy day kiss, Liz was naturally suspicious of the blonde, and had never fully welcomed her into the group, often saying that something was off about her act.

Months later, he would wish that he had paid heed to her words.

They entered into one of those blissfully ignorant phases that will haunt him for the rest of his life, becoming a unit, cementing the octet as things spiraled out of control around them. Faced with enemies at every turn – a government seeking to eradicate anything even remotely different to it and the enemies from their own planet, the Skins – they gelled and held firm, blind to the evil that lurked within their own collective.

They should have questioned it; the ease with which Tess had insinuated herself into their lives. Had he not been wrapped up in the rightness to his former self emerging after all these years, he would have questioned the wrongness of some of her actions. A true revolutionary that he may have been, he had also believed in moderation; that there were ways to change the world order and definite ways you did not, and Tess skated closer to the edge of that line than he liked.

But he’d never even suspected that something was irrevocably amiss when Alex suddenly took a trip to Sweden. Years later, he would look back and realize that Tess must have mindwarped them into believing that a student exchange in the middle of the school year was natural, and he couldn’t have halted those events even if he had been suspicious. But that didn’t ease the guilt – over his mindless acceptance of Tess and bringing her into the fold – and the pain that sliced through his heart when Jim uttered the words that shattered their world once more.

“Alex is dead.”

O is for Opium – anything that cause dullness or inaction; something having a tranquilizing or stupefying affect.

The fog that filled his head at those words sent him reeling, leaving him aching and breathless as Liz fell to her knees with a cry of anguish, so piercing that it seemed to impale his heart with its sheer strength alone. Sinking silently behind her, he carefully wrapped his arms around her, and choking on his own grief, he barely felt it when she burrowed into his arms, harsh sobs wracking and shuddering through her body, due to his own disbelieving numbness.

The words seemed to ricochet through his head, tearing it to shreds every time they echoed, until finally his mind shut down in defense, leaving him in a sucking, deadened pool of dread. One that washed over him with cold, unrelenting precision, slicing him from the inside out as he knew, he just knew deep down that this was somehow his fault, even if it was only subliminally.

It would take weeks before he realized just how accurate those first thoughts were.

Days passed in an almost drugged state, the surviving members of their former octet dazed, stupefied, that this could happen; that one of their own had fallen in this mad intergalactic game. The numbness saw them through the funeral and wake, but quickly shattered when Liz dropped her bomb that she felt that Alex had been murdered.

Murder. Another word that ripped through his head with chilling, calculated exactitude.

It brought to fore all those carefully repressed qualms he had about Tess’ actions, the subtle chinks in her armor, the sometimes sarcastic lilt in her voice when she agreed that nothing would tear them apart. The doubts whispered through his ears as Max and Liz fought, splitting the remaining group down the middle, aliens versus humans. Staring at the fractured group in front of him, he said not a word as his stomach churned uneasily, six sets of eyes on him.

He knew he should stand with his kind; that he was expected to silently walk out with his brethren, but the look in angry, indignant brown eyes stayed his hand. He agreed with her assessment, and if Max chose to bury his head in the sand, that was on him. He on the other hand will stand with those who needed his protection. Frowning at Max, he squared his shoulders and silently took Liz’s hand, giving nonverbal confirmation of his decision.

Silence blanketed the room as Max and Isabel stiffened, almost flinching as animosity and hurt flared in their eyes respectively, but he held firm, standing by what he knew to be the right decision; that those two could turn their backs on Liz, Maria and Kyle after everything enraged him. And those faint whispers of what he’d once been, the avenger who followed his own heart, his own rules broke free as he stood between the ‘little people’ and the supposed royalty.

And faced with the cold, malicious glee, glinting in blue eyes as the blonde serpent slinked smugly past, Isabel and Max in tow, he knew the fight was far from over. He had defeated injustice once, with nothing more than his convictions and the support of his people; he could take down the malignant, little snake again.

Even if it wore a different face.

O is for Overcome.

[Ashita]

AN: As always, a big thanks for reading and commenting. It makes my day. Also, for those who read my other fics - Texts From Last Night, Hunted, and Moonlight and Shadows - A new drabble has been posted to Texts, and I hope to have M&S and Hunted finished and posted within the next week or two. It depends on when I can finish them off and get them to the betas.

Also, a big thank you to Yas for her beta work on this series!

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P is for Prismatic – resembling the colors formed by refraction of light through a prism; highly colored, brilliant. Bright. Bold. Drenched in color. His life prior to, and after her, could be likened to that of a prism; a shard of glass that looked like any other until the sun struck it. And then it exploded into brilliant colors beyond even his artistic mind's imaginings. It'd often left him a little breathless, and frankly, it'd been a little painful, to be surrounded by all that light after living in darkness for so long. And it was certainly nothing akin to his flat existence to date, especially as most people surrounding him tended to be one-note.

None of them affected him like she did; none could make him feel like she did, but if he were to attribute colors to the people and places in his life, he knew exactly what he would choose.

Hank was gray. A gray so deep and murky, it was almost black. A taint that had overtaken his youth until he felt weighted down by it; drowning, struggling for breath and unable to pull himself free from the mire. It was cold, bleak, and stark; that is, until everything began to fester.

And that was so much worse.

Instead of exploding, blasting him free of the mess, Hank had spewed a deeper virulent, blackness, coating him in a thick, oily sludge, which further trapped him within the mire's depths and sunk him into a deep despair.

Until what little light shined on him snuffed out.

Until he hardened.

Until he formed his mask.

He had to in order to survive.

Roswell was a glaring orange – uncomfortable, fraught with uncertainty and warning. His entire life in this town had been one of confusion and that constant sense of waiting for something, anything to happen. And yet, a small, secret part of him had hoped nothing did, because while change was good, he'd found that it typically preceded something far more painful.

Max was green; of the envious kind, of course.

They had had come from similar backgrounds – both were orphans, both had been found abandoned, both had that taint that put them on the government's most wanted list. But Max had landed in a honey pot, while he had been tossed into the sewer. Max had the loving home, doting parents, an irritating, but devoted sister and was the golden boy in everything he touched and did. And then to add insult to injury, for a while, he had even had a love that made him seethe with envy.

That is, until the golden boy fucked it up.

So, perhaps that was one less reason to envy Max Evans.

Isabel was purple – he’d known she was royalty long before that message from her and Max's mother had told them so. She had always put on airs from the time she was eight years old, lording over the masses because she was an Evans and the prettiest girl in the third grade.

It was mildly irritating, and would have tried his patience more than once, if he hadn't also known that it was also a mask. The true Isabel was blue, a beautiful, bright, shimmering blue that she hid away because she was terrified of not fitting in.

It was a shame really, that she hid her true beauty; he could have fallen in love with her and completed their so-called destiny had she been just a little less prickly. But one volatile individual was more than enough in a relationship and he had enough of that on his own.

Maria was red – a deep, passionate red that held him in thrall for a time. She was beautiful in that pixie way and so utterly unstoppable in deed, and belief, that it’d awed him. She had made him feel for the first time in years, and he couldn't help being drawn to that fire like a moth to a flame.

Bright, bold and glittery, she had matched him in temperament and was more obstinate than a mule when determined to get her way, and he had to admit that he had been dazzled by the package. If only for a short time.

But in all his rhapsodizing, he had forgotten a pivotal thing –

While red is indeed passionate, it is also erratic and can turn on a dime. And the words she flung at him did more damage than Hank, Roswell, Max and Isabel combined.

But Liz – Liz was a fucking rainbow. Ever-changing, ever-flowing with bright, beautiful, bold colors, and every time he thought he had seen all there was to see, every time he thought he knew everything there was to know, he caught sight of some new facet and he was stunned all over again.

And he didn't quite know what to do about her at times.

P is for Protective. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't a soldier or general in his past life, but he could have been. He had a sound, strategic mind, with the ability to see beneath the surface of anything presented to him and he'd utilized it well over his lifetime. In the past and the present.

But that was another story, for another time. It held no importance other than he thanked the stars everyday that those skills kept him, and those he deemed important, safe.

No, what his notorious protective streak stemmed from, was simply love, and a deep, unshakable devotion for those few that he'd let into his heart. If the rest of the world went to hell in a hand basket in this lifetime, he wouldn't have cared less, so long as those few he held dear were safe. And he'd literally do anything to ascertain their health and well being. He had done anything, including shooting down the man that was getting far too close to their secrets for his comfort and burying him in a shallow grave, deep in the desert. True, it had been an accident, but if he'd had the chance to do it all over again, he wouldn't. His family was all and any threat to them had to be eradicated.

P is for Polar. That is was they – anyone outside their relationship – called them. Polar opposites. And he couldn't really blame their assumptions, as, by all outward appearances, she and he seemed completely at odds in character.

She was energy and light. He was dark and brooding.

She was logic, reason, methodical. He was action, conflict, chaos.

She was controlled and analytical to a fault. He was a force of nature that refused to contained.

She was calm, cool, and diplomatic. He was edgy, brash, and brutally honest.

She was science. He was art.

She planned everything to death and liked everything organized in neat little boxes. He was more apt to fly by the seat of his pants and liked that life couldn't, wouldn’t, be caged, or labeled, or organized.

She had known love all her life. He had been thrown out like trash.

She was all. He was nothing.

Or, at least, that is how he once felt until she managed to change his views on that matter; and quite forcibly at that.

So, he understood how those standing on the outside would think that they were opposites because they weren't privy to the heart of their relationship. Most didn't have the desire, or the fortitude, to delve past the surface to their core personalities.

At the heart of it all, they were both warriors – fiercely protective, loyal and devoted to those that they allowed into their inner sanctum; a place where they sheltered those few, so long as they never betrayed them.

They both went against the grain to seek the answers they needed, relentlessly pushing, pulling and prodding until whatever or whomever they sought yielded those same answers.

They both had a single-mindedness about them when on the scent of some injustice done and they didn't fear how it would manifest or affect others, so long as it was corrected.

They were both intuitive, almost prophetic in a sense.

If anyone in their group were to sense something wrong, it was likely one of them that did so first. It was eerie the way they would freeze, almost in tandem; the way their eyes would meet, each knowing what the other was thinking and feeling while those they protected from outsiders, and even to a degree themselves, went blithely on as if nothing had changed.

Even when her powers manifested, due to that rash healing in the diner, they were more akin to his – volatile, tied to their emotions, reacting violently under stress. It was actually this little problem that brought them together in the end. She didn't know what to do when her powers flared to life in the wake of what they liked to call 'The Destiny Kiss,' and sought him out when the lines of green electricity began to dance along her arms.

So polar opposites? He didn't really think so. True they tended to approach things with very different methods, but it didn't negate their very real and deep similarities.

P is for Passion. He didn’t expect it from her; in truth, he never felt he deserved much more than a careless regard and admiration in spite of that kiss they’d shared nearly a year prior.

She’d been mourning the end of her relationship.

He had been caught up in the implications that there were more of them out there, somewhere, than he‘d ever dreamed. That he was part of a far greater path than he’d ever imagined.

So, when it sparked between them one rainy afternoon, when they couldn’t go out to the desert to practice their respective powers, and instead holed up alone in his apartment talking and watching TV, it had been unexpected, at least on his part.

Rain had always seemed to play a big role in the significant changes in their lives.

It was raining the day he stumbled into the diner and found a bit of peace as he watched what a real family was made of; what familial love should look like as she and her parents displayed it loud and clear. How he had envied her in that moment.

It was still raining when he saw the first bit of unconditional regard and care reflected back at him, shining through bright chocolate eyes as she fussed and coddled him.

Getting him something dry to wear.

Making sure that he had something to eat.

Making certain he had something hot to drink.

And then bundled him up with a care package when he left.

It was raining as she ran to him for comfort when Max screwed them all royally by kissing Tess. And it continued to rain as she curled up on his chest, like a contented kitten, sleeping unconcernedly - as if she trusted him to keep the monsters away.

It was raining once again when she came to him in a panic, fear radiating from every pore as lines of green electricity shot down her arms, those same eyes flashing as she demanded answers; and then they set up a plan to keep her safe from those who sought to destroy them all.

And it was raining that day, the day they’d first made love; he wouldn’t call it anything else, as there were no other suitable words for what happened that damp, cold afternoon.

It had started innocent; the two of them sitting on his futon, watching TV and eating popcorn, alternatively making fun of the cheesy horror movie that had been playing and talking about anything and everything, and yet nothing at all. He hadn’t realized just how close she had gotten until they had turned simultaneously to make some smart remark about the hysterically screaming female lead, and their lips brushed together.

They had frozen like that for a long moment, their lips just touching, their eyes wide and staring and uncertain. He’d meant to pull away, to laugh it off, to pretend it meant nothing; but then her lips had shifted, and a soft, wet, damp heat pressed closer, seeking an answer to the question that had long preyed on their minds -

Had that mad kiss in the diner been a fluke?

The air charged around them, thickening like a cream as their lips met, compressed, slid and brushed, and then pulled away time and time again, each kiss intensifying and growing in passion until they were laying together in his bed, and he couldn’t quite recall just how they had gotten there.

And then there was heat unlike anything he‘d ever known; like they had been standing at the edge of a volcano’s crater and that liquid magma flashed through and melted them…

Until they were one.

Until she was surrounding him in all ways possible.

Until he couldn’t quite tell where he ended and she began, and he couldn’t breathe.

It was pointless - they were joined in a dance, a pleasure older than time and it was indeed, greater than anything he’d ever imagined and left him shaken to his core as they sky rocketed to the very stars he came from and then floated back down to Earth on a cloud of bliss.

No, he hadn’t expected that from her, even as she kissed him softly and then curled around him like a contented kitten once more, all but purring as she laid her head on his chest.

But he didn’t deny that he wanted it.

He wanted it with an undeniable ferocity unlike any he’d ever experienced in his young life.

And as he laid there, awed, holding her close to his heart, he vowed that he’d do whatever was necessary to be worthy of her gift.

P is for Promise.

[Ashita]

AN: So, this turned out to be more past lives than what I intended. I was planning to a compare/contrast between two Queens and then it went a completely different way. As such, I'm not entirely satisfied with this segment, but I have written and rewritten this three different times; and then when I was just about ready to post, I ended up hitting the plug on my computer, forcing a reboot and lost a chunk, making me have to rewrite it once more. And frankly, I'm just done at this point.
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Q is for Queen. He has served two queens in his lifetimes, both out of love - the first through the blood; the second of the heart. The first was naive, a girl, soft, and held an innocence that would eventually lead to her destruction. The second started out that way, but she adapted, grew stronger for being tested and survived. Both he would have walked through the fire for; and for both he would gladly have laid down his life.

Liz would always be the queen of his heart despite a lack of noble blood. The one he served through no obligations or familial ties. The one he stood beside, champion and lover. She was a force to be reckoned with, and was always in his thoughts. He valued her, not for the blood in her veins, but for her indomitable spirit, which told him she could look destiny in the face and gladly spit in its eye.

When it came to her, he never doubted his place or his actions.

Instead it was another queen, one he hadn't known well in this life - Avah, sister, the queen he couldn't save - that haunted him.

What few realized, was Avah wasn't his full sister, but only his half. It was a cleverly devised scheme set into motion by his father Raili, who would later become known as Ceneas first, and then Nasedo last. But the second half of that statement was a story for another time.

Memory retrieval was a bitch; and secrets had long been the lifeline that ran through Sevengali blood, both the keeping and the selling of them.

He had been born in a very small province on Antar; one that held a minor noble family out of the King's eye. The royal family rarely noticed his home because they held little land and weren't politically active enough for note; and outside a brief quarterly meeting with the steward, whom they quickly dismissed, they didn't bother with the running of things.

It was this blind eye that would lead to their eventual downfall.

For in this village lived an ambitious man; one who had no qualms of using and abusing the local populace to further his own gain. He wasn't a genius on any scale, but he was crafty, sly and had an additional gift that would prove useful - the ability to change his shape at will. He had been born among the poorest edges of the empire, but had no intentions of remaining there, held down by the caste system that would lead the uprising marking the end of an era best forgotten.

Had this man been aware of what was to come, would he have made the choices he made?

They called it a golden age. Pretty to think so. It may have been a golden age for those living at the top of society, a world built upon the backs of others; but for the so-called dregs of society (nobles are oh-so-charming), the poor and uneducated who couldn't rise above their station because no one gave them the necessary tools, it was misery.

Raili scorned those masses; the ones who worked hard every day for mere scraps and the placating words and absentminded benevolence handed out to them by the nobles and royals of the land. He longed for the silks and satins, and the rich ways long denied to him by circumstance of birth. But rather than work for it, he stole it - first in truth, robbing the rich blind when they passed through the province, and then figuratively when he 'borrowed' another man's life.

Being able to shift at will was a very useful tool. It meant he could do anything, be anyone. It meant he could move between any stratum of society, so long as he kept silent and minded his actions. And he had always been good at mimicry. It helped when he held up the carriages; no one could ever give an accurate description as he always subtly changed his appearance. And the fools never matched that to a man who could change his shape, as he never made his talent known to the village.

So he hoarded his riches in a remote location, building up a stash he intended to sell in a distant location and then use this to start a new, richer life as a minor noble in another place, and leave this small province behind. And then fate intervened in a startling way.

One night, the carriage he held up wasn't a passing noble, but the steward's.

After knocking the steward and the coachman out, he sat there pondering his options. He could flee; leave with the few trinkets on the man. It really wouldn't be worth his effort, but better than nothing. The driver and the steward would awaken, with a raging headache and a little light of purse, but no worse for the wear. Or...

Or he could take the steward's place and further his plans in a different way.

The coachman had been long disdainful of the current noble ruling their land and often complained of his treatment at the steward's hands while drinking his check away at a local pub. More? He was a friend; one that owed him a favor or two as Raili had gotten him out of trouble with the local authorities on more than one occasion.

If he could convince his friend, he could take the steward's place. He had mentioned he was good at mimicry had he not? That, along with his friend, the youngest son of a merchant family fallen on hard times, and thus an educated man, he could pull off the swindle of a lifetime.

So he quickly roused his friend, relayed his thoughts, and his scheme was quickly embraced to his delight. After assuming the steward's face, they altered the steward's appearance until he looked vaguely like the 'thief' plaguing their land and set off to the manor. There they wove a harrowing tale of how they'd been beset upon by the thief, who had been tragically slain in the conflict. In gratitude, he hired the coachman, his protector who between him and the thief, as his assistant and the ruse began.

Raili became Ceneas, and his friend Eveal became his greatest confidant. He ruled the household with an iron fist, and used his natural business acumen to expand, enfolding neighboring villages into their own landholdings through promises (not all actualized, but enough to placate the villages) and persuasion, until finally he had quadrupled their lands in a few years, bringing them to the attention of the King.

He married well, taking the nobleman's distant cousin, Heulwen, as wife; a union that spawned a single son - Aelrath - before her tragic death (natural causes were stated, but rumors among the household whispered 'poison'). For Raili had bigger fish to fry than a mere cousin; he wanted it all and would settle no less than the coveted hand of the noble's daughter, Dylan.

Luckily, as the grief-stricken widower of her favorite cousin, he had an instant in and slowly charmed his way into her affections, and her heart, and eventually her bed as her husband, his son adopted into the fold as heir apparent unless they had a son of their own. And even then, Aelrath would have the backing needed to move into the political arena, becoming a puppet statesman in his father's hands.

The new union produced a single female child after a couple of mysterious miscarriages, (no one could figure out how vaelano had gotten into Dylanna's water, or ever caught the fiend that knocked her down the stairs the second time; both boys) - Lilyavah. He had a son to mold in his image, a daughter through whom he could make an advantageous match and the nobleman's ear.

Life was looking good from his exalted vantage point.

What he hadn't counted on, was his son Aelrath overhearing his drunken, triumphant ramblings to Eveal one night; the both them high on the fact that they ruled the province now that the nobleman was dead.

And disgusted by his father's scheming, Aelrath disappeared.

And that was when the golden age truly began.

Q is for Quest. Rath, as he'd become known, tossed aside his father's wishes and teachings, and lost himself in a neighboring province, taking up with a military family - friends that had unofficially adopted him as another son. Having been groomed for a political commission all his life, he had studied law, and the court and, most importantly, strategy ad nauseum and he was unparalleled in this arena.

Binding himself to the Olenvens didn't even take any thought. As an adult of 22 cycles, he didn't need anyone's permission to take a soldier's commission. He could have done it on his own. But it was always better to have the backing of a well-placed family, and the Olenven family had long known his desire to be his own man and make a name for himself away from his father's reach. So when he'd confided that he'd fallen out with Ceneas (only that wasn't his real name, was it), they took him in.

And that was where he recreated himself, much like his father, to his utter distaste; but he did it for the people, not his own selfish whims.

He worked ceaselessly to better the plight of his people; the ones that laid on the outer edges of the empire and thus the poorer regions, the ones that often got overlooked in favor of the pompous and noble lineages, unwittingly building a following as he rose through the ranks. His banner became education for the masses, for equality among the people. He pointed out that a safe, educated, happy populace was a populace that would better the kingdom and bring change and with it prosperity.

He didn't expect it to catch on as it did.

He expected to be a solitary voice in the crowd.

He never dreamed that all those nights he'd lain watching the stars and talking with his sister, Avah, advocating change, advocating education, advocating government support as a way to a better, much more prosperous Antar, would ever come to fruition.

They were just the rambles, the vision, of a boy.

And then fate played its hand once again; two-fold.

Q is for Question. Rath had always been a curious boy. He had always seen far more than people had ever given him credit for. Fascinated by the world around him, he constantly sought out new ideas and information and absorbed them like a sponge. Carefully. As it wouldn't do for his father to realize his heir questioned the very ideals he was meant to uphold. He didn't need whispers getting back to Ceneas.

So, he hid his curiosity, and quenched his thirst for knowledge very carefully, and hid it all behind a thinly constructed mask of indifference and boredom in his father's presence. But when alone, when his father left on one of his 'business' trips, he indulged in secret, in defiance of everything his father stood for; he'd always had a fine mind.

It gave Michael comfort to know that some of his personality quirks were engrained, were echoes of his past.

Rath read voraciously; anything and everything he could get his hands on, padding and filling out the whitewashed version of life that his father spoon fed him. And when he ran out of books, he turned to the servants who adored him, considered him one of their own, and peppered them with question after question about their lives, their hopes, their dreams, their thoughts on society and the empire in general.

It was in these quiet moments that the revolution, the age of enlightenment began, all brewing in a mind far too young to really understand just what made him so unique from others of his class. But the thoughts formed, solidified and stuck with him as he grew; these ideals that he'd later pass on to his beloved sibling, a girl he had no idea was destined to be queen.

He was simply Rath, a boy with a very firm, if somewhat idealistic world view; and he couldn't understand why others didn't see the way he did.

It was only later that he realized that those same thoughts would change the world.

Q is for Qualms. Hurtling forward to this place in time, Rath never expected it all to end the way it did. They all had such a bright, hopeful future despite Ceneas' manipulations. Despite having been denied his sister when he left home (he had written, but sore at losing his pawn, Ceneas refused to give them to Avah), they'd been reunited in the end.

He'd heard about her from time to time, whispers through the servants that spoke of a girl, who had grown into a beautiful, intelligent and idealistic woman; a relative he was proud to know and love. He'd heard the official story of her betrothal; how she had met Zan while vacationing at Dimaras Rock with Ceneas and how it had been love at first sight. (A part of him, the part that knew Ceneas' end game, couldn't help being doubtful; it all seemed just a little too pat and reeked of an outside source helping the infatuation along.)

But he also didn't doubt his sister's charm; so anything was possible.

(Later he would learn through a scathing retelling of the events by an irate Avah, who said she'd been offered up as a rather fine jerglr for slaughter; or more to the point, a thoroughbred kevea for breeding, that he'd been right in his suspicions.)

It was however, a love match.

Despite their suspicious beginnings, Avah fell in love with Zan. Who wouldn't? He was a unique blend of naive and worldly, and had grand ideas for the empire. And he was a genuinely good man, one who sought to better the plight of his people. He had dreams, changes he wanted to implement to get away from the status quo. Charming, enigmatic, bright as a star...who wouldn’t fall under that spell?

He'd loved him himself.

Rath met Zan during a campaign; there had been a minor skirmish on the outside of the Olenvens' land and as the Lord Protector, the head of their guard, he took a few of his men to investigate, inadvertently saving the Crown Prince, who had been traveling incognito. In reward for his help, and because he'd recognized Rath's name, he offered him a commission within the royal guard, and ultimately a place near his sister.

It was a time of peace, of growth, of prosperity - the start of the golden age as stated.

And it blinded them to the corruption, the tarnish that festered underneath the gilt.

He hadn't known Vilondra well; she was often busy with her social events and political obligations. But he had found her warm and caring and had considered her a friend. She laughed with him, joked with him, dropping tempting little seeds of gossip here and there, all shared with sunny smiles and a twinkle in her eyes. So sweet. So personable. And much like her brother, charming, intelligent, although far more worldly...

Deadly.

It had all been a facade.

He'd been blinded at first, much as anyone had. He would grant that she hid her true colors behind a well-constructed wall that impressed even his current self. (It had been heartbreaking to watch Isabel come to terms with her past after she went through memory retrieval. He desperately tried to talk her out of it, wanting to spare her the knowledge, but she'd stubbornly persisted, stating that ignoring it could inadvertently lead to a repetition of past mistakes.) But then the whispers began, knotting his gut in fear as they spoke of betrayal within the ranks, a spy from within.

It was actually during one of those gossip sessions where his doubts in her mask revealed themselves. It wasn't so much what she had been saying, as to how it had been said. It left him off balance, queasy, and questioning every conversation he ever had with the princess; ones where he had divulged far more than he intended.

Why wouldn't he?

She was the princess, part of the royal family, his betrothed and future wife, and thus privy to more information than the average person. She was on their side.

Or so he thought.

What he hadn't counted on was she'd fallen in love with a person 'unsuitable' in her family's eyes, and their unwillingness to support that love had bred resentment.

Khivar was the middle son of a once well-to-do, merchant family; one that had fallen into hard times due to their role in a previous war. They lost much of that wealth to the crown in reparation for the damages they had inflicted on a neighboring province, another act that bred resentment, and Khivar grew up poisoned to the crown. And he had no compunctions about using a spoiled, unhappy princess against her kin; especially if it led to an uprising.

They met at a party in a nearby province while Vilondra and Avah were visiting a friend. She'd gotten bored, despite the attendants pandering to her every whim and slipped out into the garden, where Khivar lain in wait of an easy target.

That was the beginning of the end.

Khivar ensnared her with coy, clever words and visions of her as queen, aided by both his natural charisma and his powers.

Or so Michael had always hoped. He never could reconcile Isabel, and the younger Vilondra, with what she became in the end - a cold, embittered woman capable of patricide (never would he have dreamed that she'd been behind her father's riding accident); and willing to sacrifice her brother, his wife, who was once her best friend, and her future husband on a flimsy promise at best, and an outright lie at worst.

But he couldn't deny his qualms were confirmed as he stared into the cool eyes of a stranger, sitting in the face of one he once called friend as he was dragged before her and her paramour. He stared deep into violet eyes and tried to find anything familiar that would belie the reality staring him in the face; part of him had hoped it was a ruse, and she was just playing along with Khivar in an attempt to bring him to justice.

But there was nothing but cold disdain.

Which made it all the more jarring and heartbreaking as the past was repeated; only this time it was the eyes of a beloved sibling staring at him with a similar expression as Tess admitted to killing Alex, wrenching his heart all over again.

And he couldn't help the dark smile that crossed his face as Tess spilled her guts about the plan, realizing that it might have taken decades, but his father, once known as Raili, and then Ceneas, and finally Nasedo or Ed Harding here on Earth, had finally gotten his revenge.

Q is for Quake.