Irene Didn’t Slow When The Door Shimmered Open Ahead Of Them — Just Tightened Her Grip On Shiv’s

Irene didn’t move. Just listened, hands still shoved deep in her pockets, shoulders angled slightly against the wind. The rain was lighter now, but it came in sideways, the kind that soaked under your collar no matter how tightly you pulled it closed.

She nodded once at his mention of a tow, but it wasn’t quite agreement. More acknowledgment. Heard.

“Not stupid,” she said finally, voice even. “Just stubborn. Which sometimes passes for brave if no one looks too close.”

Her gaze drifted past him, to the road beyond. It was unraveling at the edges, the kind of damage that didn’t look like much until it took a full axle or a boot clean through. She didn’t need to see the tires to know they weren’t moving again without help.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she added, after a beat. “I’ve seen people hold onto worse for less.”

She stepped a little closer then — just enough to keep from having to raise her voice. The kind of proximity that said she wasn’t going anywhere just yet, not unless something forced her hand.

“Tow might get here. Might not.” Not cruel, just honest. “You’ve got time. But not forever.”

Her baby blues met his, steady through the streaked window. “If it gets worse, and it will, I’ll be back this way before it goes fully under. You don’t want the rescue team in this town. They charge in favors.”

A pause. Not a threat. Just a truth laid flat.

“I’m not here to drag you out.” She tilted her head slightly. “But I’m not gonna pretend you’ll be fine either.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, like she was offering a breadcrumb instead of a lifeline. “There’s a diner about a mile and a half back. Runs a generator when the lines go out. You change your mind, you’ll make it there if you leave before sundown.”

She let that hang. Didn’t push. Just let the storm speak for a minute instead.

He would never again say that people in Port Leiry didn't give a damn because what the fuck. At least this one doesn't seem insistent in doing something drastic like breaking his window and dragging him out, but he doesn't want to give her the chance. He watches warily as she stands in the storm, unbothered like the weather isn't raging around them and threatening property damage and loss of life.

But the way she leaves him be allows him to let his guard down a tiny bit. He's too tired to fight. He understands why people want him to get out, hates that he's placing an additional burden on them they don't need. He tries not to think about if the worst does happen, and the guilt these people might feel. Maybe not the bear, but Autumn and Lis. They knew. They would know if he was swept away, but he clings to faith because it's all he has.

"A friend is calling a tow," he tells her, and that is the truth. Whether they'll be able to make it through is anyone's guess. "Look, I know it's stupid and ridiculous but-" he sighs. It feels like losing the truck would be losing the last part of his past that reminds him why to keep pressing forwards. "I can't walk in this storm. It's the only option I have." The only option he's willing to take.

She didn’t flinch when he told her to take the boots off—just paused, took it in, then bent down and did it. No argument. No attitude. Just leather against fingers and a soft thud as they settled by the door like a quiet offering.

Irene knew when she was being measured. Not weighed, not judged —measured. Tetsuya Goju didn’t need words to take a person apart. She could feel it, that feather-light graze of something older than suspicion moving over her like smoke, like spellwork. She didn’t fight it. Let it come. Let it see. She had no illusions about what she looked like from the outside—fists wrapped in habit, a stare too practiced in the art of hard things, a body that only knew how to settle when it was bracing for impact.

Her bare feet touched the tatami like they weren’t sure they belonged, but she moved forward anyway. One step. Then another.

The silence in the dojo deepened with each one.

She didn’t bow. Not out of defiance —out of honesty. Irene didn’t lie about reverence. Didn’t fake what she didn’t carry. But she did nod, this time slower, and there was weight in it. A kind of understanding. A kind of respect.

She caught the layout as she moved—wing chun dummies, the kata markers on the floor, the polished edge of the bokken rack. A hunter would’ve gone for the weapons. Something with reach. Distance. Control.

Irene stopped in the center of the open mat.

“I don’t want a sword,” she said, voice low, almost soft, like the storm had worn itself out in her chest but left its echo behind. “I’ve had too many things in my hands that made it easy. I want to feel it. Every hit. Every miss.”

She looked over her shoulder, just enough to catch the curve of that almost-smile on his face.

Then she turned, faced him full.

The shape of her didn’t carry power like most hunters he’d trained. She didn’t posture. Didn’t square up or lean in or wear her strength like armor. What she had was older. Worn in. The kind that came from losing more fights than she’d won and learning how to stand up anyway. Quiet resilience. Dangerous only because it didn’t need to announce itself.

“I’m not here to be better,” she said simply. “Just... less breakable.”

There was no pride in it. No plea. Just fact.

She exhaled, steady now, the chaos in her chest pressed quiet by the room’s stillness. Then, bare feet planted firm on the mat, she met his gaze again—clear, level.

“So. Where do you want me?”

She's a new student. Her name is on paper in his office, but that means very little to him on a grander scale. The language of the soul, of the mind and the body speak volumes more than most ink will. Yet, Miyazaki cannot see the depth of her flesh as easily as most; he's always trusted his magic, even as it feathers along her, feeling out a stranger with a violent desire. But it lifts away when a dull thud of something that gives him a moment of pause. An energy that similar of the purging organisation Tetsuya has no interest in entertaining.

He has more of a weariness, suspicion about why a hunter may wish to train in his walls. There are plenty of things to hit so crassly in a city that the arrogant can break.

It's disrespectful that she treads boots on the tatami.

Even if it's merely a toe.

"Off." There is a gentle but firm motion of his hand, dismissive of her brazen display. If a hunter wishes to be welcome in his walls, then they will respect where they stand. Miyazaki would shatter every bone in her feet, if she did not abide the basic expectation. There needs to be no enlightenment, if that is not what she seeks. He is no enlightener; no kindness in the dark of whatever haunts her. The sensei does not have spare time to teach those unwilling to receive the knowledge he's willing to part with.

His hands fold behind his back as he lightly crosses the mats, because he does not allow himself indulgences that are distractions. If she would like something to hit, she has plenty choices on each end of the dojo; wing-chun, if she favours Hong Kong, and the kata. Maybe kendo, if she favours weaponry, like many hunters before her.

Him.

If she dares want an accurate target to strike. Something familiar in the way of what she hunts, but entirely out of her realm of ability. A smile forms out of his stoicism. He waits for her to slip her shoes off, and step into the field of practice. A real sign of her intention within the dojo. Tetsuya's quiet easier than his is disciplined. On this occasion, it speaks volumes of: Take your pick. He may enjoy watching another of this generations hunters.

It has every potential to be another solemn waste of his time.

— Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

“You did well, Sammy.”

She said it simply, without fanfare, like it was just fact. Something settled and clear in the way her eyes held his for a beat longer than usual. No forced comfort. No bright shine of false reassurance. Just the truth, level and quiet in the space between them.

“Really well.”

She glanced down, brushing a thumb over a faint smear of glitter still clinging to the edge of her sleeve. Some remnant of the barrier charm she’d used earlier, maybe. Or the one layered under Shiv’s pillow that kept the shadows at bay when the dream got too loud. “If it were him sitting here instead of me,” she said, voice lower now, “He’d tell you the same thing. Probably with less patience and more cursing. But still.” That corner of her mouth tugged up faintly again — a tired, knowing thing. “He’d be proud.”

Then she leaned back just a little, letting her shoulders rest against the chair for once. Not relaxed, but less coiled. Her gaze shifted toward the back window again, where the twins were now throwing something suspiciously frog-shaped into a bucket. She didn’t comment.

“As for Thera…”

A breath. The pause didn’t come from hesitation, but weight — that care Irene always took before she said something that mattered.

“She’s alright. I checked. Whatever you’re worried about — the spillover, the pull — it’s not hurting her. She’s… stronger than most people think.”

She looked back at him, something quiet and resolute in her eyes now.

“I wouldn’t let her carry it alone if I thought it was tipping too far. I go there every day. Watch Shiv. Sit with him. Make sure he's protected and it's known.”

It was an admission, maybe more than she’d meant to offer. But Sammy had earned it. With the way he was holding everything else up. With the fact that he hadn’t cracked, even with the waiting. Even with the helplessness.

“We can't let this bring her trouble,” she added, firmer now. “And you shouldn’t lose sleep over it either. He’s… stable. And Thera’s not alone. But yeah, let's keep this less complicated than it already is.”

Another breath. She nudged the napkin on the table once, then let it go.

“You’re doing what he can’t right now. And that matters more than you know.”

Her voice softened again, brushing at the edge of something like reassurance — not in the way people usually offered it, but in the way Irene knew how. Real. Tangible.

“He’s going to need someone steady when he wakes up. Not just someone who can bring him up to speed. Someone who was here.”

And then, after a beat, the smallest tilt of her head.

“And you’re here.”

Not worse was better than dead, at least. He nodded, filing that away and trying not to show any disappointment. Hope wasn’t going to help much, not unless there was some sort of emotion witch out there who could turn it into healing energy. If there was, the Brotherhood would already have some kind of deal with them, and they’d be here in Port Leiry, looking after Mr. Shiv. 

“He’s under constant watch, then?” She might have meant something different by he’s not alone in there, but Sammy wasn’t equipped to follow magic medical situations, not right now. Irene had said it like it was a good thing, and he knew she really cared, so the best he could do is assume it means he’s not possessed. “That’s good. I sent Ms. Wendell some of the guidelines for coma care. That’ll help with quality of life stuff, muscle cramps, nutrition. It’ll help when he wakes up.” When. He wasn’t comfortable hovering in the land of what ifs. “Knowing him, he’s going to try to fight something the second he wakes up, this’ll stop him from tearing something immediately.”

She reassured him of her seriousness, as if there was a world where he didn’t already trust her on this. Irene may be frustratingly withholding sometimes, but she wasn’t a liar. She always said what needed to be said, when it really mattered. 

A shriek from outside drew his attention, but neither of the twins were hurt. Mud was being thrown around, but that was par for the course with what was probably a very epic battle to them. “I.. yeah, I know, I’m needed here.” Was he? The station had a daycare, the twins could have just as much fun throwing around some legos as they would mud. “I’m going to try to keep everyone updated on his status, though. I don’t think birds are very reliable for sending messages to Ms. Wendell if I have any questions.” 

He paused as she repeated her question about his wellbeing. How was he holding up? “I... I wish there was more I could do. At the moment. I don’t like having a lot of free time, and everyone else is involved in trying to figure out what happened to him and picking up the slack while he’s gone. I’m in that midpoint where nobody really needs me to do anything, but I’m aware enough to know that there’s stuff to be done that I can’t do.”

She didn’t answer at first.

Just stared —unmoving, unreadable—the knife still pressed flat against his neck like a question she didn’t want to ask out loud. Like if she let it go, everything she’d built to keep herself standing would tumble right down after it. Her fingers didn’t shake. Irene didn’t shake. But inside her chest, something was splintering open. Something she’d buried so deep under years of silence and steel that she barely remembered the shape of it anymore.

And then he spoke again.

Her breath hitched. The sound cracked through her like thunder under frozen lakewater —hairline fractures splintering outward from the center of her. It wasn’t the name that did it. It was the sound of his voice.

The knife dropped.

Not far —just to her side— but it might as well have been a thousand miles. She didn’t even remember stepping forward. Just that her arms were around him, tight, desperate, like if she let go now he’d dissolve into rain and fog and bad dreams. Her fingers curled into the back of his jacket. Her face pressed hard into his shoulder. She held on —like she was drowning, and he was the surface.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Irene breathed.

The kind of breath that didn’t rattle in her lungs. That didn’t feel rationed, or stolen, or half-hollowed out by the weight she’d grown too used to carrying. It hit her like air after too long underwater —sharp, real, cruelly kind.

“You’re not real,” she said against his collar, barely louder than the wind. “You can’t be. I don’t get to have this.”

But she didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until the storm stopped sounding like her heartbeat.

Not until she could trust her knees again.

She pulled back just enough to see him —really see him—and the moment her eyes caught his again, she asked,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It came out hoarse, like it’d clawed its way up from something deeper than her throat. She didn’t mean it like an accusation. Not exactly. Just—an ache, a question sharpened with disbelief. A heartbeat wrapped in barbed wire.

She clung to him like if she moved —if she so much as breathed wrong— he’d vanish into the mist again. Like the rain would cut through the space between them and prove he was never there at all, just a phantom conjured by too many sleepless nights and too many memories she’d tried too hard to forget. Her fingers dug in, not soft, not delicate—desperate. A tether. A lifeline. Like she could anchor him here just by refusing to let go.

Her face stayed pressed against the curve of his shoulder, and she inhaled like it might brand the moment into her lungs, like if she just memorized the scent of rain and asphalt and him, it would make the rest of the world less sharp tomorrow. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when it still felt like a dream that could turn cruel at any second.

"I missed you so much."

He’d caught the outline of her profile earlier, just enough for suspicion to rise. Then followed her into a shop, pretending to browse the next aisle over, just to catch the sound of her voice. A good night, a casual goodbye — something, anything that would prove it was really her. Next, he had his phone in his hands, fingers swiping up, up, up until his thumb stopped on her name. Irene. The screen stared back at him like a mirror. Call her, Riven.

No. If this wasn’t her, what would he say? Sorry I haven’t called in years? How have you been, little one? He didn't want to sound like a stranger, but that's all he has become to her.

Lost in his thoughts, eyes flicking up and down the screen, Riven lost his balance. Suddenly, a knife pressed too hard into his skin. He was slammed into a wall, like it was child’s play for her to physically tower over a man like him. There was a flicker of something raw in her gaze — pain, maybe hope, maybe the memory of a bond that time hadn’t fully erased. "Irene." a beat, "It's me." He kept his hands where she could see them; empty, and open, and unthreatening.

She didn’t lower the knife. Couldn’t, maybe. Not yet. Not until he'd proven that he wasn't a ghost. That he was something real. "You're not dreaming, It's me."

Rivy.

The word felt like it stole the air from his lungs, pulled him into a time machine, back years, when he was just a kid. Just a bit taller than her, only a few years older, just as inexperienced. Maybe even more alone.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out a hand. It brushed against hers, cradling the small of her wrist where she gripped the blade. "Come on. Put the knife down." He held her gaze. "I’m not going to hurt you."

jessica alexander

merci de créditer (c) pau.

WHO: @therawend WHERE: thera's house

The tower loomed taller than she thought.

Worn brick stacked like the silence she’d carried since Sammy had shown her the letter — hands tight around the edges, voice low like he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. She has Shiv. That part was clear. The rest? Not so much.

She’d read Thera’s handwriting three times over, each loop and slash more frustrating than the last. Thera. Thera, of all people. Irene hadn’t known they were connected —Shiv and her—but the letter didn’t lie. And Sammy wouldn’t have brought it to her if it wasn’t serious.

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, tucked the paper before handing it back, and left before the weight of it could settle. Maybe she should’ve been more surprised. But confusion only went so far when Shiv was in danger. Shiv was never in danger, how could this be?

Irene knew where to go.

The walk from the bus stop had been long. Her legs were tired, her thoughts louder than usual. But she didn’t slow down, not even when the trees grew dense and the shadows pooled a little heavier. The path to Thera’s was always quiet in that strange, in-between kind of way —too calm, too out of time. Like the world didn’t quite reach here. It was probably safer that way.

By the time she reached the front door, she looked like hell. Pale and drawn, magic twitching raw just under her skin from days without rest. Her hair was still braided from work but messy now, a few pins lost along the walk. In her hands, nothing but her necklace, the charm she always held when grounding herself, when reaching into dreams.

She didn’t knock. Just let her fingers graze the worn doorframe before she pushed it open.

“Thera?” Her voice was low, not quite sure if it belonged here yet. “Sammy told me.”

A pause. She glanced inside, half-expecting the air to be thick with incense or stitched spells or whatever strange magic always clung to this place like dust.

“I thought… maybe you could use help.” Her tone stayed flat, guarded, but her eyes said something else. Something quieter.

And she meant it. Even if her hands shook. They were going to be alright, right?

There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”

Still, she didn’t say no.

The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.

She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”

Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.

“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”

A pause.

“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”

She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.

“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.

Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.

Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”

Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”

That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.

"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."

Irene glanced at the notebook, eyes tracking the neat scratch of pen to page, then shrugged lightly. “Call it thirty-six even. I’ll mark the rest for morning and bag it when it’s all here.”

She didn’t say thanks for the compliment — didn’t even really react, not right away. But her gaze drifted toward the shelf where the skullcap was stocked, and the corner of her mouth tugged in something that almost passed for a smile.

“It’s better now than it used to be,” she said, quiet. “Place was running on fumes when I got here. Half the labels didn’t match the jars. Found a bottle labeled blessing oil that was just sunflower and perfume.” Her brow lifted slightly like she still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a joke. “Stephens doesn’t do much upkeep. She remembers things. Doesn’t always write them down.”

She watched the little creature — Sage — nose the edge of the basket, but didn’t reach to stop it. Just kept her arms loosely folded, fingers tucked into opposite sleeves. “Long as she doesn’t eat the poke root, we’re good.”

When Juniper mentioned the walk, Irene’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a pause. A flicker of something not quite hesitation.

“I wrap up in fifteen,” she said. “If you’re still around, I can walk a block or two your way.”

It wasn’t a favor. Just a practical offer. That’s how she framed it — like she was doing it for the sake of safety, not company. Still, there was something gentler in her voice than before, like the fatigue had settled into something quieter, less edged.

“You can leave your basket here if you want,” she added, tipping her head toward it. “I’ll keep it behind the counter for pickup.”

Then, finally, she nodded once, as if deciding it mattered enough to register: “I’m Irene. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me too.”

Juniper smiles easy as the other agrees to look over her list. Walking deeper into the store and looking through the shelves as she passes. This place is comfortable for her. Even if it was her first time in the shop there was comfort to be had around dried herbs and potent mixtures. Even Sage seemed to be relaxed among the scent and atmosphere.

“Ha- no, no um… banishing's. It’s not all for one thing really. Just trying to fill the coffers y’know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She tucked hair behind her ear awkwardly. It would be quite a while before she was ready to start growing her own ingredients. “Oh, that’s fine. I figured that verbena would be a long shot anyways.” 

As the basket was placed on the counter, she took a peek inside and smiled. The quality was nice. There was nothing worse than getting herbs with the beginnings of dry rot. These were pristine, however. Well worth whatever the price may be. “This is wonderful, thank you. Would it be possible for me to pick it all up tomorrow? Say late morning? Got pretty much everything else done today so I shouldn’t be held back on account of other errands. What will I end up owing you?” 

She takes out a small notebook to jot down the numbers, so she remembers them. Sage crawled down her shoulder and arm to stand on the counter. Peeking into the basket as Juniper reminded her to not touch anything she wasn’t supposed to. “Juniper by the way. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. New in town and let me tell you I was excited to hear this city has a proper apothecary. This place is very well stocked and taken care of.” She had no idea if this person cared about that sort of thing. But she felt the need to compliment the space anyways. 

The question came out of nowhere from the less than enthusiastic clerk. A soft question that made her smile. People here were surprisingly nice, even when they came off as cold. “I should probably be alright. It’s not that long a walk, streets are well lit. If you are heading the same way I wouldn’t turn down the company for a block or two though.” She offered back. While she felt like she could handle herself, and this woman probably could as well. There was nothing wrong with a little extra security.