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The Bleeding Door

Summary:

"Resurrection? A second chance at life? The direct and highly unfortunate result of an ancient blood ritual that should’ve stayed forgotten in the past? Call it whatever you want. But between the maleficarum, the dragons, and the strange spirits, it certainly isn’t luck."

A multi-chapter story with action, romance, blood magic fuckery, and one strange twist on the “Thrown into Thedas” trope.

Chapter 1: Dead & Gone

Notes:

So, a glance at the tags will tell you what to expect: Heavy-handed angst, a POV primarily from a female protag, gore galore, canon-typical violence, (incredibly) slow-burn romance, the much-loved rivals to friends to lovers trope, and eventual smut. By the way, if you're just looking for smut, that's all the way down at chapter 32. You can click that link or the drop-down menu if you're not interested in all the foreplay.

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this! As writing is one of my only hobbies, this is/was a blast to write.

Chapter Text

 01. Dead & Gone

I admit that I've never really known pain. I've had paper cuts, sure. One time I even fell off of a stage during a school play and nicked my forehead. And my cat, Mr. Chubby, makes sure to acquaint me with the sting of sharp kitty claws on a daily basis; but I haven't ever broken a bone or cut myself with glass shards or anything involving a rather high magnitude of pain. We aren't intimately acquainted, pain and I. Knowing this, you can't really blame me for the unearthly howl that escapes me when the blade slides soundlessly into my gut.

It's sharp.

Not the blade, no. That's given. But it's the surreal feeling I'm thinking about. Sharp but not quick, like pulling off a bandage. It's lasting, like pulling off some cheapo off-brand bandage from Wal-Mart that has too much adhesive to where it rips off a bit of your flesh. It seems to burn, hot and bright, for an eternity. I can feel the blade, so foreign in my flesh, as it squirms around like a metal serpent at its owner's behest. This uncomfortable feeling -- compounded with the pain -- rips a scream from my throat.

My scream is fleeting, though. One quick yowl of pain that leaves my throat aching and raw, and then it's done. I don't think I've ever screamed so loudly before in my entire life. I guess today is just a day of firsts for me: my first mugging, my first stabbing, and my first real scream of agony. I'll have to mark this day on my calendar when I'm done. If I'm ever done.

But despite the pain, I almost want to laugh. Somehow, I find a millisecond of time to allot to mulling over my own stupidity. I had boldly looked my roommate and best friend in the face and snorted, "What's the worst that can happen?" when she had uncertainly pointed out the late hour, ginger brows furrowed and blue eyes narrowed. Idiot. Not Cheyenne. Me. Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

Labored grunts fill the air as adrenaline burns its way through my veins. Shock gives way to anger as my brain decides that it's far too late for flight and now I must buck up and fight. Hands grapple for control of the blade; my thin fingers intertwine in a marvelous dance with the skilled fingers of my assailant. Twenty digits, all drenched in boiling blood, slip against the hilt as our eyes lock.

Brown meets hazel in a cacophony of panicked thought and my mind clears in one blissful moment as I think: My, he has such beautiful eyes. Dangerous eyes, more like. Though his appearance is neither here nor there, I find myself fixated on just that. Drinking him in because I know he's the last thing I'll ever see. His almond-shaped eyes are the color of sunlit moss. Straight black lashes frame them and in their gorgeous depths, I see panic. 

At least I'm not the only one.

A painful jerk pulls me from my thoughts and my teeth gnash together. The feel of surgically straightened teeth closing a breath away from my tongue makes my heart leap. It's almost funny how I'm worried about biting my tongue when I have a knife in my stomach. Priorities, right? My lips pull back to bare my teeth as primal fear clouds my mind. It can't end like this… Can it?

My fingers curl around the handle of the blade as his nails drag painfully across my knuckles, leaving a burning trail -- just more blood to add to the steadily growing puddle at our feet. We're both covered in it from our hands to our arms and even down our fronts. Of course, it's not surprising that blood drenches my front since I'm the one with the knife in me. My footing slips for the briefest moment and he takes full advantage, shoving his weight into me so my back presses against the clunky metal machine that vibrates with churning water.

LoadStar is most certainly imprinted on my lower back like some hilarious, makeshift tattoo as my spine creaks backward. One more forceful push and I lose the battle, fingers falling away from the blade to brace against the washer; splayed out on the off-white surface and dripping with red fluid. Lightning explodes before my eyes and I half-expect to hear thunder. The hammering of my heart could be mistaken for thunder, though, as my mouth goes dry and my veins cease to burn with adrenaline. An icy arc curves up from my abdomen to smash against my lower right rib. It's jarring. I feel the shock of it in my teeth and my mind buzzes like a swarm of angry bees.

This can't be happening!

Something slippery and thick attempts to escape from the gaping, backward J-shaped wound as a strangled cry of terror falls from my lips. My hands fly from the washer to cradle my stomach. Everything, once so hot and fiery and full of electricity, turns cold and dull and dead.

The steel leaves me, trailing red heat as the man stumbles back and away from me like I'm the living embodiment of the plague. His back slams against hot metal with a loud thud and I'm momentarily distracted by the bright colors being tossed around behind his head of straight black hair. I catch a glimpse of one of my favorite shirts: the one with my college mascot on it. A red cougar's snarling face whirls by.

No…

His beautiful eyes, so wide now, stare down at me. I realize he's much taller than me, but that's no great feat considering I'm barely five feet and three inches short. Those mossy eyes dart from my face to the little piece of metal shaking in his hands and back again. He shivers, face haunted, and then he's gone; leaving me all alone.

Little silver coins still dance and wobble on the red splattered tiles and I realize that all of this has lasted only a few seconds and not days, months, or even years. I watch as a few of them skitter away from me, leaving crimson trails in their wake as they flee. My fingers interlock against my stomach, quite literally holding myself in, as I try to keep them from shaking with the painful reality of my own mortality. Fear ices over my brain.

It's so cold.

Slowly, I attempt to lower myself to the floor but my knees give out almost immediately and I fall in a heap of blood and despair. I start to cry but force myself to stop because the motions hurt too much. My sluggish mind tries to crawl towards some solution, some saving grace, but it's too late for any sane person to be out on these streets and my phone is at home on the charger. Frustrated, I cry despite the searing ache. The pain stops.

It doesn't hurt.