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Character of the Season
Frail in body but dangerously quick of mind, Nikandr is the sort of character who proves that curiosity can be just as perilous as any weapon. A necromancer, inventor, and problem-solver with more ambition than self-preservation, Niki approaches the world like a puzzle box begging to be opened, even when what’s inside has teeth. Blunt, dry-witted, fiercely independent, and carrying a history best left partially buried, he has a knack for making even failure feel fascinating. Whether he’s raising the dead, moving across Caido to King's End, or experiencing a hangover for the first time, Nikandr brings a wonderfully strange spark to Caido, and we can’t wait to see what trouble his brilliant mind wanders into next.
Congratulations, Niki!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
OG Skinning provided by Kaons, with functionality and many custom plugins made by Neowulf!
"I just--" Jack's tone comes out sharper than he intends, his jaw feathering as if to clamp down on the inevitable that always leads them to the same fights, the same hurt, the same impossible outcome. Breathing in a steady breath and forcing it out, he tries again. "I just said you could take as long as you needed. I was... I shouldn't have asked you to decide straight away." And gods, the admissions are as foreign as the feelings curling low in his gut, the captain pressing his eyes shut to drag together his senses.
"But I feel like whatever happens, you're already answerin' the question for us, deep down," he admits. "An' I don't... I can't blame you for that. But I can't stop the way I feel either." He scoffs, as if his own mind has betrayed him in something that was going so well. So simple and easy. "So I guess what I'm sayin' is that I can't keep fuckin' you like that's all there is between us." Because it isn't. It never will be again.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
She blinks at him, lashes trembling faintly as if they can’t quite decide whether to let the sting at her eyes spill over or hold back. Of all the sharp words he’s cut her with, of all the walls he’s built and then set on fire, this—this admission—is the most surprising thing she can think of him having ever done, save for appearing at her side to twist her into invisibility at the pool party.
For a heartbeat she only looks, pulled halfway out of herself, caught on the whiplash of how quickly they’ve shifted: the memory of his weight pinning her down still humming low in her body, the warmth of curling against his side like it had never been complicated, and now this distance between them that feels wide enough to drown in, though her thigh still brushes his under the blankets.
Her voice comes out soft, almost disbelieving, her mouth shaping the words as if afraid they’ll break if she breathes too hard. "Say more things." The plea slips out before she can stop it, her aqua eyes still shining with tears that refuse to fall, heavy and unspilled. She swallows, voice catching, softer still as she presses on. "Because so far it sounds like you want me even if it ruins both of our fucking lives, and I mean.." There was a time when for Flora that would have been the most romantic thing, but here and now at the wisened old age of 23, there was no way she could commit herself or an immortal Jack to those sorts of shackles.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
"That's sure what it sounds like, doesn't it?" Jack says with a humourless breath of laughter, the captain sitting up a little more as if the physical act will help to put him back together inside and out. But say more things, she'd said, and he pinches at the bridge of his nose to think, brow furrowing. "It's easy to fuckin'... stand in a room with our thoughts splashed out on the walls and call it good, y'know? But I can read minds, not the future."
And how grand and dramatic of them to look at a glimpse of how they work and decide on something as final as never. "I ain't sayin' it'll work. I'm still me, you're still you, an' there are problems. We both know it. But I want you more than I want to ignore that I don't. I never got many chances, between where I came from an' where I am now. This deserves a chance." I deserve a chance.
But he's not going to beg her, and he's not going to pine. So if he's the only one who thinks as much, he'll accept it with the same sort of pride as a man holding onto a treasure he's just realised is worthless to everyone else but himself.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
Tears track warm down her cheeks before she even realises they’ve escaped, sharp as needles, so sharp she has to squeeze her eyes shut against them. The ache is too familiar—too much like the lighthouse, his words cutting through her like they were branded into her ribs: You’re tellin’ me you’d be happy, then? Lovin’ me, knowin’ I don’t know how to give you what you need in return? And wasn’t that the same question they were still circling now, seasons later, all the wanting in the world pulling them back into the same storm? He'd said he'd figure himself out, then, but she'd let his had fall away and had to claw him back after that, how the work of it had felt like proof that he was worth the wreckage. And now here he is again, not begging, not pining—because he never would—but still holding something out to her, still offering himself in the way Jack Barclay could.
She doesn’t wipe at the tears; they fall freely, darkening the sheets in little bursts like rain, staining the moment in a way her heart insists is permanent even though she knows it’s all already broken. She’s still in his bed. Still crying for him. Still caught in a cycle she can’t tear herself out of.
When she finally looks up, her throat is tight, her voice warbled despite her effort to steady it. "I know you love me," she says, the words trembling but true, as undeniable as the salt on her lips and cheeks. Her aqua eyes meet his then, glass-bright with hurt, with something almost like hope she hates herself for carrying. "But do you think you can make me happy?"
Because love has never been the question, not with him, it’s the happiness she’s afraid of, the part that feels like smoke in her lungs every time she reaches for it. The part that feels foolish for wanting to say she loves him and to hear it back. She’s always been the one to soften the edges, to call the scraps of tenderness sweet when they came from Jack, to name the rare effort trying because it was his. But lying here now she wonders if it will ever be her standards that count, her needs that shape what they are, or if it will always bend toward him until she’s left aching in the spaces she thought were meant for her, again and again. The wondering is entirely without venom, because if they were going to have this conversation, they might as well have it, and she would never fault Jack for being who he was—even if it broke her heart.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
"I dunno if that's a fair question to ask me," Jack says, the words entirely without vitriol, his fingers finding a loose thread in the blanket and methodically setting to unravelling it, even if it means he ends up with nothing but frayed edges in his lap. "You're the only one who can decide that, whether it's overall or day to day. All I can do is try. Try harder'n I did before, in any case." His eyes lift to her, albeit fleetingly, as if knowing all the ways they don't fit together and feeling more foolish by the second for reaching anyway.
"It's like askin' if you think you can make me happy." For all the ways Flora had bent and twisted herself in ways to settle for less when it came to Jack, there's still a lot to be said for the different ways they handle things, the different ways they need things. And there's no easy answer, however you look at it.
"I'm not tryin' to hurt you," he says - feels like he has to say it, his fingers finally stopping their fussing in the blankets. Her feelings are raw enough to chafe against his magic, to have the captain wanting instinctively to turn away from the pain of it, but he does the best he can to keep it from infecting his side of the conversation.
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
It isn’t the answer she’d wanted from him, but she hadn’t wanted him to lie either; the ring on her finger aside, lies now would only bring the fragile thing crashing down faster. Still, her lips betray her, twisting into a shape meant to hold back tears, her hand rising quickly to swipe at her cheeks as if she might erase the evidence before it sets. If she stripped everything down to bare truth—not just for him, but for herself too—she could admit that yes, he could make her happy in flashes, in fleeting sparks, but strung together? Gods help her, she thought the answer was no. Not unless some part of him softened, the parts calcified by loss and now by immortality. And that, she knows, is not a thing she can ask of him. The real question—the one she can barely stand to face—is whether it even matters.
When she was younger, she would have burned everything for him, reduced her world to ash and called it enough just to bask in the warmth of his gaze. But growing older had turned her greedy—not just for love, but for happiness too—and the people who had loved her along the way had only reinforced the idea that she deserved both.
Jack's words catch her, though, the turn of them pulling her eyes up to his, sharp as if she’d been struck. "I do think I can," she says, soft but stubborn, clinging to the thought like driftwood. "I think I did make you happy." Sure, she pissed him off plenty too—but didn’t he think he was happy with her more often than not? She could soothe his storms with her thoughts, tease his mouth into that reluctant grin, spark enough of something that he wanted to keep her close. She’d done the things he liked, she’d given him what he asked for, hadn’t she? And yet, if he’s saying this now, maybe she wasn’t as good at it as she thought.
Her head dips in a nod, more to convince herself than him, the movement small and fragile as a leaf caught in the tide. "I know," she whispers, and then, softer still: "I didn’t think we’d get here so fast." The admission breaks unevenly against the hush of the room. "I knew that this couldn't last forever, but..I thought we’d have more time to enjoy it first." A breath catches in her throat, torn between laugh and sob. The fact that they had was only further evidence of how simultaneously compatible and incompatible they really were together. They’d always been incendiary—two flints striking too close, sparking so bright and hot that the world tilts on its axis. What they had could light up a coastline, but left to its own fire it would reduce them to ash.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
"Makin' me happy ain't just about doin' the things I like, love," Jack says, the words almost a surprise even to himself, his lips curling in a sudden, quiet smile. "Sometimes it's about doin' shit that's good for me." Whether that's space or silence or the complete opposite; forcing a conversation he doesn't want to have, or asking things out loud even if he'd prefer to dig his fingers deep into his magic to come to his conclusions without giving his own input. "I learned that a bit too late, though, same as how I learned you needed more'n I was givin' you."
Dragging a knee up to rest his forearm across it, Jack's gaze settles, dulled with the realisation that this conversation is starting to feel like a trickle circling a drain. "I didn't either," he mutters. "It was fine until it was here, I think." He gestures around the cabin. Too close to home in that it was home, for Flora as well as for Jack over the seasons. Too many thens mashing back together with nows had muddled things impossibly. It's what had made him ask her to stay in the first place.
"What do you need?"
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
A little huff escapes her, breaking somewhere between a laugh and a sob, the sound frayed at the edges just like the sheet over Jack's lap. "Easier said than done when you’re dealing with Jack I Don’t Take Good or Bad Advice Barclay," she says, voice trying for lightness even as it buckles under the weight of it.
And gods, she does understand—because hadn’t she felt the same? She’d never been inclined to linger in the woods with him, not really, but when she’d had him in her bed she’d wanted him to stay. Just as now, with her curled in his sheets, he’d been the one to ask her not to leave. No surprise, really, that they kept circling in familiar patterns, caught by the same gravity. They were too alike in the ways that mattered, sparking off each other until the air burned thin.
Even so, Jack's question cracks something inside her all the same. Another laugh slips free, hurting her throat and tugging fresh tears into her eyes. She shakes her head, soft curls catching at damp cheeks, her words threading that familiar line between jest and confession. "What I need is a way to turn back time. Or maybe just a magic wand." The humour is fragile, gone as quick as it comes. Her gaze finds his with the kind of love that feels like it’s splitting her chest open, bright enough to hurt, but radiant still. "But really? What I need is not to decide right now. I love you too much to get it wrong by rushing it. We both need to think about what we need from each other before either of us can answer that."
For Flora, she already has an idea of what it means: Dates where she doesn’t have to beg for his time. Not fucking Safrin. For him to find a way to anchor her in his web so that she's a fixture in it rather than just a distraction. Something he wants to come back to rather than something he's forced to work around.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
"You're tellin' me - try livin' his fuckin' life," Jack says, rubbing at his forehead and huffing out a sound that might be a laugh if you look at it sideways while squinting. He settles, then, in the silence that stretches between them for a moment, letting her thoughts sink into his bones and brand themselves there, after-images left by the sparks they set off that catch on one another and burn.
Smoothing out the blanket he's been worrying between his fingers, he rolls his shoulder in a shrug that fails to be casual. "I've discovered a lot of abilities, but time travel ain't one of 'em," he apologises. "I'll let you know if any magic wands turn up, though."
Nodding at her, at last, as she says what she needs, Jack is just about to remark that he can at least give her that much - the space and the time to sit with the mess they've made of each other - when her thoughts strike into his mind. And he scoffs out a laugh. "That it? Changin' three decades of my headspace ain't gonna be easy, love, but if you can suffer me while I work through it, consider it done."
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
A humourless little laugh slips out of her, more breath than sound, as she nudges Jack beneath the blanket with the side of her leg and lets a wry smile find her mouth. "Noooo, that isn’t it," rolling her eyes with fond exasperation, Flora grins. "For starters, there’s now absolutely no excuse for you ever showing up without flowers" The tease comes easy, a cover for the ache lodged deep in her chest.
When he talks about suffering him while he works through it, her gaze drops to her hands, fingers knotting together in her lap. Questions unfurl sharp and insistent in her mind, ones he can’t possibly answer—how long will it take? do you promise you can? are you sure?—and all she can do is exhale softly against the quiet. With a sudden shuffle she slides from the bed, dragging the sheet with as she crosses to grab the smaller bottle of rum he’d poured earlier from his desk.
The cork gives with a pop, and she takes a long swallow straight from the neck before padding back to him, this time sitting on the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, she offers the bottle over. "So," she says at last, her voice softer now, worn down to something painfully fragile, "how long’s it take to fly to Stormbreak?" She tilts her head, not quite meeting his eyes, trying to weigh whether that would be enough time for them both to put their lists together—everything they’d need, everything they’d have to change—to try and make this work.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
"Ah, I should've known that wasn't it," Jack says dryly, his tone suffused with playful exasperation. He gestures to Flora as if to give her the floor for her ongoing list of requirements, though at the mention of flowers he can only motion around - at the blooms inked onto his skin, at the ones currently fluttering from the mast of The Ark - as if to say he's already honouring that particular expectation.
Freeing the blanket as she gets up off the bed, he watches her quietly without moving himself, as if to track her around the familiar space like she's a ghost he might not see again. The answers to her questions burn on his tongue already, vague and unhelpful for the most part - I dont know; No; Yes - though as she grabs the liquor and returns with it, his expression has at least turned into an incredulous arch of an eyebrow.
"First of all," he rumbles, swiping the bottle and reaching for the glass they'd discarded, "if it comes from a drawer in my desk, we treat it with respect." Frosting the glass and pouring himself a measure, he raises it in a sharp cheers before taking a sip himself and offering it back. (He holds the bottle hostage).
"As for Stormbreak... half a day at most? Dependin' on the weather an' the captain." Long enough, one might argue. "...Say that last part again out loud?" he adds, tilting his head towards her. "The very last bit."
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
Flora rolls her eyes right back at him, a mirror of Jack's exasperation softened by the affection curling behind it. Still, as he gestures for her to keep going with her list, she exhales a long sigh, curls tumbling forward as she shakes her head. "I need more than a couple minutes after all this whiplash to pin it down, Jack. I wasn't...expecting this, so hopefully you can forgive me for not having a list in my back pocket."
When he swipes the bottle from her hands, her mouth opens in protest before closing again on a crooked, knowing smile. "Given someone’s recent lack of self-control," she drawls, eyes glittering with dry humour, "I thought it safer in my hands than yours." Haughtily she snatches the glass instead, narrowing her eyes at him with feigned severity before tipping it back, letting the burn of the liquor lick down her throat and take some of the fire with it.
Half a day to Stormbreak. The thought makes her chest ache, and she wonders aloud if maybe it wouldn’t be better to leave the Ark and meet him there like she’d planned from the start. Space, distance—time enough to gather their shit together. But at his request, his words train a spotlight on the tail-end of her thoughts, and it’s enough to scatter every thought in her head. She blinks, gaze slipping away as if the words might be hiding somewhere else in the room, before she lets them out slowly, careful and uncertain. "I...was thinking about how to figure out what we’d need to do—or change—to even try and make this work?"
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
"I hope you'll forgive me for sayin' it, but that's a first, love." Jack smirks to himself, shifting enough on the bed so he can reach down and grab his pants and tug them on. (Flora has stolen the blanket and there's something about having this conversation butt-naked that feels off). Flora whose mind jumps to proposals whenever Jack so much as kneels down; Flora who has fantasised about their future more, arguably, than she'd lived in their tumultuous present. (And yes, he knows, the lion's share of that was his fault).
As for his lack of self-control, he scoffs out an excuse for an argument, though really he's got no ammunition for it. They've both had a sharp lapse in judgement since the Greatwood, honestly, but with how things are right now, he can't seem to be able to berate himself too much for it.
Especially not as he teases her last sentence from her again, her soft breath giving life to the words, making them real and solid in the air between them. "To try to make this work," he repeats. "...I just had to hear it from you out loud. Never thought I was gonna."
Buttoning his pants, Jack rolls the liquor bottle between his hands. "I'm never gonna live in your pocket," he says. "We both knew that from the beginnin'. I need freedom to do what I do. Sometimes that means leavin' to sail somewhere for a bit. It means late nights, weird hours, space. I can do more and be better, to make up for it when I'm here. But that's important to me."
fight so dirty but you love so sweet talk so pretty but your heart got teeth
Flora has to laugh at that, shaking her head as she pulls the sheets more securely around herself. "Fine," she concedes, a crooked smile playing at her lips, "I’ve got a list. But it’s not exhaustive, and if we only get one more shot at this..." Her voice softens, humour thinning out into something rawer. "I’d rather not fuck it up by being hasty." For however much Jack was clearly putting in the effort right now, she doubted if his patience would abide a constant stream of oh yeah, and one more thing..as the weeks went on.
When he teases her words back at her, Flora lets her head loll to the side, curls falling like a curtain over one shoulder, while her mind does the dicapro snapping gif. "Okay, well—there’s a good example," she murmurs. Frustration prickles like thorns at the edge of her thoughts, not sharp at him but at the strangeness of his magic, at the way it sometimes made her feel like a book cracked open without knowing which page he’d read, and sometimes like a treatise that had gone unnoticed. "Sometimes thinking things is enough, and sometimes it isn’t. And I never know which one it’s going to be. You’ll pluck something right out of me without blinking, and then other times it’s like if I don’t say it out loud, it doesn’t count." She sighs, pressing her cheek briefly into the fabric bunched against her shoulder, as if the sheet might ground her.
As Jack dresses, Flora hugs the glass of rum against her chest, watching the buttons slip into place. "I think that’s fine," she says at last, voice steady, though her gaze is fixed on the amber glow of the liquor. "It never bothered me before, I don't think? Except when you fucked off just because you were angry at me." Her eyes lift then, meeting his with a steady brightness. "If we’re together, then we’re together. That means you still come home to me, even if you’re mad."
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
