I think being okay is best defined as having faith in your ability to make it to the other side. Nothing lasts forever and nothing stays the same, so the goal becomes not 'happily ever after' but 'happy for as long as possible, sad for as little as possible'. It's the knowledge that you've survived every single one of the worst days of your life, and that you will continue to survive them. It is approaching another dip in the road not with the idea that it's going to suck, but the idea that it's going to pass. Sure, you might have to work to get out of the rut, but you've done it before and you can do it again.

I firmly believe that I'm capable of climbing out of my depressive slumps; so, I'm okay.

I covered my eyes, but nothing changed.

It was still there; I could still see it, all magnesium fire and bloody claws and giant, gaping maw.

It had killed everyone on the starship except me. I never thought the Demon of Horizons was real; some said it was one of they fey folk, and escapee from some long-dead planet humans used to inhabit. Some said it was the product of a black hole and a neutron star.

Most said it didn’t exist, but you could always find those superstitious few.

They usually disagreed on everything, and that alone should have meant it couldn’t really exist, but... well.

They hadn’t disagreed on everything, and that alone should have told you not to let the captian sail you all to your deaths.

Anyone who said the Demon of Horizons was real said it could be warded off with silver. Pure, undiluted silver, the kind that the First Alliance would pay billions for.

I don’t know why I’m not dead.

I don’t know why I can still see it, see it…

See it walking away.

The Demon of Horizons casts one last glance back at me as I lower my hand.

“Wh-wh-why?”

It blinks, and when it turns to face me fully I feel my heart skip a beat.

“The horizon has no quarrel with the stars,” it says, in a voice that is old, older than the Alliance, than the planets comprising it, than the discovery that led to it.

Older than starships.

I can almost hear the eons contained within it. A voice from a time when stars were pinpricks of light on black velvet. A time when the word ‘horizon’ had a meaning beyond ‘the line between the sky and whatever planet you’re on this week’.

The Demon of Horizons, all at once, is gone.

I look at the bodies of my crewmates around me.

Nina. She’s the first one with a face intact enough to recognize, despite there not being much else left.

“Nina?” I whisper.

No. Not in the voice of stars that are gasses and fire. Not in the voice of stars that simply pull you in and burn you up.

Different voice. The voice of stars that mark unreachable mysteries. The stars that are glimmers of diamonds stitched into a velvet sky.

“Nina.”

I say it, and I hear it; different than the Demon of Horizons.

The voice of heavens that have watched over things for millenia, the voice of little glowing eyes peering down to make sure that brittle, brittle life wasn’t broken completely.

I say her name, in the voice of old stars and dead gods and lost wonder, and I feel a grin spread across my face as her eyes flicker over to meet mine.

She smiles back.

Feithon narrowly dodged the knife that spiralled through the spot his head had been in seconds before.

Why me?

Vira was behind him, doing her best to annoy their enemies to death. If someone had told the Feithon of yesterday that he’d be the High Angel of the Fey and the babysitter of the daughter of Mab and Oberon, the blond would have reported them to Raphael to get treatment for insanity.

Of course, he would also be slightly more prepared for taking on the duties of the Avenging Angel he most certianly was not (why hadn’t they assigned an Avenging Angel to the case instead of leaving him to handle it? Instead of leaving him to handle a job that at best would cost him his life and at worst would cost him Vira? Feithon was a Guardian Angel. Guardian Angels didn’t have bulletproof wings), the Fey mage he was also, quite obviously since angels didn’t have pointed ears, not, and the bodyguard he was also very much not.

However, since the Fey princess was a six year old orphan with more magic than anyone could control, a family out to kill her, a dead bodyguard, a dead magic teacher, and a dead Avenging Angel, it was left to her Guardian Angel to defend her from something far more real and far more terrifying than nightmares.

I’m supposed to keep her dreams darkness-free. Protect the mind and soul, that’s your job as a Guardian Angel. And Callion was the best Avenging Angel we had. She’d never lost so much as a ward’s family to demons, and now she’s lost her life?

Feithon swept his shoulder-length hair away from his pinewood eyes- for the second time in two minutes.

Vira, bless her naive little fairy heart, was trying to use all that uncontrollable magic to save them both.

It won’t work. I wasn’t made to protect physical forms- I wasn’t even made to have one.

The redheaded princess was huddled in the corner of one of Titania’s long-abandonded storage outposts. Feithon stood between her and the six demons he'd been fighting for the last five minutes- Astaroth (Feithon remembered Astaroth, remembered how he’d been before the Fall), Beelzebub, Gluttony and Greed, Morath, and Lethium.

Feithon was facing down six of Hell’s best, with no fighting experience, only basic combat training, a short sword, and a princess he’d protect at all costs.

And protect her he did.

The fight began again, after all the circling. It was one Feithon would lose, he’d known that the minute he’d found Callion’s body.

Vira may have been a brat with a sense of humor, and everyone else may have spoiled her rotten, but she was his brat.

I can save her from the worst nightmares, but I can’t even protect against one demon, let alone six.

Morath and Lethium were dead.

Feithon never figured out how he managed it, because Astaroth hit him point blank, the bullet shredding it’s way through feathers and flesh to imbed itself in Feithon’s gut.

He wouldn’t have survived it no matter what he’d been.

Distantly, he heard Vira screaming bloody vengeance, and he could faintly see all that uncontrollable magic turn four demons to dust.

She’ll be safe.

Every angel will have seen that. She’ll be safe.

The last thing Feithon heard that night was Vira whispering in his ear-

“I’m not losing you too.”

“It’s a boy!”

“Nurse, what are those… scars on his back? Did something happen during pregnancy?”

“Not scars, dear, birthmarks.”

“Look, Mama, they look like the scars where wings should be! Is my baby brother an angel?”

“No, honey. Angels don’t exist. But if you like, you can name him after one.”

“Really? Even if I’m not… really his sister?”

“Just because your adopted doesn’t mean you aren’t his family. Or ours, for that matter. You can name him.”

“I want to name him Feithon.”

“You picked a lovely name, Vira.”

So... I usually write fiction. Sci-Fi, sometimes, but mostly fantasy. And I'm happy with that.

But the prompt said 'first thing that came to mind' and the first thing that came to mind wasn't something I wanted to cover up with spells and spaceships. I'm in the middle of a lot of projects. Lots of spells, and a little less spaceships, but still very, very impossible things.

I just wish this story fell into that category.

I don't make friends easily. Well- okay, that's a lie. I make friends easily. I don't keep friends easily- whether this is because of my foot-long list of mental health problems, my crippling trust issues, or the fact that I'm the weirdest person most high schoolers have ever met, I have yet to determine.

So, of course, I had... three? Friends at the start of high school. Most of them I'd met in middle school, but there was one of them who I didn't actually remember meeting, because we'd both known each other since we were two.

And in accordance with the universe's laws of 'screw you' this friendship turned out to be the most toxic one I think I'll ever have.

I'm going to skip over a lot of what happened. I came to the realization over the summer. I did an unhealthy amount of research. I did an equally unhealthy amount of crying when I finally admitted to myself that no, this wasn't good for me.

She wasn't good for me.

I'm running at a three out of three record for the girls I fall in love with stabbing me in the back, despite two of those falling into a time before I even realized that's what it was. But this one was... worse. So, so much worse.

I'd had nearly thirteen years to fall. And fall I did. Hard.

Realizing what this friendship really was was probably one of the most painful realizations of my life. I spent summer vacation begging myself to be wrong. She couldn't be that bad- I'd have noticed!

Except that, shortly after I got back to school, and the honeymoon phase of seeing her again ended, I realized that I had, in fact, noticed. My past self had chalked it up to us being too similar or too different (because no matter what trait it was you were discussing, we were either exactly the same or we were polar opposites), to her having a hard time or me forgetting to take my meds.

Unfortunately, an unhealthy amount of research meant an amount of knowledge and an amount of repeats that I couldn't ignore.

Some articles were simply lists of symptoms. Some were full essays, some were warnings.

All of them listed nearly the exact same symptoms of a toxic friendship with little variation, though. And I'm not stupid enough to ignore that many psych articles.

It took me nearly nine months to accept the things I'd learned. It took me an extra two weeks to cut off the friendship.

I spent the next two days trying not to break down completely. Someone once said that the saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.

This was true, and I realized that in the most painful way I think I possibly could have. Realizing that the love of your life, however unconciously, is a manipulative control freak feels a little like... oh, getting run over by a freight train after they've stabbed you eighteen times and tossed you onto the track.

Most people tell stories like these with an intent. I'm not. Take from this what you will. All I know is that the only thing I got out of it was an inability to fully trust my own perception and another reason not to trust anyone.

Make whatever mistakes you like. But if someone happens to crawl into your heart and proceeds to destroy it, run. Do whatever it takes to keep them from chasing you, and run like your life depends on it.

Because I can tell you now, that your soul does.

Alis Mardol closed her eyes as her body shattered the cathedral window, and she began the sixty-foot plummet to the earth below.

What a sad ending this all had- the rebellion, the city, her life.

The Ace of Spades- the girl who founded, fueled and lead the rebellion against the Idells. The girl who stood up to said Idell family when she was a five year old maid. The girl who knew she was worth something, even when the power structure, they system in place, the money she made said otherwise.

Thrown out the window by Veyl Idell, the magic using daughter of the main bloodline.

Her father was a smart man- Beithor Idell had been Alis' enemy for years, and until two hours ago, she hadn't even known he had a child.

Alis hid inside the cathedral on the Idell castle grounds, waiting for Veyl to arrive for her daily meditation.

If Alis couldn't use her as leverage against her father, maybe she could turn her to their side.

Why had she come alone? Why hadn't she brought backup?

Alis braided back her mouse brown hair, hazel eyes scanning the room for any signs of the youngest Idell's arrival.

Too late to call in now.

Alis caught glimpses of herself in the falling shards- blood streaming from a cut on her forehead, little scratches littering her body, a gash on her thigh.

She'd had worse before.

But sixty feet is a long way to fall, especially when you fall headfirst.

Beithor stood next to Veyl, in all his blonde, blue eyed, Ken doll glory, with the cruelest smile she'd ever seen him wear (and that was saying something). Veyl had gotten his golden hair- one of the many trademarks of the Idell bloodline.

"This is your chance to prove yourself, Veyl. Prove you are an Idell."

Veyl was as old as Alis- sixteen, and she looked…

Terrified. Of her father, of Alis, of what she was about to do. Veyl's violet eyes were locked on Alis' hazel ones.

"Get rid of her."

Ten seconds passed, and through every one of them, Veyl kept eye contact.

The Idell heir mouthed the words 'I'm sorry', as her face twisted into an expression of grief (though it couldn't be- no Idell grieved the death of Alis, Ace of Spades).

The next thing Alis registered was hitting the mirror.

She'd never grow up. Never get old. Never fall in love, or get married.

Alis was raised to believe she was nothing, and the Idells were everything, she'd grown up being slapped for the smallest mistake and owning nothing but her name.

Alis Mardol was five when she figured out that the Idells didn't care- not really. She'd tripped while walking to her room- she hadn't even been holding anything, and one of the security guards picked her up like a rag doll and slapped her hard enough to leave a bruise. The next day, the older maid who'd helped her was called into Beithor's office.

The day after that, Alis found her body.

Alis, Ace of Spades, was eleven when the revolution she founded finally became a widespread movement. The Idells were losing allies.

Alis Mardol, Ace of Spades, was never going to see her seventeenth birthday.

The ground got closer.

She'd never come of legal age.

The ground got closer.

She'd never really get to own anything in her life, except her name.

Alis Mardol closed her eyes, and could swear she never hit the ground.

When Alis Mardol opened her eyes, she knew she never would.

Of course, the next thing she noticed was the child of her mortal enemy sitting next to her, looking woefully apologetic and a lot sorrier than she should.

"You threw me out a window."

Not great first words, but they worked.

Veyl's head snapped up, and she looked enough like a deer in headlights that Alis' heart actually twinged.

"I'm sorry," Veyl said. "I- father's being held by some of my guards. I don't- I don't want to hurt you."

"And what a lovely job you've done so far."

Veyl's eyes narrowed, and Alis found that for once, she was glad to be on the recieving end of an Idell glare.

It meant that she still knew what to do.

"I know we're supposed to be enemies, but I don't want to hut you. I'm serious. Father- he's evil. I can't let him rule the world any longer."

Alis raised an eyebrow, glancing around the ward.

"You're saying you want to join the rebellion that's trying to destroy your family?"

"Yes. I am."

"Why?"

"Take it from someone who grew up with them- they're not worth keeping around."

Veyl was stone faced, and Alis had had to get good at reading people when she'd started her rebellion.

The brunette felt a grin begin to spread across her face.

"In that case- welcome to the rebellion."

Ravellan shuddered as she raised her lantern higher. There it was- after all those years trying to find it (trying to find a way to kill it), she finally had it.

"Ravellan? Solhei just sent in the coordinates for that White Volcano."

"Good," the blonde said.

The Blackheart glittered in the lantern light, facets catching the white glow and turning into blood red glimmers. The silver chain, the black, faceted, heart-shaped gem...

It was exactly the way Solhei had said it would be.

"Is that it?"

Ravellan turned, facing her companion. Manaba was a few inches taller than she was, and the other woman had skin like concrete, despite appearing perfectly human anyway. Incidentally, she also had the gift of flight- something Ravellan shared. Sometimes. When she had the fuel for it (having only the powers other people believed you had could go two ways: you wound up with omnipotence, or you wound up only able to turn into a gerbil, and there was no in between) (despite the common beliefs fluctuating constantly between the two).

"Yeah. That's it," Ravellan said.

"Here's hoping nobody's stupid enough to put it on,"

"The Blackheart is an Artifact, it only works for it's Bearer."

"That's what I'm worried about," Manaba muttered, stepping forward tossing the Blackheart into the containment capsule with one gloved hand.

"Let's just get to the volcano. If we fail at tossing a necklace into a pit of lava Solhei will never let me hear the end of it."

"I'm tempted to miss just to see the look on your face."

"Don't you dare."

"Relax, 'Vell, I would never."

#fiction

"Tell me they're lying, Ravellan."

Ravellan bowed her head, letting her blonde hair fall to cover her icy, glowing eyes. Solhei sucked in a breath, already knowing what the silence of her sister meant.

"You did. You did. You promised me you wouldn't- 'Vell, you promised me!"

Ravellan only sighed. Her sister was right, but...

But what if someone else had gotten their hands on the raw magic. What if someone else had turned it into something just as destructive and far easier to use?

At least this way we can hide it. Lock it up somewhere, and never let it be used again.

"Why?"

"To keep anyone else from using the magic there."

"So you made something that could level a solar system in seconds flat?"

"The Lamp's command word is beyond obscure."

"But it exists! Because you just had to go behind my back and build the stupid thing in the first place!" Solhei shouted, pacing back and forth in the room she and her sister shared. Her jet black hair was probably completely free of tangles by now, but fingercoming was a nervous tick she'd had for years.

"The Lamp of Star and Storm is a lot less dangerous than-"

"But it's dangerous! It's beyond dangerous! You- you built something that can be used to summon a starstorm, Ravellan, you- you could use it to kill billions."

"But I won't!"

"And who's to say nobody else will!?"

"Solhei-"

"NO! You- you built a gun that could destroy civilizations- entire planets- with one shot! ONE! And- and there's insurance, there, for whoever uses it! Because it won't hurt them! Just everyone in a hundred million mile radius! Why couldn't you have just left the magic where it was!? Why couldn't you have just listened to me?"

Ravellan curled her lips into a snarl, storming over to where Solhei stood.

"Because if I didn't use it then someone else would. Someone worse. The Lamp of Star and Storm can be locked up. It takes saying something that's not a word in any language to activate that starstorm, instead of 'kill them all'. I saved us! I saved everyone! Yes, it's a weapon of unimaginable power but weapons can be left rusting in their sheaths! As long as I don't use it, and you don't use it, the chances of it ever being activated are so small that I might as well have built a completely nonmagical oddly shaped teapot!"

Solhei drew herself up to full height- a good six inches above Ravellan's head. The raven-haired girl squared her shoulders, setting her jaw the same way she did every time she filled in another line on Ravellan's long, long list of sins.

"You have doomed billions by creating that thing."

"And how many more have I saved!? How many more are never going to suffer under tyrants because I stole that magic when I had the chance!? How many people will be fine!? HOW MANY!? HOW MANY PEOPLE WILL BE PERFECTLY ALRIGHT BECAUSE I REALIZED AT THE LAST SECOND THAT YOU WERE WRONG!?"Ravellan screamed.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

"WHY NOT!? BECAUSE SOME WILL DIE ANYWAY!? OR BECAUSE THE PERSON SAVING WORLDS FINALLY ISN'T YOU!?"

For the first time in her memory, Ravellan saw Solhei take a step back first. Whenever the two had been mere words away from throwing punches, it had always been Ravellan- always been Ravellan because Ravellan was the naive peackekeeper, Ravellan was the comedic relief, Ravellan wasn't a threat.

Maybe she could have become a threat to Solhei, right then and there. Maybe she could have landed a hit, and seen a twinge of fear in her sister's eyes every time someone told Ravellan she wasn't worth the effort of fighting.

Maybe she could have.

But she didn't.

Ravellan stayed where she was, watching her sister step farther and farther away, shaking her head like she'd just watched Ravellan go mad.

Solhei turned around, striding to the door to their bedroom.

"This isn't over, Sol. You don't get to just bury this one like all the others," Ravellan growled.

"I know it isn't over. But if you'll excuse me, I have to call a council meeting to discuss how we're going to deal with the existence of a weapon that can destroy everything we've worked for with one piece of gibberish."

Solhei closed the door behind her.

Ravellan was still glaring at it long after the echo had faded.