burn the world to ash - r - olicity - part 3 of 3 [b]
title: light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)
category: arrow
genre: tragedy/romance
ship: felicity/oliver
rating: r
prompt: olicity + revenge + happy ending optional - anonymous (Tumblr)
warning(s): multiple major character deaths, coarse language, sexual content, explicit violence
word count: 14,738
overall status: complete
summary: When Slade comes for Team Arrow, he is unforgiving in his relentless pursuit for revenge. In the end, however, he shouldn't have underestimated Felicity.
[return.]
"Tell me again why you are doing this," Nyssa said, looking down at Felicity as she lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, sore and beaten and almost completely sure that one of her ribs was bruised, if not broken.
"For Sara."
"No." Nyssa pursed her lips. "Perhaps in part, yes. But tell me who brought you here. Tell me why they matter."
"It is for Sara," she argued, glaring up at her. "And Roy and John and…" Her voice trailed off, her throat burning.
"And?" Nyssa circled her, twisting a dagger in her hands, letting it slip over and under her fingers like it was air, moving with such grace that Felicity was sure it would only ever cut someone Nyssa deemed worthy of it. As if the blade itself had curbed its innate drive to harm in respect of her. "I hear you say his name while you sleep, little one. Why not say it now, in the light of day? Or is the pain so raw that it would break you?" She knelt then, looking at Felicity with knowing eyes. "Do you know what you must do with that pain? Do you understand how it can make you as much and as clearly as it can break you?" She shook her head, a fire lighting her eyes. "Pain is nothing more than a reminder that you can either suffer or make others suffer instead of you."
"That's a bit of a black and white way of seeing it."
"All of us suffer. We can lie and say that it is our duty to feel that pain, but there is not one person alive who would not rather someone feel that burden for them." She held a hand out, waiting for Felicity to take it, and then yanked her from the floor.
Felicity groaned, reaching over to grip her ribs as they protested.
"The kind thing to do would be to let you rest and heal, but if you are to learn how to kill, you must learn how to hurt." Nyssa took Felicity's chin in her hand and raised it so they were eye to eye. "You remind me of her. She was all fire and pain, half dead inside and willing to do anything to survive. But where Sara wanted to survive, you only want to make another suffer. I wonder, do you know what you will do when he is dead. Have you asked yourself that?"
Felicity breathed hard through her gritted teeth. "I'll figure it out later, when he's gone."
Tsking under her breath, Nyssa graced her with as close to a pitying look as the woman had in her. "Vengeance only lasts as long as your enemy lives. When he dies, so does what drives you, and then you are left with nothing." Taking a step back, she said, "Perhaps when you are finished, you will return to me, and I will show you how to live beyond that."
Felicity leaned down and grabbed up a bō staff from the floor, hissing at the pain on her side. She raised it up, letting Nyssa know the conversation was over for now. Truthfully, Felicity had no idea what she would do after Slade was dead. Usually, when she dreamt of what it would be like, it ended with Slade. There was nothing after that. Roll credits. And maybe she didn't want to know. Maybe not knowing was better.
Because maybe there wasn't anything after it. Maybe there was never meant to be.
There was a time when she thought her life could be better. When, even though they had Slade breathing down their necks, she thought she and Oliver had a future. Yes, she got tired of constantly being ready and waiting for the day he would pop up on their radar and spring his trap, but that didn't mean she didn't enjoy the time she did get with Oliver. If anything, sometimes that made it all the more special. Because she knew it could end at any moment, she tried to enjoy it to the fullest while it was happening.
And she knew Oliver felt the same. She knew it like she knew that John died with the certainty that he had done good in the world, he had left a legacy he could be proud of. She knew it like she knew code would never fail her, a faithful friend that had served her well since the first time a computer had been put in front of her. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise every morning, despite how dark the nights often seemed.
Oliver was making breakfast, or, more accurately, burning breakfast, when she found a ring tucked in the sock drawer.
It was an accident; she hadn't gone looking for something like that. But there it was, a blue satin box staring back at her that she'd snooped in because, well, she hated mysteries and her birthday was coming up and she was wondering if he got her those cute koala head earrings she'd been hinting at. But inside, on a bed of satin, was a diamond engagement ring. Logically, she knew she should close the top, stuff it back under the socks, and just let things progress as they should.
Instead, she plucked that ring up from the box and walked out into the kitchen in a daze.
Oliver was frowning down at the frying pan in front of him, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, shirt missing, feet bare, hair in disarray and his face scruffy. If she hadn't been completely distracted, she would've been wholly turned on. Which was a pretty regular thing for her around him anyway.
"So I burned the first batch of French toast, but I think my second batch might survive," he told her, spatula in hand while he raised a cup of coffee up to his mouth. "If not, I'm thinking scrambled eggs. Sound good?" When she didn't answer right away, he frowned, turning to look at her. "Felic-" He paused, spotting the ring she held up. "You… Where'd you get that?"
"Where did I…" She blinked rapidly. "Oliver, you didn't exactly hide it in Mount Doom. It was in the sock drawer. The sock drawer that we share. Literally, I found it stuffed under a pair of my favorite wool socks and those weirdly silky socks you like to wear so much. My feet were cold, so, you know, logical step, wool socks. And the next thing I know, blue satin box, and then this. This right here. Which looks a lot like an engagement ring, I'd like to point out." She pointed at it with her free hand before making a weird, frantic motion with it.
Oliver stared at her, mouth slightly ajar.
"Say something!" she told him. "Something along the lines of 'why yes, Felicity, that is an engagement ring, let me explain.' And then, explain."
Pursing his lips at her, he sighed. "I'm pretty sure it's self-explanatory."
Her eyes widened. "No!" She wagged her finger at him. "No, it is not self-explanatory. It is you-need-to-explain-why-I-just-found-an-engagement-ring-in-the-sock-drawer is what it is. Because, let's face it, we are basically waiting for Slade Wilson to bust in the window or door at any given moment and kill one or both of us. I don't know about you, but getting married doesn't seem like the next logical step. I mean, have I thought about it? Yes, of course! Probably before we even got together, which is neither here nor there or anywhere. The point is, getting married right now would be like asking for the Red Wedding. The Rains of Castamere would play as he snipered me from the roof of Queen Manor just before I said 'I do.'"
"So you would say yes, if I asked you?"
Felicity waved her hand around. "Out of everything I just said, that was all you heard?!"
"No. I heard the rest, and I agree. But just so we're on the same page… If I asked you to marry me, you'd say yes. And if we weren't sure Slade was going to kill you to make a spectacle of it and completely send me over the edge, we'd have a wedding at the manor, in the spring, and you'd wear your bubbe's pearls."
"Well, I didn't mention the spring or bubbe's pearls, but those are both true." Sighing, her shoulders slumped. "Do you honestly think I would say no to marrying you? I mean, even knowing what Slade would do, I still can't help but think 'wow, this ring is gorgeous' and 'oh, Felicity Megan Queen has a nice ring to it, and 'yes, I'd totally marry you, even if you always put the milk carton back in the fridge when it's empty, and you never make your side of the bed, and it's really unfair how you always smell prettier than me.' So yes, my first instinct was definitely to shout 'let's do it' but I can't think like that. We can't afford to think like that, not right now."
With a heavy sigh, he nodded, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. "I know."
Frustrated, she shook her head. "If you know, then why…" She waved the ring at him.
He half-smiled and plucked the ring from her fingers. "Felicity, I've had this ring for seven months."
Her heart thumped hard in her chest.
"But I know I can't give it to you until this thing with Slade is over. I know that our lives are basically on hold until this ends. So we can live here, safe in this little bubble of ours, pretending that things aren't as bad as they really are. But while I want us to move forward, I want to ask you to marry me and put this ring on your finger, I know that's impossible right now. So I've kept it put away, until the day comes that we don't have to worry about snipers on the roof or bombs hidden on the jet as we leave for our honeymoon or assassinations of any kind…" He frowned, staring down at the ring with a thoughtful look on his face. "When I bought this ring, it was a promise to myself that we could have that. That one day, this thing would Slade would end, and we could have a real life together; a future… The thing is, I don't know when that'll be. I don't know if it'll be tomorrow or next year or ten years from now. But I do know that I want it with you. I know that, whatever happens, you're it for me. And I know it's difficult to live like this. I know I'm asking a lot of you and that, by being with me, I'm putting you in danger. And that… it terrifies me. It rips me apart that I'm the reason you could die." He swallowed thickly and shook his head. "If I knew that pushing you away would keep you safe, I would. Even though it would destroy me not to have you here, by my side. I would push you as far away as I could. But I know that if I do, he'll find you." His voice gave out for a second before he said, "I won't risk that. I won't risk you."
She stared at him, her heart thudding loud in her ears, and her eyes fell to where that beautiful ring rested between his fingers. "Okay."
He raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"
She nodded. Reaching for his hand, she squeezed her fingers around his. "When he's gone, when it's over, then you can ask, and I'll say yes."
He stared at her a long moment, searching her eyes, and then a faint smile turned up his lips. Slowly, that smile turned into a full-fledged grin, and he chuckled under his breath as he leaned forward to kiss her.
Their moment was short-lived, however, as the fire alarm started blaring.
Oliver's second try at French toast had burned; scrambled eggs it was then.
She wondered sometimes, if he always knew he would end up sacrificing himself, and that buying the engagement ring and the idea of getting married had just been one last desperate grab at hope for another outcome. She knew Oliver. She knew that some part of him had been ready for this. He'd known it might culminate in his or her death. She knew he must've prepared himself for the moment where he might have to sacrifice himself for her, even when she said not to. Just as she knew that he would never want her to carry out this drive for vengeance. He would want her to have some safe, normal life, far away from the death and danger she'd encountered with him. But it was her choice. And she chose revenge.
Felicity spent three years training with Nyssa, and she was a terrible student when she started. She was all arms and legs that did nothing more than trip over each other. But, for all that she was a merciless assassin, Nyssa had patience, and while she might have put Felicity out of her misery if she'd been anyone else, she seemed to respect her for wanting to destroy Slade. Of course, Felicity never told Nyssa who the man was that had killed Sara. Because she knew if she did, her mentor would disappear into the night to get revenge of her own. That didn't stop Nyssa from asking and, if it hadn't been for Felicity's friendship with Sara, she thought Nyssa might have tortured the answer out of her otherwise. But Nyssa allowed her to go on, she trained her to fight, and, perhaps, she even took some comfort in the idea that, while she wouldn't be the one to put Slade down herself, she had trained the person who would, like an extension of her own rage and grief.
Felicity had no idea how much time had truly passed. It was a haze of fighting and ice baths and muscles that didn't have familiar hands to rub away the ache. She missed her training sessions with Oliver. How, when he knew she was feeling particularly tired or bruised up, he would take her feet into his lap and paint her toe nails for her. Or he'd come in as she was relaxing in her bath and have her shuffle forward so that she could dip her head back into the water and wash her hair for her. She missed how he took care of her, how he showed how much he loved her, how he kissed her bruises away and held her a little tighter each night as they went to sleep. Now, she slept alone, fitfully most nights, never quite comfortable when her body felt so achy.
Eventually, though, those aches and pains were fewer and farther between. Her body was molded into something else, something that could withstand pain. Something that moved with grace and anticipated attack. Something focused, driven, and completely aware. When she fought now, she did so silently, with such agility that the old her would have been amazed. When Nyssa brought in others, trained assassins, to fight Felicity, she stood off to the side and watched as Felicity destroyed them. Not with conviction, not with anger or desperation. She put them down because when they attacked, it was her instinct to attack back, to be better, to prevail.
She didn't kill them, though. No matter how many times Nyssa told her that if the assassins that faced her failed to win, they deserved to die. The only blood her hands would wear would be Slade Wilson's. It was a vow she'd made that day she knelt at Oliver's grave, and it was a vow she would keep.
The day she left Nyssa's company, with all the skills she would ever have, all the knowledge and certainty that if there was any chance she could kill Slade, she now had it, she did not hug the woman who had trained her. She did not thank her or cry or tell her that she would miss her now that the likelihood of them ever seeing each other again was slim to none. Instead, she hitched the bag of what few belongings she had up on her shoulder, and she told her, "His name was Oliver."
And Nyssa looked at her with a faint smile and said, "I know."
Swallowing tightly, she admitted, "He died saving me."
"And now you kill to honor him." Nyssa stared at her searchingly for a moment. "Would he want that for you?"
Felicity fingered the strap of her bag and answered honestly, "No. But he's not here to stop me."
Nyssa reached for her, fingers tucked under Felicity's chin, and then she leaned forward and she pressed a soft, farewell kiss to her forehead. "Go with honor, little one."
Felicity nodded and turned on her heel to walk away, her head held high. When she killed Slade, she would find a way to thank Nyssa for all that she'd given her.
For the next six months, she did nothing but search for Slade. She tracked him all over the world, showing up some places just days after he'd left to somewhere else. She caught a few hours of sleep here or there while researching and chasing what few trails he'd left behind in each place he'd been. It was exhausting, but it was necessary.
Some days she looked in the mirror and didn't recognize herself. She didn't recognize the glint in her eyes that demanded blood or the graceful way she walked that looked as lethal as a panther out for a kill. She was Death and she had only one target. She was not the woman Oliver had fallen in love with or Digg had befriended. She wasn't Sara's drinking buddy or Roy's mother hen. She wasn't an IT girl or an executive assistant. She wasn't anything but vengeance and sorrow and a part of her wore those like a badge of honor. This was what he had created, and when he met his end, he would know that.
But there were times when something else would bleed through, something desperately untouched by her hatred driven lust for revenge.
Some nights, she fell asleep convinced that Oliver was still holding her, still wrapped around her, face buried in her hair or her neck, mouthing kisses over her skin and whispering his 'I love you's' into her ear. She woke up each morning and kept her eyes closed to let her dream linger. She could almost smell him and feel him and hear his steady breathing beside her. But then her eyes would creep open and there would be no one and nothing there. So she would shove herself up out of bed and push her body toward exhaustion, training and fighting and searching.
A little over six months later, she found Slade in Belgium, sitting in an opulent office with a stunning view of Brussels. The dark paneled walls were dressed in old, oil paintings, the likes of which only the wealthy could afford to buy. His room was furnished with a pair of leather sofas, side tables corner either of them, a minibar, some plants, and an expensive looking rug. It wasn't the sleek, modern, windows and steel of Oliver's office, but it seemed to suit Slade much better.
He was at his desk, hand poised over a paper as he signed something or other. When she stepped up behind him, she was silent.
"Like the wind," Nyssa told her, moving through the room, dressed so darkly she could see absolutely nothing. Nyssa moved so quickly and so silently that Felicity had never been able to pin down where she was, twisting her head in every direction, her voice seeming to come from every corner. "When you strike, he can never know it is coming. He must think he is safe, and when he believes it so, then you will show him he never was."
A sword in either hand, she laid them over his shoulder, crossed at the nape of his neck.
"It's been too long," she greeted.
He went still, his shoulders tensed, and then he raised his head. "Not as long as I had hoped, I'll admit."
"Did you think I'd just forget? Move on? Wait for you to come for me again?"
"No," he said simply, turning his head a little so he could see her. "I was wrong, Miss Smoak. You weren't Shado at all... You were me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Do you want pity now? Because I know what it feels like." She searched his face, defined planes that might have been handsome if not for the cruelty she knew him for. "You think I'll sympathize because now that I know what it's like to miss someone so desperately… To blame yourself for their death." Her voice shook, but she told herself it was with rage and not the torment of knowing that it was true. It was her fault. Oliver was gone because of her.
"No. No sympathy," he said, laying his pen down. "I had none for you, so I expect the same in return."
"It'd be easy, you know, to take your head like this… An homage, right? To Roy this time."
"It would. But you won't."
"Won't I?" She scoffed. "I'm not the same person you left to die in that club. I'm not the same woman that buried three friends."
"No. I can see that you aren't. But killing me like that… it wouldn't fit with the dream, would it?"
She frowned at him.
"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." He turned in his chair so he was facing her better, the cross of her swords sitting at his Adam's apple now. "You'll offer me a sword like I did you, only his time you'll know how to fight with one. This time you won't fall and Oliver won't swoop in to save you. This time you plan to win, not just escape."
She glared, because yes, fine, that was exactly what she'd dreamt of when she planned this. A redo, of sorts. Only it wasn't, not really. Nothing was going to bring them back. Nothing was going to take her back to that moment before Oliver interfered and laid down his life for hers. Nothing was going to make any of this better.
"I was going to let him live, you know."
Felicity raised an eyebrow and let out a scoff.
"Imagine it." He leaned back in his chair, hands stacked atop his stomach. "He would have to live with all that loss. He would have to live feeling the way you do now." He searched her eyes. "Do you know why I wanted to hurt him?"
"Shado," she answered simply.
"Oh, I blame him for her, absolutely. If he had only made the right choice, she would still be here, still be alive."
"You don't know that. That island wasn't called Purgatory for nothing. She could have died at any point."
"Maybe. But do you know what made it so much worse…?" His face clouded with anger. "He lied to me. After everything, after all I did to keep that boy alive, he let her die and he told me he had nothing to do with it. And then, he tried to kill me. Oh, he can spin it any way he likes. That I was insane. That the mirakuru made me a mindless killer. But the truth is, he was no more loyal to me than he was anyone else. He manipulated who he had to in order to survive. And maybe I should appreciate that. I'm a solder, after all. I know the things a man has to do in war to stay alive. But for a time, Oliver was my brother. We had only each other to rely on, stuck on that godforsaken island." He gritted his teeth then. "He made his choice and it wasn't me or Shado. He was still the same selfish boy who washed up and he always would be."
"You're wrong." Felicity shook her head, her hair swishing at her back. "While you're still stuck on that island, carrying the weight of every death, using Shado as an excuse to kill anybody who gets in your way, Oliver changed. He grew up and he became something so much better. He became hope and honor and loyalty. So, maybe you knew somebody else and maybe he made mistakes, maybe he broke your heart, but that doesn't make what you did any better."
"So that's it then?" He grinned at her. "You've washed away his sins and now you plan to kill his killer?"
"He died with his sins. He'll never let them go. Guilt was his favorite companion. But I will kill you." She took a step back then and circled around to the center of his office.
Slade stood from his chair, undoing the buttons of his jacket and stripping it back before he rolled his shoulders and undid the collar of his shirt for easier movement. As he circled his desk, he held a hand out. "A sword, Miss Smoak. If you please."
She tossed one toward him, and in the same moment that he raised his hand to grab it from the air, she attacked. Leaping forward, she turned mid-air and swung her sword down in a powerful arc. The hand he had outstretched suddenly lost four fingers and the sword fell to the ground at his feet. She landed in a crouch and stood, twisting her own sword around, spraying blood across his carpet.
Hissing as he held his bleeding hand to his chest, he cast a shocked eye toward her.
"Someone once told me to always keep the advantage." Her eyebrow ticked up. "Brawn versus brain. I wrote a paper on this once in high school. Who do you think won out in the end?" She cocked her head at him curiously. "I'm pretty sure those won't grow back, by the way."
Slade grinned then and dropped his hand, letting blood seep down to the floor at his feet. "What's a few fingers, huh?"
Getting into position, Felicity raised the sword up over her head. "I think those are the same you choked me with, so I can't say I miss them much either."
"I'm going to enjoy it when I end you," he growled.
Felicity didn't bother with a reply; instead, she attacked.
She was used to how her body became a weapon now. Sometimes it reacted before her brain caught up to tell her what she was going to do. So when he swiped an arm at her and she flipped herself out of the way, it registered after the fact. When his lunging body chased her, picking up furniture to toss in her direction, tearing out a lamp cord to try and wrap it around her neck to choke her, she kept on the move. Always one step ahead, one move in front of him, anticipating each swipe, each lunge, each attack, she parried them all away and stayed just out of reach.
"Use his rage against him," Nyssa directed. "Poke the fire until it roars. Let it consume him. And when he is nothing more than a mindless machine, no more than a brute out for blood, that is when you strike. Men, so predictable. He will let his hatred guide him. His anger will be his folly, not his tool. Let him scream and break things. Let him have his tantrum. It will only serve to make him weak. He will think he is stronger, faster, but he is nothing more than an animal. You will be superior. You will keep your head. When he is nothing more than a bull chasing red, you will lead him into your trap."
The man with the plan began to fade, and in his place was the enraged soldier that lived on that island, deranged and desperate. He chased her, reaching and snarling and desperate to destroy. But he never caught her. She mocked him from how close and yet so far she was. She leapt atop his desk, jumping a few feet in the air as he thrust an arm out to get at her legs. As she came back down, she kicked him in the face, satisfied when blood sprayed from his mouth, his head jarred to one side. She leapt over him, flipping mid-air and rolling back to her feet.
Turning to face him once more, she attacked him from behind, landing blow after blow to his back, knocking him forward until he fell to his knees and stumbled his way back up, turning back to engage her again. It was a dance, of sorts. He reached and she ducked, he swiped and she leaned, he punched and attacked and she moved just out of hitting range. For all that he was a large man, he was still graceful, still a soldier, and she had to put every bit of her training to the test. But she got in a few hits, punching him so hard that his nose shattered on impact, even if it did heal all too quickly, and knocking his knees out from beneath him so he landed flat on his back, to name a few. She knew, however, that she would tire long before him, so it was time to stop playing cat and mouse and end it.
He grabbed a lamp, ripping it violently from the wall, the cord whipping around to lash him across his own cheek, and he threw it at her, catching her in the shoulder, the same that he had stabbed three and a half years earlier. She let out a cry of pain and tripped back a step, letting him think he had injured her more than he had. His savage smile told her he was feeling good now, as if he had a bit of an advantage. He came at her again, lunging and swiping. She knew she couldn't let him actually hit her; he was too strong for it not to do serious damage. But she did move a little slower, letting worry cloud her face versus the stoic resolve she'd worn before.
Finally, when he was certain he had her cornered up against the wall, she struck. When he ran forward, she slammed her foot down on the hilt of the sword she'd offered him earlier. She kicked it forward and watched as the momentum from his running and the force of her kick lodged the sword right through his upper stomach, between his ribs and out the other side of him.
For Oliver.
His mouth fell open in shock and his feet tripped over themselves.
Without pause, she gave a war cry and lunged, plunging the sword in hand directly through his chest, just as she pulled the other one free of his gut.
Slade fell to his knees in front of her, blood dripping from his lips, and she raised her sword up as one of her hands gripped the hair atop his head to hold him steady.
But he laughed, his pearly white teeth dripping in blood. "I've won," he told her. "You, standing here, are proof of that."
Felicity paused.
"Do you think he'd still love you? Seeing you here, poised to kill. His light. His pure, unsullied, saving grace." He sneered up at her. "I win, he loses, and you… you have to go on living. At least I will see her again."
"When you do, ask her if she forgives you for every life you took in her honor. I think you'll be surprised with her answer."
His brow furrowed, a retort on his lips, but Felicity didn't want to hear it.
"Just so we're clear…" she added, "You lose. I win. Game over."
With enviable precision, she swung the killing blow, relieving Slade's head from his shoulders, and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor, staring for a moment as it bounced, rolling to the side, blood seeping into the carpet.
For Roy.
Leaning down, she pulled up her pant leg and retrieved her gun from her ankle. She took aim at the slackened face before and shot once, twice, centered on his forehead.
For Sara. For John.
Finally, she plunged the remaining sword deep into his shoulder.
For her.
It was finished. It was done. Slade was finally dead.
The room was left silent; the abrasively loud commotion of their fight had dwindled down to little more than a buzzing in her ears.
She expected to feel something more. Overwhelming relief, she supposed. But instead, there was just a hollow ache there.
Now, she had no one to chase, no one to make pay for her agony and loss. Nyssa's words suddenly echoed back to her.
What did she have? She wondered.
Because it felt like a lot like nothing…
Nyssa smiled when she received the box with Slade Wilson's eye patch inside it and a note that said simply, With honor, -F
She laughed good and long, and then, finally, she let herself cry. For her heart, for Sara, for a love she missed dearly.
A week later, Felicity received a coded email from Nyssa, asking her to pledge allegiance to her, to stand at her side and be a partner of another sort, to become the assassin Nyssa knew she could be.
She politely declined.
Nyssa, although disappointed, accepted her answer, but made sure she knew that it was always open. If Felicity ever wanted a new home, a different home, Nyssa would gladly provide it.
[continue.]