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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

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Earth is Space Australia “The Invasion Continues

You all seemed to really enjoy the burg invasion, so here is some more. I hope you like it and I hope you have a great Monday.

“This planet…. Is a death trap. All our men are dead or…. Or dying…. Please we cannot survive any longer.”

The transmission ended rather abruptly, and the newly instated burg commander slammed his fist into the control panel, “What is happening!”

Around the room his counterparts scurried to avoid his anger.

“There have been reports of animal attacks, poisonings and…. Industrial accidents…. It seems that the human planet is far more dangerous than we originally anticipated. The entire thing is a deathtrap.”

Crew members cowered back against their station as a pincer slammed into the console, “They are squishy flesh-bags you should have no trouble taking them out!”

“The humans are not the problem, it is their planet. It is covered in boiling water, poisonous plants, angry wildlife, and apparently non-military have banded into pack-hunting structures in order to kill us, and it is working very effectively. We assumed that their civilian population would be largely inferior to their military counterparts, but it turns out that the non military humans are just more creative.”

The burg commander’s carapace chattered with his anger, “Then if we cannot win this war, we will hit them where it hurts.”

“Your glory?”

“Bring me the GPS coordinates.”

“The ones that we took from the destroyed human ship.”

The burg rubbed two of his upper legs together, “Exactly those.”

The burg second in command looked very confused, “But, your glory. These….. Are just locations on the planet related to specific human soldiers. Why would we need these?”

The burg commander tapped his leg against the console,

“Cut off the head, and the body will die.”

***

“This morning both local and worldwide governments have reported isolated pockets of alien ivation from all over the world, Let’s head to Jeff who has been traveling the eastern seaboard this morning with details.”

“Thank you Tom, and yes worldwide and local governments have issued a state of emergency. UNSC forces are being deployed as we speak to all locations around the globe where the Burg have been sited. However, this is no independence day Steve, this is something entirely different. While there have been reports about burg sightings, teams of them up to five or six strong in some cases, so far no one has been killed or injured, at least not by a burg anyway.”

“What do you mean Jeff?”

“Well isolated reports have reached us from all across the world of people who have accidentally run into burg remains rather than live soldiers.. Evidence suggests that Crocodiles, bears, wolves, poison ivy, army ants, hippos, kangaroos, and poisonous snakes have all taken up the cause of mother earth, who doesn’t seem particularly pleased about being invaded. And when the burg have made their way into populated city centers, well things haven’t gotten much better. Groups of drunken football fans in eastern Europe and the British isles have been seen roaming the streets of Berlin, Paris, London, Dublin, and Rome in packs . Vatican security forces were even dispatching a number of burg troops in the early hours of the morning.”

The TV screen cut to a grainy video of a dark street which showed a pack of riotous humans with bats, clubs, and broken chairs racing down the street after alien forms shouting insults to the fleeing backs.

The video cut.

“Reports in from Chicago have the local gangs, police forces, and a high school chess club teaming up and beating the invasion back with gunfire, improvised explosives, dogs, and molotov cocktails of all things.”

“A truly shocking turn of events Jeff, but what are the UNSC saying about protecting us and our families during this time.”

“The UNSC is cautiously optimistic about the outcome of this event, Tom, but even so, they are advising that all Burg sightings be directed to the UNSC invasion hotline, with the number posted on screen right here, and available on all major mobile devices. Civilians are encouraged to avoid the burg if at all possible, though if those are not an option for either you or your family, the CDC has issued reports that human saliva can be fatal to the burg due to a certain enzyme which known to break down burg slime, and the potent cocktail of germs which follow. Your best weapon is to spit at them, barring that, than go right ahead and beat them to death with any available blunt object within reach, or sharp object. Shaolin warriors in china, Samurai enthusiasts in japan on Renaissance goers from america to europe are finding uses for swords and bladed weapons they have not been used for in the history of man. Attack dog saliva is just as useful as human saliva in this case so if Fido wants to get in on the action, your best bet is to let your pooch go ham and serve himself up a plate of space crab.”

“Thank you Jeff, and stay tuned where we will be receiving real time updates on the state of the invasion. But for now will your homeowners insurance cover alien invasions, what you need to know.” Martha, Jim, and Sunny sat on the couch staring at the TV.

Jim scratched his chin thoughtfully, “Better stay inside, Sunny. I’m sure after that there might be some people to gungho to notice you’re a bit too pretty to be a burg.”

“Alien invasion.” Martha muttered, “Do you think we should get the guns ready, just in case.”

The man shrugged, “Couldn’t hurt. Come on Sunny, you know how to use a gun don’t you.”

“I am Chief weapons specialist.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Martha stood, “Grab my shotgun will you, dear, I’m going to go check on Adam.”

He nodded, letting her go. Sunny glanced over her shoulder catching a glimpse into the room through the door where Adam was lying out cold. She was pleased to see he was still asleep, and had slept through most of the night.

Hopefully this alien invasion thing would be over by the time he woke up.

***

Martha appeared at the top of the stairs into the basement, just as Jim and Sunny were coming up the stairs, a gun in each hand.

Martha took one from Sunny and walked into the kitchen, where the three of them sat at the table loading weapons. The doorbell going off nearly startled them out of their seats, but Jim went to go get it.

Sunny listened intently.

“Hey dad, did you see the news this morning?”

“Oh hey David, why don’t you come on inside, good morning to you Jordan, ah and my nephew.” Sunny lifted her head as David, Adam’s older brother, walked into the kitchen with his partner Jordan and their little boy bouncing happily in Jim’s arms.

Martha got up to hug her sun, and the other members of his family.

“Yes we heard about that.”

“Oh, hi sunny. Is Adam here?”

Martha had the group of them take their seats, “he’s resting. Apparently he went and saved the universe just recently, and we are trying to get him to rest. So don’t talk about the whole alien invasion thing too loudly.”

“Oh, sorry.”

It was just at that moment that the absolutely deafening sound of engines rocked the house rumbling through the floors and shaking the very foundation.

“What in blue blazes.”

Outside the front window a chain of bikers and rednecks doubled up on old rickety dirt bikes raced past the window screaming and brandishing guns. The line seemed to go on forever until they vanished down the road.

“What in the hell.”

A groggy voice just behind them, “What’s going on?”

They all turned to find Adam leaning against the hallway wall rubbing his eyes and looking rather bleery. He was still very pale.

“Just the neighbor kids being louds, now, Go back to bed!”

Adam appeared too groggy to be skeptical and just staggered back to his room.

The group of them looked at each other nervously.

“Sunny and I will stay here and guard the house, you three mind going outside and checking out what is going on.”

***

They had come to cut off the head. All remaining burg forces had been rerouted from the rest of earth, and were now making their way towards the GPS coordinates. They knew they could not overtake earth, but if they couldn’t do that then they had vowed to destroy the morale of humanity and take away it’s greatest nuisance.

Commander Adam vir would be dead before the sun sak below the horizon.

They entirely expected to show up in surprise, unannounced, but earth had different plans for them. In the space of ten minutes, two of their troops was hit by a minivan, and a third was attacked by a very angry small dog.

Walking along the fence line another burg ran into a very strange creature. It was very small, and sat atop a fence post, its golden eyes fixed on the burg as it lazily flicked it’s tail back and forth. Its ears were drawn back flat against it’s skull. He approached, and the creature hissed. He went to shoo it away with a hand.

And was immediately set upon by a very angry cat intent on ripping his eyes out of his face.

Their luck only worsened as engines rolled up the street, and a group of hungry looking bikers, teamed up with a very gleeful group of rednecks came charging down the street guns blazing. Motorcycles spun out, humans went flying.

Nearby, in the residential houses, families hid in their basements, while others made it to rooftops taking pot shots from their balconies, upper windows, or sometimes form the peak of their rooftops.

One young man had been very industrious, unbeknownst to his parents, and began chucking lit molotov cocktails out the window of his bedroom.

His older brother, also a chemistry geek upgraded that to homemade napalm.

From the other end of the street, the highschool girls softball team, and the girl scouts rolled up on hover boards and the backs of bicycles. The softball team had a mounted automated pitching machine on the back of a wagon, and each girl was equipped with a bat, and a bucket full of balls.

The girl scouts had apparently been preparing since last night, and had water guns full of spit, which was pretty gross but rather effective.

The softball captain took up a mounted position at the back of the wagon, and began pouring the balls into the machine which fired out at about ninety miles an hour give or take five. One burg had his face collapsed in an unlucky turn of events.

Their invitation to the high school baseball team had not gone un-headed, but they had brought with them the chemistry club, and the robotics team, who had downgraded to potato guns for the moment.

The police rocked up a few moments later to create a blockade down the next street and coordinate so now humans got caught in the crossfire .

An unsupervised cheerleader, had made herself rather industrious pulling up with a vest full of hair products, which people seemed skeptical about until she sprayed a burg right in the eyes, and turned another can into a flamethrower. A group of firemen showed up behind the police, blasting lines of Drev with high powered fire hose

I took the burg longer than it should have to determine that being lumped into a group wasn’t the best idea and so broke off into smaller units managing to sneak in through the mele and into the neighborhood.

Their luck didn’t get much better.

One of them was nailed in the head by a dirty diaper dropped from an upper window.

Another found himself hounded by the cross country team, who were gleefully using mankind's god-given talent of distance running to run their prey into the ground, hunting like pack humans should before beating them to death with tire irons and crowbars.

Someone’s dad stood on his front porch armed with a fire extinguisher and his tool belt, while another mom had packed her kids neatly into their car seats and was roaming the streets with ACDC blaring through her open windows, mowing over any unsuspecting burg that happened to end up in the street while her teenage daughter offered free ammunition and snacks from the back window.

The UNSC showed up late to the party rolling into scene in jeeps with proper military equipment and drones

By this time the invasion force was dwindling, and only a single group had managed to make it through to their target.

A little house in the center of the suburbs unsuspecting in the warm overhead sun.

They crept forward a few of them moving around back while the others inched around front.

One slid up to the front door, reached out a hand and opened inward.

They were met by the barrel of a shotgun and a very angry blond woman, and her face twisted into a snarl, was the last thing he ever saw.

***

Adam was woken a second time by gunshots. Bolting upright in bed and nearly passing out from the vertigo. He blinked blearily past his fuzzy vision and out the door as his mother backed into the hallway. There was another loud blast and blue icor painted the wall before her.

She backed down the hallway, and he could hear the repeated pump of the shotgun as she backed down the hall.

The burg chasing after.

He tried getting to his feet, but ended up on the floor gripping the bedside table for support.

His mother’s hair flew wildly about her head

“YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY SUN.” Another mob of them was rounding the corner.. It looked like she was going to be over-run.

But a sudden swirl of blue overtook them, and Sunny charged into them dispatching at least four less than as many seconds. A whimper came from the corner, and he turned his head to find Jordan, wide-eyed standing in the corner blocking his son shakily holding a rifle in one hand.

Martha backed up until she was kneeling right before Adam blocking him with her body.

Sunny was backing down the hall now too as the Burg followed.

Jordan took a deep breath and peered around the doorframe, taking one or two shots as sunny flattened herself against the wall, before he ducked back into cover.

It wasn’t looking good.

Not at least until Jim, and David came bursting in one through the front and one through the back mowing down the remaining burg.

Adam found himself flat on his stomach pinned to the floor as his mother through herself over him blocking his body with hers despite how much smaller she was.

And then the gunfire stopped.

“Martha! Martha!”

“We’re ok Jim.”

“Jordan.”

“Right here.” The two of them ran into the room David scooping up Jordan and his son, while Jim ran to make sure his wife was ok.

Outside, boots clattered on the porch, and a group of UNSC soldiers burst into the house sweeping their guns over the blood painted walls. They stopped when they saw Adam sitting at the foot of his bed very much alive,

“Delta to Alpha one the package is secure.”

Adam was thinking about asking his mother why no one had told him about the alien invasion.

But then he saw her cradling a shotgun covered in burg blood hair in a wild mess and decided that.

Maybe that was a topic for another time.

#earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are space oddities

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taliwrites · 3 years

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bio : leon taylor adams.

INTRODUCTION.

name: leon taylor adams. nickname(s): leo. age: 36. date of birth: ??/??/1985. zodiac sign: tba. gender: cis male. preferred pronouns: he/him. sexuality: bisexual. place of birth: tba. nationality: american.

APPEARANCE.

faceclaim: milo ventimiglia. hair colour: dark brunette. eye colour: brown. height: 6'1". weight: tba. identifying marks:

various scars all over his body from his rebellious youth.

two roman numerals tattoos on the back of his left arm above the elbow of his parents birthdays.

a tattoo of three letters on his right wrist, small in size. each letter is the first letter in his siblings names.

in most au’s, has a scar below his right collarbone nearest to his shoulder caused by a bullet at the beginning of his career as a cop.

DEEPER DIVE.

alignment: tba. mbti type: tba. enneagram: tba. positive traits: - negative traits: - likes: alcohol, motorcycles, jazz and rock music, long drives, pizza, sleeping in, the ends of bread toasted and smothered in butter, leather jackets, food in general, brawls, puppies, podcasts about hauntings and other supernatural occurrences, the aliens movies, the cold side of the pillow, being right, being relied and depended on, fuzzy socks, ‘manly’ things like fixing things around the house and putting furniture together, collecting vinyl records, running and lifting weights. dislikes: being sober, country music, waking up early, yogurt, being wrong, summer, running, loud people, obnoxious people, other drivers on the road, cyclists on the road, flat earthers, most of the people he meets at work, being doubted. skills: can use firearms with an expert aim, knows how to hot wire a car, is particularly observant and perceptive, can make a hell of a grilled cheese sandwich. fears: losing the rest of his family, being left alone, never having children, never being good enough, becoming injured in a way that makes him useless, being the only survivor again, snakes.

FAMILY AND RELATIONS.

family:

father: matthew adams ( deceased. )

mother: natalie adams ( deceased. )

younger sister: brooke adams.

youngest sister: tba.

youngest brother: aleks adams.

relations:

cole ( last name to be decided - partner in the police force. )

affiliations:

the x-men ( au: mutant and proud. )

BACKSTORY.

was in a car accident with his parents at the age of 19, and is the only survivor of the incident.

sank into addiction, particularly alcohol, as a way to cope.

joined the military at the age of 21 but left shortly after due to rebelling against orders and disliking the environment.

continued to sink into drugs and alcohol before becoming sober for the first time at the age of 25.

relapsed a year and a half later.

became sober again at 27 and managed to join the police force.

moved up the ranks and eventually landed himself the role of homicide detective.

has taken care of his siblings since their parents died, taking up the role of guardian for each of them as soon as he got out of the hospital.

HEADCANONS.

has a hell of a temper and a short fuse.

has absolutely fired his gun when drunk on a bet with cole.

has definitely slept around just because.

has never had a long term relationship, only short term flings.

is bisexual with a preference for men.

craves cheese 90% of the day.

tends to play the role of the sole survivor in most au’s.

is right handed.

VERSES.

endure and survive:

is the only surviving member of his family.

was a detective before the outbreak.

considers himself the protector of his group.

hates the FEDRA, the fireflies, the WLF and the seraphites.

mutant and proud:

is a professor at the school for the gifted.

a member of the x-men.

powers tbd.

the adams family:

eldest of the siblings.

only survivor of the car crash that killed his parents.

TAGS.

aesthetics, musings, portraits

threads

WANTED PLOTS AND CONNECTIONS.

tba.

#( bios. )#( leon. )#( will keep adding to this and the others when i eventually get them out but yeah #trying to keep the muses alive init )

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yet-another-fan-girl9 · 4 years

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Different Worlds (3)

Summary: You’re the youngest Winchester, a girl who needs to show her big brothers that she doesn’t need help. Then one day, on a totally normal vampire hunt that you had all under control, three meddling Avengers come barging in.

Warnings: language, violence, canon divergence, slow burn, me making stuff up

Word Count: 2011

A/N: This is basically how I’m going to update this series: like two a day and then a multiple month hiatus.

~*~

Chapter 3: Trouble On the Horizon

You sat in the booth, squished up to the wall because of a large, dark-haired supersoldier next to you. Across from you, the Falcon was happily eating his burger with Captain America next to him. You quickly sent a message to Sam and Dean telling them that you were fine and that you would meet them back at the bunker.

“Sooo…” you prompted the superheroes before you took a bite of your burger.

“What happened back there?” the man next to you asked and turned his steel-blue eyes on to you.

You took your time before answering, chewing your food, swallowing, and then taking a sip of your drink. “That was Mr. Robert Walker.”

“Why’d he do those disappearing tricks?” the Falcon asked.

“‘Cause he’s dead.” The men raised their eyebrows simultaneously. “Robert Walker and his wife, Petra, died in like 1970 or something.”

“So he was a ghost?” Captain America clarified.

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p.’ “They, or their ghosts, were responsible for a couple of recent deaths ‘round here.”

“Why?”

“Spirits do things for different reasons.” You shrug. The three men were actually listening intently. “Some want revenge or just keep killing the way they killed people when they were alive.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“‘Course!” you snort. “‘S my job.”

“You’re a ghost hunter?”

“Sure.” You took a long sip of your drink.

“Why did you kill everyone at the bar? Pretty fucking sure they weren’t ghosts,” the Winter Soldier spat at you. His friends raised their eyebrows slightly in surprise at his tone.

“Yeah… that was a colony of vamps.”

“Vampires?” the Falcon asked with a smile and wide eyes.

“Yes, vampires!” You mimic his expression before dropping it quickly and resuming your so-called ‘resting bitch face.’ It was important to look intimidating in this line of work.

“Why did you have to cut off their heads?” Captain America sat back and crossed his arms.

“How else was I supposed to kill ‘em?”

“Did you have to kill them?”

Uhg. This is why. This is why the hunters stayed away from goodie two shoes, ass-kissing heroes. They always wanted to find a way to save people. Even if they were too far gone. Even if they were so blatantly monsters.

“Yes, I had to kill them. It’s. My. Job.”

“So there are ghosts and vampires,” the Falcon said to change the topic, “what else?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Your friendly mood had disappeared. Your back ached from where Mr. Walker threw you against the wall and you were tired. “I’m done here.”

“How’s your arm?” the blue-eyed man next to you asked, stopping your ‘escape attempt’ of climbing over the back of the seat.

“Whadya mean?”

“Last time, with the vampires, you injured your arm.”

Well, you didn’t expect this. Especially from the Winter Soldier. You could tell he wasn’t satisfied with your answers, or lack of them, but at the same time, he was actually asking about your injury.

“‘S all healed.” You pulled down your shirt from the collar to show them. Cas had been useful and fixed you up. No ugly puncture wounds today.

“How?” You looked at the man for more explanation. “How did you heal so fast. It was only a week ago.”

“Mag-my friend is really good at patching people up.” There was a beat of silence. “Can I go home now?”

“We’ll take you home.”

“Thank you, Mister America.”

“Call me Steve.” You narrowed your eyes at the patriotic man. “My name is Steve Rogers. We know all about you, might as well tell you about us.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you mumbled as the Falcon introduced himself as Sam. “My brother’s name is Sam.” They probably already knew that.

“We know.”

“I’m James Barnes,” the Winter Soldier less enthusiastically than his teammates who gave him a sharp look. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

You snorted. “Bucky? What kinda name’s ‘Bucky?’”

“It’s from his middle name, Buchanan,” Steve explained while Bucky glared at you.

“Well then, Bucky. You were going to take me home?”

You had the superheroes drop you off in St. Louis, Missouri. You had a motorcycle in a storage cell in the city. Your brothers didn’t need you bringing some superheroes to the front door. Who knew if they were going to continue to show up?

You loitered around the city for a while after they left, just in case they were still watching you. You’ve never gotten the opportunity to explore St. Louis before due to, you know, being wanted by the FBI. Today, you still kept your head low.

About an hour after the superheroes left you, you made your way to the storage compound with a Starbucks drink in your hand. You smiled when your black, retro motorcycle caught your eye. It had been a while since you last rode. You dusted off your helmet, because it would be a sad ending for a hunter to go out because of a simple road accident, before swinging your leg over the vehicle. Time to go home.

~*~

Bucky sat in the quinjet, this time with the rest of the team. A Hydra base they had just recently raided had shown signs of activity. Somehow, he couldn’t get his mind to focus on the current mission. Didn’t he not want to go on that little case a week ago? Now he couldn’t get (Y/N) off his mind.

No, she wasn’t stuck in his head because he thought she was pretty. Or very capable of taking care of herself. Even though she did look very nice with her shotgun. No. (Y/N) was only occupying his mind because there was a mystery surrounding her and Bucky had to get to the bottom of it.

Obviously by talking to (Y/N) more. That wasn’t a bad thing. Good thing Sam couldn’t read his thoughts.

Bucky peeked at Wanda sitting a few seats away. She had her earphones in, no doubt to block out everyone’s thoughts. She mentioned before that everyone was loud before missions but music helped.

He still had the niggling worry that (Y/N) and her brothers had something to do with Hydra. Or Hydra had something to do with them. Did Hydra know about ghosts and vampires? Bucky knew how many experiments they performed on people. He’s pretty sure that they tried to make vampires once. That didn’t end well with anyone.

The rough landing of the quinjet and Clint’s incessant apologies from the cockpit pulled Bucky out of his thoughts. They left the plane in sets of three: him, Steve, and Sam (of fucking course); Natasha, Clint, and Wanda; Tony, Rhodey, and Vision.

Tony’s team tackled the outside forces as Nat’s team took the north entrance. Bucky’s team made it into the south entrance with ease. They faced very little opposition as they made their way down the halls of the facility. Bucky hoped and assumed that it was because Hydra didn’t have the manpower.

“Guys, look at this,” Sam called down the hallway from a random room.

Steve and Bucky followed Sam into the room. It was dimly lit and empty save for a couple of cans of red paint in the corner and a large book on a stand in the middle of the floor. Sam had opened the book and was flipping through the yellowed pages.

“What’s this?” Bucky walked up to him and the book while Steve kept an eye out on the hallway.

“I dunno. Can’t read it.” When Sam flipped through, Bucky noticed strange symbols decorating the pages. “Woah,” Sam exclaimed when he landed on a certain page. “Didn’t know Hydra did this kinda stuff.”

The page displayed a large red pentagram along with instructions in what Bucky assumed was Latin. Even though he couldn’t read the words, the star spoke enough. A chill went down his spine and his mind instantly went to (Y/N). Was this part of her world?

“Let’s take it,” Bucky suggested. “Don’t want to leave it with them.”

“What’s all this?” Nat interrupted.

“What are you doing here?” Sam spun around quickly.

“The building’s clear. I was doing our job while you were having a book club.”

“Apparently Hydra’s into some weird shit.” Bucky motioned to the pentagram on display.

“Fuck,” Natasha mumbled as her eyes searched the pages. “Looks like Hydra was planning some Satanic ritual.” Her words echoed through the comms.

“You can read Latin?” Sam asked.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Bucky grumbled, grabbed the large book, and marched out of the room.

~*~

“We have a problem,” Cas announced, suddenly appearing and startling everyone in the previously quiet room.

“Hello to you too, Cas,” Dean smirked.

“Hi, Cas!” Jack beamed at one of his many father figures.

“What is it?” Sam rationally asked. You closed the book you weren’t really reading and took your feet off the table to sit up and look more attentive.

“Lucifer is trying to take heaven.”

“Again?” You fiddled with your new ring.

You had found it on the ground in one of the storage rooms in the bunker. Jack didn’t find anything malevolent on it, but he said that it could store energy and magic. At your request, he had filled it with healing magic. You really didn’t want to die. Again.

“Yes, again,” Cas answered. You paused for a second before remembering your question before losing your train of thought.

“This isn’t really a problem anymore,” Dean pointed out. “Just a monthly chore.”

“Weekly, actually,” Cas corrected. “He would try to break out every Saturday, but he had ceased his attempts for the last five weeks.”

Lucifer was being held in Heaven, or you supposed he used to be held there considering he was now trying to gain control. The angels decided to lock him in Heaven because it was easier than trying to shove him back into the cage. It also kept him away from his demonic minions.

“He broke out and now is gathering forces to take Heaven?” Dean guessed.

“Sounds like my father,” said Jack under his breath and you gave him a small, sympathetic rub on the back.

“Yes,” continued Cas. “He’s already recruited some witches to find a book of spells. He’s looking for the Magicae Libro.”

“The… Magic Book?” you laughed. “Creative.”

“They didn’t need to be creative when it was the only one.”

“Right, sorry. So what is the Magicae Libro, other than a magic book?”

“It was the first spellbook. Written by some of the first witches, directly advised by Lucifer. Because of the power basically woven into the pages, the spells and rituals cast using the book are more powerful.”

“That’s a thing?” Sam ran his hand through his hair.

“We gotta get to it before the witches bring it to Lucifer, then,” Dean spoke over his brother.

“Any idea where we start?” Jack asked plainly.

“Maybe ask our own witch to get it for us,” you suggested. “Rowena’s always in it for the power and she would want the Magicae Libro for herself.”

“Rowena is unpredictable,” Cas argued.

“She’s gotten better, though.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Dean butted in. “She’d kill a bunch of people just out of spite.”

“We can let her take the book once Lucifer is under control once again.”

“We promised her powerful books before.” Cas wasn’t giving it to her.

“And the deals worked. We’re all still alive. The same deal can work again.”

“I am not giving the Magicae Libro to Rowena!”

“Then you and Jack go looking for it.”

“Jack is going nowhere,” Cas growled. “His father will be looking for him. We don’t want Lucifer to find the book and Jack in the same place.”

“Then we ask Rowena for help.”

“No.”

“I can do it,” Jack agreed.

“No!” All three men yelled at the boy.

“Jack or Rowena.” You held out your hands and moved them up and down like a scale. “Jack or Rowena. Pick one.”

“Fine.” Cas glared at the table. “Call Rowena.”

~*~

Tag List (strike though means tag didn’t work):

@grav3dollie-666

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shotsbyshae · 5 years

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Monster

Warnings: Language, Murder, Bloody, Smutish

Words: 3k

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky and Sam show up unexpectedly to check on the two of you, but you’re on a case. How are you and Steve supposed to keep hunting a secret from them, if they get stuck in the middle of it?

Song: Monster by Striking Matches

I’m bad for you, bad for you,

But I’m good at it, good at it.

The flames dance – like lovers – orange and red curling around one another so beautifully, for a moment you almost forget about the corpse burning below.

Almost.

Abigail Thomas.

Her body had been found five years ago this month. Throat slit with the initials G.R. carved into her chest. She was engaged to a guy named Devin Mathers and he was a member of the The Annihilators, a local motorcycle club. Their biggest rival was another club, Grim Reapers. Retaliation had ensued over her death, and the two clubs have remained rivals.

The first murder had caught your attention and the second one had you and Steve on the road to investigate. Both were men, members of The Annihilators, killed within two days of each other. Found with their throats slit and the initials A.T. carved into their chest.

“What is it?” even in the glow of the small fire, Steve can see the uncertainty on your face.

“Why them?” you question. “Why not go after the Grim Reapers, if they’re the ones who killed her?”

“We can’t always get the answers,” he replies, glancing back to the open grave at the burning remains. “At least now she can move on.”

***

The waitress slides a plate with a large burger and fries in front of you, then a similar one in front of Steve with a warm smile before turning to walk away. The man across from you in the booth lays the tablet he was scrolling down on the table.

“Where to next?” you question him as you grab the bottle of ketchup, pouring some next to your fries.

“Yea Cap,” a familiar voice says, as a man slides into the booth next to you. “Where to next?”

Sam Wilson smirks at Steve before glancing to you, his arm stretching across the back of the booth. Bucky sits down next to his friend taking in his new appearance, “Hi pal.”

“What are you guys doing here?” Steve questions, surprise evident on his features.

“Just checking in on our friends,” Wilson responds, pulling a fry from your plate and taking a bite of it. “We are still friends, right?”

“Yea,” you state. “Of course.”

“When were you going to tell us?” Barnes questions, his tone serious.

Your heart drops as you glance at Steve, did they know?

The only person who knew about you was Tony and he had promised to keep it a secret.

No one knew about hunting.

“Tell you – what?” Steve challenges the question, not faltering.

“About the two of you,” Sam responds, and you can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t look at him, instead you busy yourself with grabbing a french fry. “According to the last check in. You’re supposed to be in Phoenix.”

“And you’re in Denver,” Bucky stares at Steve, waiting for a response.

You laugh nervously, “I thought I was in Denver.”

Steve looks across at you with a smile, “Well, I thought you were in Santa Fe.” He glances between Barnes and Wilson. “Busted.”

“So, this is a thing?” Wilson points his index finger between the two of you.

“No,” the response is simultaneous.

Sam looks across to Bucky, one eyebrow raised suspiciously, “Uh, huh.”

The TV in the corner captures your attention and you reach across to tap a finger against Steve’s hand, nodding your head toward the screen. Across the bottom of the news broadcast the scrolling headline reads.

Just in: Another man found dead tonight.

“Can you turn that up please?” you question the waitress, and she reaches for the remote.

“Police say the cause of death is similar to the other two murders. This happened around seven-thirty tonight near the Lawson repair shop. If anyone has any information that could help, police are asking for you to call the tip line listed at the bottom of the screen,” the blonde reporter on the screen states.

You glance at Steve in concern, knowing that the two of you were burning Abigail’s remains two hours before he was killed. Burning her remains hadn’t released her. Something was still holding her spirit here. Bucky notices the cryptic glances you and Steve share in response to the news report.

“We should go,” Steve says motioning for the waitress.

Once the bill is paid and the uneaten food is in Styrofoam boxes, the four of you make your way out of the diner.

Sam accidently bumps into a man clad in leather on his way out, apologizing instantly, “Sorry man.” The dark-haired guy only glares at him in annoyance and you notice The Annihilator insignia on the back of his vest. There are a few men in the diner wearing the same vest, their mood dark and depressed, having lost one of their own.

“Where are we going?” Bucky questions, once outside. “Steve, what’s going on?”

“Back to the motel,” his friend replies without turning around.

“Uh,” Sam’s voice is almost timid. “Guys.”

The three of you turn around and see Wilson with a knife to his throat, the woman holding it almost transparent. Her neck is slit open and you can see the initials carved in her chest, and the hatred on her face is unlike anything you’ve seen before with a spirit.

“Abigail,” you call to her. “Don’t. He didn’t hurt you.”

“I know,” she replies hoarsely. “Let me finish what I started.”

You shake your head in confusion, “But – you’re killing the wrong people.”

“No,” she responds, moving through Sam’s body towards you. “I’m not.”

“What the fuck?” Sam says quietly to himself, eyes wide as he feels his chest, having just saw the apparition come out of him.

Abigail places her hand against the side of your head and your eyes roll back as you collapse to the ground, before the woman dissipates into a grey mist.

“Steve,” Bucky tries to sound calm as his friend moves to pick you up from the pavement. “What the hell was that?”

“Ghost,” Sam says loudly. “What that a fucking ghost?”

Cradling you against his chest, he gives a quick nod, “Yea it was. Can we go? I’ll explain on the way.”

***

“Shouldn’t we take her to a hospital?” you hear Bucky ask quietly.

“No.”

“Fucking ghosts man,” Sam’s voice is louder and frantic. “A ghost was going to kill me, and you act like it’s just another Tuesday.”

“She wasn’t going to kill you,” Steve’s calm, as always.

“Really? Because that knife to my throat says otherwise.”

“She wanted to send a message,” Barnes comments hesitantly.

“Yea, she did,” Steve agrees.

You slowly open your eyes, head pounding as you move to sit up on the motel bed, “And I got that message.” The men look over to you as you gingerly tough the side of your head that Abigail had touched. “Loud and clear.”

“You okay,” the softness in Steve’s voice – his eyes – is more than you deserve.

You give him a nod before you look at Barnes and Wilson cautiously, “Did you give them the talk?”

“Ghosts are real,” Bucky responds.

“Yea,” Sam folds his arms across his chest. “Ghostbusters. Great. I liked it better when we were just busting you two for hooking up.”

“Next time, call first,” you smirk. “I’ll arrange less ghosts and more sex that day.” Wilson gives you an unimpressed look as Bucky stifles a laugh.

“What did Abigail show you?” Steve’s tone is serious as he changes the subject.

“Gunner Matthews,” you say. “He was a Grim Reaper. She was leaving Devin for him. They were in love. When Devin found out he sent his buddies after her, to bring her back.”

“The three men she’s killed already?” Steve questions and you nod.

“Devin killed her. He’s the final one,” you continue as a thought crosses your mind and stand, moving to the table beside Steve. “Let me see the article, the one about the retaliation.” Scrolling through the article you increase the size of the picture of Devin, and point to the chain around his neck. A small silver cross dangling at the end of it and you flip to the other screen of Abigail’s obituary. In the portrait she’s wearing the same necklace. “What do you bet he still wears her necklace?”

“That’s what’s keeping her here,” Steve states knowingly as Wilson and Barnes watch the two of you work in unison.

“What does that mean?” Bucky questions.

“We have to get that necklace,” his friend replies. “Before she kills him.”

***

Devin Mathers sits, looking ashamed and disgusted, in a dining room chair in the middle of his living room as Steve finishes pouring a ring a salt on the wood floor around him. You hadn’t told Mathers that you knew he was responsible for Abigail’s murder, only that she was targeting those closest to her and he might be next. Bucky stokes the fire in the fireplace he’s built as Sam holds the sawed-off shotgun loaded with rock salt in his hands.

“Yea,” Wilson remarks. “We hunt ghosts now. This is completely normal.”

“He’s not adjusting well,” you smirk to Steve. “Should I tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

“That’s up to you,” Rogers places the bag of salt on the table as he smiles.

“Sam,” you give him a serious look. “There’s something else you should know.” Wilson waits apprehensively for your next bombshell. “Santa Claus isn’t real.”

He huffs as Steve and Bucky laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’m glad you all can joke while we wait for my dead fiancé, who wants to kill me, to show up,” Devin says loudly from his seat.

You turn to look at him angrily, stepping over the salt circle to rip the necklace from around his neck, “You killed her. You did this to yourself asshole.”

Your statement shocks him, and he glares at you, “She deserved it.”

“Because she was in love with someone else,” you remark. “Or because you couldn’t control her anymore?”

“Women need to know their place,” Devin states maliciously. “She belonged to me.”

You clench your jaw and Steve can see the anger boiling up as you glare at the man in front of you. The sudden appearance of Abigail’s ghostly figure surprises everyone.

“Burn it,” Steve says, his voice low and authoritative.

The corners of your lips turn up slightly as you step back out of the salt circle, dragging the heel of your boot through the barrier as you toss the necklace to Barnes. He quickly tosses the silver cross into the flames, but not before Abigail is able to sweep across and slit Devin’s throat. She turns to give you a small appreciative smile before her figure is engulfed in flames.

“I –” Sam looks at the scene in disbelief. “I though we didn’t want her to kill him?”

You flick your eyes over to him and see Steve staring at you. The understanding in his eyes is a welcomed relief as he responds, “We can’t always save everyone.”

“Now what?” Bucky questions.

Placing a smile on your face you look back over to Barnes, “We celebrate.”

“Drinks, yes, best plan I’ve heard all afternoon,” Sam agrees.

***

Steve knew as soon as he saw the vests the men in the bar are wearing that there was only one way tonight would go – messy. The Annihilators wouldn’t get word until later that another one of their members had been murdered, but it would be the last one.

The four of you enjoy a few beers and a couple games of pool for about an hour, when the trouble finally starts. You’re making your way back to the table, having placed an order at the bar, when one of the bikers steps in front of you – blocking your path.

“Excuse me,” you state coldly.

“When you get done playing with those guys,” he begins, his tone dripping in malice, “how about you come play with a real man baby.”

You snort, trying to hold back a laugh, “Does that line actually work on women?” You look up at him incredulously as you side-step him. “Because if it does –” you shake your head, stepping backwards to the pool table slowly, “then they must be real desperate. You think that vest you’re wearing makes you cool. Doesn’t change the fact you look like shit.”

The few patrons who are listening to the exchange let out a collective ooohhhhh at the comment. You turn back to the pool table to see Steve shaking his head at you, a playful glint in his eyes.

You’re trouble.

An instigator.

He likes it – too much.

You grab your pool stick and as you stare at him, he wonders how obvious it would be if the two of you disappeared for a few moments. He wants to taste the beer on your lips, feel the rush he gets when you bite into his flesh, hear that smart-ass mouth of yours moaning his name as he fucks you against the bathroom stall. His thoughts are interrupted as the man moves closer towards you.

“You think you can talk to me like that?” he snarls. “Bitch.”

You slowly turn around at the remark and glare at the leather clad man. Barnes begins to move along the opposite side of the pool table, but Steve stops him, laying the end of his pool stick against his friend’s chest. Bucky glances at him and Steve gives a subtle shake of his head, indicating for Barnes to stand down.

“You need to learn your place,” the biker seethes, towering over you. His words sounding much like Devin’s.

“You going to teach me?” you tighten your grip on the pool stick in your hand. “Because I’d love to see you try.”

Sam mentally tallies up the number of guys wearing the same leather vest as the man you’re currently facing off with, before he leans closer to Steve, whispering, “You know this ends in a fight, right?” Steve shrugs his shoulders as he watches your interaction with the man closely and Sam notices the slight smile on his face. “You’re enjoying this. Is this like – foreplay? What the hell have the two of you been doing the last few months?”

The man grabs for your wrist and you side-step quicker than a normal person should, but not fast enough to raise any suspicion. You bring your knee up into his crotch forcefully and a low snarl escapes him as he doubles over in pain.

“Ah shit,” Wilson sighs, as you twirl the pool stick in your hand once before coming down with it.

The sound of the wood splintering as it breaks across the man’s back echoes through the bar, gaining the rest of the patron’s attention. “Get her, boys,” one of the men orders, as three of them begin to advance towards you.

Barnes looks back across to Steve expectantly, “Now?”

“Wait,” Steve replies calmly, watching as you reach behind you on the pool table, fingers clutching at the purple four ball.

You throw the ball at the tallest guy, it smashes into his nose, blood splattering everywhere as he drops to his knees. The next guy, not as tall, lunges for you and you back-hand him with what’s left of the pool stick, but he’s unaffected as he slams you against the pool table. He jerks you around and the third man is behind you trying to pin your arms behind your back, but you feel his face against your hair and you quickly slam your head back with a little more force than you should. The sound of your skulls cracking against each other is sickening, and the crowd watching is now urging the fight to continue.

The biker in front of you is pissed by this point and as a couple more of their men start to approach the situation, he grabs you roughly again, turning as he flings you back and across the pool table. You tumble across the felt and Barnes catches you to keep you from rolling off the table.

Flipping your hair from your face, you glance between him, Sam, and Steve, the smile on your face purely mischievous, “Hey guys.”

“Having fun?” Steve smirks, leaning against the pool table.

“Yea,” you inhale deeply, before your face lights up with playfulness. “You want in?”

Steve gives you a nod and a sly smile crosses Bucky’s face as he says, “Finally.”

“I’m gonna help kick some ass,” Sam begins matter-of-factly, waving his hand between you and Steve, “and then we’re gonna talk about whatever crazy shit this is.”

***

Back at the motel, you unwrap the bar rag from you hand, blood starts oozing from the slice along your index finger instantly and you stick your hand under the cool water pouring from the bathroom faucet. Watching as the blood mixes with the water, turning a pinkish color before running down the drain. The door to the small bathroom opens and you look up in the mirror to see Steve step inside before closing it behind him. There’s a bruise beginning to form under his left eye, but other than that, he looks unscathed from the fight.

There had been punches thrown, bottles broken, and a few bones, but none of The Annihilators were left standing. They should probably come up with a new name, you had thought to yourself on the car right back.

“You started a bar fight tonight,” he states walking over to lean against the sink beside you.

“Did I?” you look up at him innocently. “Are you mad?”

“Never,” his tone is quiet, eyes full of lust, before he glances to your injured hand. “You good?” There’s that tenderness again.

“Cut myself on a bottle,” you reply, twisting the knob with your uninjured hand to turn off the water, then you hold up the injury up for him to inspect. “I’ll live.”

He takes the edge of your hand in his, folding the rest of you fingers down against your palm with this thumb, “Good.” The way he looks at you as he pulls your finger into his mouth sends a chill through you. Feeling his tongue roll against the cut makes you shift uncomfortably. Him wanting to taste you like this, is whole different sensation. You can’t control yourself, mouth opening slightly as your fangs descend, a small moan following them.

This isn’t you.

Letting some guy have so much control over you.

But you had a hand in creating this monster.

And now Steve Rogers owns you.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #captain america #hunter steve #hunter steve series #HunterSteve #monster of the week #marvel #mcu #avengers fanfiction #fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #avengers #avengers fanfic #fanfiction #crossover

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ryik-the-writer · 4 years

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Chapter 28: The Missing Pan

A03

Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy

· Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story)

· Chapter 3: Day One

· Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies

· Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars

· Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress

· Chapter 7: Operation Spotless!

· Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down

· Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil

· Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake

· Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1

· Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2

· Chapter 13: The Girl With Blue Eyes: Underground

· Chapter 14. Recovery

· Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more

· Chapter 15: Trapped

Chapter 16: Filth

Chapter 17: Fairydust pt. 1

Chapter 18: Fairydust pt. 2

Chapter 19: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3

Chapter 20: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 2

Chapter 21: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3

Chapter 22: Reflections pt. 1

Chapter 23: Reflections pt. 2

Chapter 24: Closing

Chapter 25: Felix is helping Pan

Chapter 26: Temporary Fix

Chapter 27: The Search Begins

It was like a bizarre book club meeting, except there was no book and the meeting was held at Tink’s forest of a living room.

He had found Pan’s broken cellphone nearly three days ago, and hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since.

He was worried, especially as he saw less and less of Wendy roaming the town looking for him.

No, he wasn’t stalking her that would be creepy. He was just watching her from afar, usually behind buildings, in case Pan reappeared by her side.

He was worried about the little shit, even if he’d rather not think about him and what they were—or rather what they had been.

Their relationship was on Pan’s terms, as it had been the night August returned to Storybrooke two years ago.

It had been just a glitch on their timeline, a moment in history that would go unrecorded.

He had returned to Storybrooke after the money he pawned from several of his father’s tools ran out.

He was tired and sore, not sure whether he was back to ask for forgiveness or to take more from his loving father. His motorcycle was nearly out of gas, his tires shreds of rubber attached to rims.

He hadn’t realized the clusterfuck he’d road in on. That Storybrooke was practically on lockdown after Jekyll killed those two girls—and nearly a third, he’d find out later.

And—for his own sanity—Pan was waiting at the town line for the psychopath to return, with the blunt end of his camera at that.

As his head was spinning from being clabbered over the head from the hit, Pan had kicked him onto his back.

“Shit,” he had said. “You’re not him.”

“Lucky for me,” August deadpanned, wobbling as he picked himself up. “Want to explain why the hell you did that?”

“Monster hunting,” Pan had stated, staring at him suspiciously, offering him no assistance.

It was close to 3 a.m., a completely unreasonable hour for anyone to be running around—travelers or off-their-knocker journalists.

“Yeah,” August muttered, grabbing his bike and preparing to head into the town.

“Everything’s closed,” Pan said. “You’re better off sleeping in the woods.”

It was none of the little shit’s business. In fact it was probably best if he kept his entire being to himself. For he knew his father had taken out a report to the police.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Thanks for not giving me a concussion.”

“You might as well come back with me.”

The weight of those words still clung to August’s brain this very day.

That brutal, flirtatious, broken boy…

“What’s this about?

August looked up. Tink, Felix and Lily Tigress were surrounding him, trying to figure as much as he was what the hell was going on.

August stood, feeling the mix of emotions from the people in the room.

“Pan’s missing.” He said, simply.

The reactions that followed fit everyone perfectly.

Tinkerbell scoffed and rolled her eyes while Felix seemed to melt with fear. Tigress snorted.

“Have you checked all the holes in the city?” she teased.

“And ditches,” he replied humorlessly. “He’s not anywhere.”

“Maybe check in the depths of hell.” Tink muttered, flopping down on her couch.

“What happened,” Felix inquired, obviously the only other person in the room that had general concern.

“I have no idea,” August sighed.

“It’s probably nothing!” Tink exclaimed, visibly aggravated. “He’s always pulling shit like this, we all know it!” she looked around at everyone, their eyes dropping .

“I don’t know this time—” August began before Tink cut him off.

“He’s fine! He’s off screwing someone or ruining a life. He’ll come back and continue as normal.”

August blinked hard and reached into his pocket. In a flash he threw Pan’s broken, dead cellphone onto Tink’s coffee table, an inch away from Tigress’s boots.

The occupants of the room stared at the device like it was something that had just fallen from the sky, as if they had no idea what to make of it.

“I found this the other night at the docks,” August explained, swallowing a lump. “I’ve been looking for him ever since. It died a few hours after I found it.”

Felix gripped his kneecaps until his fingers turned white. Tigress glanced at him and then at Tink’s still shoulders, wishing she could reach into her back and unknot every single one of her muscles.

“It could be an accident,” Tink said, her mind numb.

“There’s something wrong here, Tink,” August said. “Something I don’t think we’ve dealt with before.”

Tink nodded slightly. She could accept that this was a bit odd, but she wasn’t ready to relent to a search just yet.

“Did you go through the phone, see who he called last?” Felix inquired.

A cold sweat ran down August’s back.

“Yeah…it…it was me,” he looked straight ahead, trying to avoid Tink’s direct gaze. “The night he wrote that story about you.”

Tink barely moved, the only indication that she heard August was the darkening of her pupils.

“Last time I saw him was the morning after that when Wendy showed up and…all the other stuff happened.”

“Have you talked to her?” Tigress asked. “Why isn’t she here?”

August thought about the blonde enigma who spent the better part of two days searching for the wild boy…

And then she stopped…

Not from falling into a fate like Pan’s, but rather a strange dark haired man seemed to be gypsying her away from her task.

Maybe she had the same mindset as Tink, that Pan was somewhere safe and sound but avoiding the rest of the world.

Or perhaps she’d finally realized she deserved to use her time the way she wanted and not focus so much on Pan.

When he’d see her in town, her gaze would occasionally stray to the streets and into shops, looking for him without trying.

But she wasn’t alone. There was someone else with her, some dark entity that always seemed to be just out of both their line of site.

“She’s looking for him,” August concluded.

“Have you gone to Graham?”

“No, not yet,” he admitted.

Tink smiled bitterly. “There’s your answer,”

August leaned forward. “Do you really think Graham is going to take this seriously with Pan’s track record?”

“That’s the best thing to do!” Tink yelled. “He’s not our problem.”

“Yeah, he is,”

“No he’s fucking not! We have nothing to do with any of this!”

“Yeah we do!”

“He’s your little fuck buddy not mine!”

A wave of sand coursed through August’s throat, cutting him off.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Felix finally jumped in, evenly meeting Tink’s glare. “He’s right, we have to help.”

“Are you kidding me, Felix!” Tink exploded.

“What he did was terrible,” Felix injected, putting everything everyone in the room had held in for days now. “But if you turn your back on him and something really is wrong, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Because he is family, Tink. He’s one of us.”

He stepped forward, keeping his distance after taking her stiff posture into account.

“And you know he didn’t do any of this to hurt you, even if he did,”

Tink scoffed. “I know that. But I’m so sick of him thinking rules don’t apply to him and that he’s invincible,” she paced a bit, thinking about the wild-haired boy to always brought so much chaos into their lives. Who was more trouble than any of them knew what to do with.

“What if he’d been alone that night?” She wondered aloud, knowing firsthand the type of cruelty Mother Superior could enact when pushed too far.

Pan was in trouble, and this time it was more serious than ever of them had ever seen before.

He was usually good at getting himself out of messes and suffering the consequences on his own. But things were different this time. This time he was somewhere none of them could find.

Tink groaned, tucking her anger away for later.

“When was the last day you talked to Wendy?” she sighed in August’s direction.

His lip twitched in gratification. “The day she told me Pan was missing.”

“Then Lily and I will check with her first.” Tink said, voice strong with leadership. “You and Felix check the paper and Graham and all his usual haunts.”

Before Felix could ask for more, Tink was out the door.

Lily gave the men a shrug before following her friend, not looking to cause a fight with the fiery blonde.

Felix sighed in relief when they finally left, trying his best to stay calm. Last thing he needed was to fall into a seizure.

“That takes care of that,” August teased. “You ready?”

Felix looked over at him, frowning heavily. He had no feeling for August, good or bad. The two didn’t see or speak to each other than the few times he left Pan’s place.

He wasn’t a bad person from what Felix could gather, but he wasn’t the best influence on Pan. He was too casual, not interested in settling down.

Adding gasoline to the fire of Pan’s soul.

Still, obviously he cared about him enough that he cared if he was missing or not, so some points were warranted.

“We’ll need to start with Graham first,”

“Why’s that?”

Felix frowned. “I might know the reason he’s missing.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Pan wasn’t sure where to target his latest wave of sickness from.

The swaying ship, the dehydration, or the infection building around his numb wrists from the metal cuffs?

He was more than certain he was developing some kind of bladder infection as well.

God he was tired.

Jones hadn’t been to see him in a day and a half, or at least that’s what he was estimating judging by the light that was coming in thorough the cracks of the ship.

He wondered what he was doing, especially to Wendy. Had he hurt her? Was he torturing her right now to get information out of her?

What did this asshole hope to accomplish keeping him locked up? Why didn’t he just off him already?

Or maybe this was it. Maybe he just wanted to kill him slowly.

As he nodded in and out of consciousness, he caught images of the people in his life. Wendy and Felix up front, Tink, August, and Tigress just behind them. Even Glass and Gold, and deeper in the shadows, Belle.

Each time he woke up, they would vanish, and Pan wouldn’t remember who he was dreaming about.

The smell of salt was enough to make him vomit now. He was dying, and he was doing so cruelly slow.

Would any of the people he kept seeing in that place between sleep and awake ever know what had happened to him.

Was anyone looking for him?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The last few days had become sort of a new routine for Wendy. She’d leave her apartment at the crack of dawn and visit Pan’s apartment…knocking just in case he’d come home.

But he hadn’t, and she’d let herself in and feed his fuzzy orange cat who had yet to be utterly concern about his master’s disappearance.

It was comforting feeding the large cat without Pan’s interference, she thought. No one to pick fun at her at every opportunity. No one to push her into a corner, away from her safest places.

No one to pick fun at her at every opportunity. No one to push her into a corner, away from her safest places.

It was unsettling, Pan’s absence. But there was an odd peace in the air. One that didn’t quite fit in Storybrooke’s atmosphere, but one that was welcome. If only for a short time.

Each day without the wild boy was like a blurry vacation: you knew each day was passing by but the details were unclear.

And somehow Pan was blurring from her memory as well.

She’d wake up in the dead of night with a glimpse of him in the air above her head.

Then he’d disappear, and she’d fall asleep without concern.

It felt wrong, to brush him off after all they’d been through, even in her sleep.

But there was an odd freedom to letting him go, especially if he didn’t want to be found.

She stared at the number on her cell phone glaring back at her, the one she’d called constantly in the last four days.

He doesn’t want to be found, she reminded herself. Calling him again would be fruitless.

She knew this, it was imbedded in her brain at this point.

Yet she pressed his number again and listened as his voice mail immediately came up.

It’s Pan. Call me back.

No, she decided solemnly, she wouldn’t.

“Hi, Pan…it’s…it’s me again.” Wendy chuckled. “I guess you know that by now…”

She paused, knowing if she were quiet for too long she’d have to start over.

She didn’t want to start over. She wanted to go forward.

“Look,” she sighed. “I can’t keep doing this with you. Everyday it’s a fight with you and I have no idea why. I don’t know what I did the other day to make you leave like that…but you need…”

She paused again.

“Well I don’t know what you need o honestly, but it’s something you have to figure out for yourself.”

She considered hanging up then, but she didn’t want to leave him on such a harsh note.

“I really hope you try, Pan, because I don’t want to fight with you anymore. After everything, I really want us to be—“

The voicemail beeped, inquiring if she wanted to start over or if she was satisfied with her message.

She didn’t want to start over.

So she hung up and headed to the docks.

Killian was there, as he always seemed to be.

Perhaps it was her need for new freedom that silenced the warning bells in her head, that made her drop the walls and inhibitions that had clung to her like a second skin during the last several months.

She approached him without fear, without any type of concern holding her back.

And she didn’t question him when he slid a manila folder into his leather coat.

“Is dinner still on the table?” she questioned.

He tilted his head, amused, though his pulse was racing. “I thought lunch was the next step.”

Wendy shrugged, stepping a bit closer. “I’m feeling…braver than I did yesterday.”

He chuckled, concealing the folder further into his jacket for dear life. “Well then, Miss Wendy Darling, tomorrow night?”

She smiled, relieved. “I’d like that.”

He watched her leave, noting the little pep in her step.

Such a lovely girl, he thought, and more malleable than he had originally foreseen. Jones thought he was going to have to push her more to fall into his grip, but it would seem she was finally crumbling.

He made his way back to this ship quickly, opening the folder full of information for his backup plan.

He stepped into his cabin, breaking out his best rum. This was a small victory after all.

Some of the glasses on his counter shook lightly, so little they could almost be missed. Jones rolled his eyes. He’d forgotten to feed his captive again…and water him for that matter.

Whoops.

He still hadn’t told him why he’d requested those files, what he was digging for.

Who he was searching for.

And how Miss Darling was involved was still being revealed, but time was running short.

He had been given orders to find out now.

He spread his new leverage across the table, frowning a bit.

The two boys, preteens by the look of it, caught his eye first. He hated targeting kids. It was so pointless.

His eyes traveled to the woman next. He could see bits of Wendy in her, especially in the shape of her eyes. She had the man’s jaw however…and his frown, he noticed with amusement.

A tidy little family in danger of meeting the blunt end of his gun.

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, he decided as he hid the folder. Hopefully, very soon, Wendy would tell him what he wanted to know.

The pipes sang from Pan’s struggle again.

He was already a dead man walking, and too tight-lipped to save now.

Feeding time.

#darling pan #darling pan fic #wendy darling #ouat fic #ouat #peter pan #felix #tinkerbell #captain hook

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kingofthereapers · 3 years

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Lincoln was going about his life, getting Brooklyn up and ready for the day. As things had gotten more serious between December and him, the two of them spent just about every night together. It was odd to call her his girlfriend, because she felt like so much more than that, but in all honesty, it was what December was to him. From time to time she even watched over Brooke when he had to go to work. It gave his mom a break every once in a while. Link knew that Brooklyn loved it too, because Dee not only gave her presents, but they played dress up and the clothes that were in his girlfriend’s closet weren’t anything like you would see on a daily basis in Amesbury. Suddenly, Lincoln heard the soft ringtone going off on his phone. The blond man padded around the house, trying to find just where he’d left that stupid cell phone.

By the time he’d found it there was a missed phone call from Hank Maddox. The two men worked together at the shop. To say that Hank was like a second father to the young man would have been an understatement. It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with the relationship that Link had with his own father, but Hank was the voice of reason that he needed sometimes. He called the number back and waited for an answer. When the line was picked up and he heard the older man’s voice on the other end Link smiled, some of the nerves in his stomach going away. Hank wasn’t getting any younger and sometimes he worried that something would happen to the man, despite him being in great shape. “Hey, I couldn’t find my cell.” Link admitted with a chuckle, because he was notorious for misplacing the thing.

“Son, you should come down to the hospital.” Hank’s deep voice sent chills down Lincoln’s spine and his brows furrowed. “What happened? Are you okay? Is Lula okay?” His mind went straight to the fateful night some years ago that he’d been in the hospital for his wife. The prayers didn’t work, because she didn’t survive. He tried pushing those nagging thoughts from his mind though as he focused on what Hank was saying. “Travis was in a bad accident.” Despite what had happened between the two men, Lincoln still didn’t want to see Travis hurt, or to be dead, but when he heard of the accident he half wondered if it was actually an accident after all. Travis had quite a long list of enemies that didn’t always pertain to the club. It always seemed like Travis had his hands in some kind of mischief. “I’m on my way.” Link muttered and hung up the phone without so much as another word.

Lincoln felt numb as he turned to walk down the hallway to the bedroom to find December. “Babe…” His voice sounded somewhat hollow, and different even in his own head. “I have to go, Travis is in the hospital.” He said simply, his greenish blue orbs slightly wide as he was still trying to process just what was going on. He took a deep breath and tried his best to fake a smile for her. “I’ll see you later, you have Brooklyn, right?” He checked before turning to go. It wasn’t often that Lincoln rode his motorcycle anymore, unless it was for club business, so without a thought he jumped into his little red pick up truck. The vehicle was perfect for lugging around tools and parts for the cars that he worked on both at the shop and at home. It wasn’t anything fancy as it chugged along, making a lot of noise, but not going so fast, but it worked for Lincoln.

His stomach began to tie in knots as he approached the hospital, because he hadn’t been there in a couple years. He could remember the feeling of hopelessness he’d felt as he walked up the sidewalk to the emergency room entrance, wondering if he would have to say goodbye to his wife in the next couple minutes. That was exactly what he had done, although she was just about gone by the time they’d let him in the room. “Can you tell me where Travis Davies’ room is?” Link asked at the front desk, surprised he didn’t vomit straight onto the woman glancing up at him as he spoke. “Room 54.” The nurse replied after a couple taps on the keyboard in front of her. “Thanks.” Link replied before he was off, wandering the halls and trying his best not to lose what little was in his stomach this early in the morning. As he found the rhythm of the rooms, with each step that drew him closer to Travis’ room, he felt more and more sick to his stomach.

A large 54 was written on the room just to his right and the blond man paused outside the door as he took a couple breaths and then pushed the door open. He’d half expected to see Travis and Lula in some inappropriate position on the bed, but before he could even see the bed he heard the beep beep beep of the machines. He caught sight of Lula hunched over in a chair beside the bed, sleeping probably and as Hank got up from his chair in the corner that also caught the attention of the blue eyed man. Only when his gaze fell on Travis in the bed did his brows furrow and the numbness went away, replaced by a bubbling feeling of anger.

Slowly the tall, lean man made his way over to the side of the bed opposite Lula to gaze down at the man he’d spent countless hours with for as long as he could remember. This had been his best friend growing up. They had gone hunting together, and Thomas Davies had taught Link how to skin and gut a deer when he was about 10 years old. That seemed a lifetime ago with the way things had gone as they’d grown into men. It was around that time in fact that Travis began to drift away from the kid he’d always called his closest friend. The fairer sex became just that much more important to the man that now was laid up in the hospital bed with tubes and wires all over the place. Even then, they’d go fishing and ride their bikes and go four wheeling for hours on end. Some nearly twenty years later, Lincoln couldn’t tell you who Travis spent most of his time with besides the ever present Lula Maddox.

Here he was though, standing over the man that had had an affair with his wife, then killed her when she found out she was knocked up with his kid. This kind of man didn’t deserve to live in Lincoln’s book, but all in the same one, it was his friend. There was some obvious torment going on with Lincoln as he stared down at the dark haired man and Hank woke Lula to see if she wanted anything from the cafeteria. Lincoln silently watched the interaction and then his gaze fell upon Lula as she realized that he was standing there silently. The three of them went back to when they were in diapers, so it hurt to see Lula crying, even if it was over a man that treated her like shit. He wasn’t expecting the words that came out of her mouth, but they stunned him to the point that his heart skipped a beat. “Bo….Walker?” Lincoln confirmed, his eyebrows knitting together even more, causing his head to ache. “How do you know?” Link’s mind was racing, one of his hands coming up to run through his hair to push it back from his face.

Bo was their enforcer. The man was obsessed with rules, and rightfully so. He was the one to make sure everyone was following those rules. For him to go as far as to try and kill their president was almost too far fetched to believe. There wasn’t time enough for Lincoln to stick around for the reasoning though, because he knew Bo would be on the run, at least for a while. Until he could explain himself to the club. With enough reason they would be forgiving after all. Lincoln began to step back slowly and then he turned to head for the door. “I love you, Lula.” He said softly to her, his eyes as clear and focused as they had ever been before he turned to go down the hall to retrace his steps. The blond man ended up back in his pick up, wishing he’d brought his bike this time around. Speed was not on his side, but he took the roads as quickly as he could until the paved roads ended about fifteen miles outside of town, and his truck crunched over the gravel path that took him up a rather steep incline that eventually flattened out into a large grassy field. His truck bounced across the greenery until he parked in front of a small cabin that was tucked between a grouping of pine trees.

The house was little more than a one bedroom cabin, perfect for camping, or hunting. That was exactly what the group of men linked to the Reapers used it for. Right in front of the steps that led to the front door was Ian “Bo” Walker’s bike. No one in town had a bike quite like Bo, and in fact many people could pair the two together in a lineup because it’s outrageous decor just suited the also outrageously tattooed man. Link gave the back tire of the bike a small kick as he passed it and went boldly into the cabin without so much as a knock on the door. Bo was sitting there, waiting for him, though his well groomed brows rose when he saw just who it was. Lincoln was the last person in the club he would have expected to come after him. The two men were not equally built either, so Bo settled into his seat with a bit of a smirk while he holstered the gun he’d had trailed on the door.

“Lincoln.” The man spoke through his large beard with his chocolate hues trailing the blonde man that paced in front of him. “You know it was a long time coming.” Boy, did Lincoln know those words to be true, but this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go down, and he showed his distaste for those words with a slow shake of his blond head while his boots thudded against the wooden floor of the cabin. “It’s not your place.” Link muttered, blue eyes trailing along the floor in front of him before he came to stop straight in front of the older man. “He is supposed to be mine.” Link growled, eyes narrowing before he began to pace again as that burning anger began to bubble up in the pit of his stomach. “He killed my fucking wife!!!” Lincoln then screamed, although he knew killing Travis wouldn’t make him feel even the slightest better, and it sure as hell wouldn’t bring back Bethany.

Bo stood up, trying to make himself look as big as possible because he didn’t appreciate getting yelled at, even if it was by his vice president. Lincoln glared at him. “You gonna try to kill me too?” He snapped to which Bo’s eyes grew wide. “Try? The fuck you talking about, man. There is no way he survived that.” Lincoln laughed, stepping further into the cabin, near the simple kitchen with little more than a spot for a propane fueled stove top. His oil stained hand reached out and he flicked on the switch to one of the burners and a small whoosh could be heard as the propane tank opened, though no flame showed up because Link didn’t hold his lighter up to ignite it. “You stupid idiot, he is still alive, barely, but he is alive and this lands on me now.” He explained to the other man standing behind him. “Our enforcer can’t be trusted, and who does it always fall to? I have to pick up the pieces.” Lincoln sounded like he might have been on the verge of tears now as he spoke, but in a movement Bo hadn’t been expecting, Lincoln turned and pulled out the handgun that was tucked in the back of his pants.

It wasn’t a fatal wound, but just one to disarm the other man almost completely, because he had little, if any use of his right arm. His left arm reaching across for his gun was a much slower movement, and Lincoln was an excellent shot. The younger man took a few steps towards the older man as he stumbled and sat back down in his chair. Blood was pouring from his arm and it wasn’t looking good if Lincoln just drew this out long enough. “You should have said something, Bo.” Link muttered softly, his brows furrowed again. This was the last thing he had wanted to do, but he couldn’t let the club see him as the weak one anymore. He’d been in this club damn near as long as Travis, and he had done nearly as much. This had to put him at least in the top rankings for the club. He held up the gun again, aimed straight between Bo’s eyes and the older man knew he wouldn’t miss. “Please….” Bo shifted, though he wasn’t reaching for a gun, or begging for his life, he was asking for a different method. The older man held out a small blade that he’d carved and sharpened himself as a young boy. “Use this.”

Link stepped forward and took the wooden handle of the blade that was offered and then he flipped the knife in his hand for a moment. “You’re a good guy, you know that Bo?” The older man gave a nod of his head and offered a sad smile. “I’m ready to see my sweetheart. I’ve missed her a lot.” Lincoln pursed his lips and gave a solemn nod of his head as he raised the blade above his head and slammed it down as hard as he could into Bo’s neck. The blade made a loud thud when the hilt connected with his skin and the blade wedged against his collar bone. Lincoln gazed down at the large man as the light slowly began to leave his eyes. It was a sight that wasn’t completely unfamiliar to Lincoln, because he’d been hunting his whole life, but this was the first time he’d watched the death of a person. He stepped back slowly, eyes filling with tears as he then turned back to that damn propane stove. It had been the bane of his existence when he’d been hunting as a kid, so he was going to be glad to see it go.

Link turned on the other three burners so the propane was being pumped right into the room as quickly as it could be. It was a decent sized tank that they had sitting under the counter too, so Link knew this would do some damage. The blond man took one last look at Bo sitting there in his chair with blood seeping from his neck and his shoulder. “I’m sorry, ol’ man.” Lincoln said softly as he stepped out into the early morning sunshine. He hadn’t realized just how much the cabin smelled like blood until he’d gone out into the fresh air. He took a deep breath and steadied himself against the railing on the porch as he finally hurled right into the well maintained bushes. After wiping his mouth on his shirt Link walked out to his truck and got in and looked around for some rope. There was a hank of rope just waiting for him underneath the passenger seat. The blond man snatched it up and began to untwine it until he had about enough to cover the field and lead right up to the door. That was exactly how Lincoln laid the rope out, tipping a bit of gasoline from the near empty gas can in the back of his truck onto the rope every couple feet.

From across the field, Lincoln looked at the old cabin. It had been a home away from home, and sometimes a haven when he just needed to get away as a teenager. He could even remember a time or two that he and Bethany had snuck in for a little action as teenagers. The thought made him laugh, but the joy didn’t linger on his face. Blue orbs trailed down to the end of the rope in his hand until he pulled his trusty lighter from his pocket. Times were changing and it was time for them all to grow up. The Reapers wasn’t just fun and games. They were serious about this shit, and Lincoln was on board for taking care of business in any way he saw fit. There wasn’t a way that anyone else was going to pull one over on him again. Not Travis, not Bo, not anyone. The flame popped up from his lighter and once it was close to the rope it took off, and faster than Lincoln had expected. The blond man jumped into his truck and began the bumpy ride back down the gravel road. Seeing that house go up in flames would have been the icing on the cake, but Lincoln didn’t have time for fun and games anymore.

#Lincoln Albrecht #TheReapers #Amesbury NC #creeping darkness

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 4 years

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The Pretty Reckless’ Taylor Momsen: “If I’m Going To Be Famous, I Want To Be Famous For The Music That I Make”

Taylor Momsen almost gave up following the deaths of her heroes, but now The Pretty Reckless are back with a new purpose

On the evening of May 17, 2017, Taylor Momsen did her job as usual. Appearing onstage at the Fox Theatre, in Detroit, the then 23-year-old singer with The Pretty Reckless sang nine songs to an audience of more than 5,000 people as special guests to the night’s headliners, Soundgarden. The following morning she woke to the news that Chris Cornell, the singer with the Seattle group, had been found dead in the bathroom of his hotel room at the MGM Grand in the Motor City. He was later ruled to have died by suicide.

“To get the Soundgarden tour was such an exciting moment that we were all living,” Taylor says. “It was such an accomplishment for us to be able to watch them every night, and to be on that tour was so thrilling. It was the highest of highs – we couldn’t get happier and we couldn’t get higher.”

It’s difficult to overstate the extent to which the Seattleites impacted on the life of Taylor Momsen. To her ear, only The Beatles have set higher standards. Speaking from her home on an island off the coast of Maine, the thoughtful and chatty singer declines to divulge her encounters with Soundgarden on a tour that endured for 13 dates. But suffice it to say, its singer’s death hit her hard.

“The right word is to say that I plummeted,” she says. “It crushed me. We cancelled all the touring. I wasn’t in a place to be public because it really devastated me, like I think it did to a lot of people. Everyone he touched was just crushed. I cancelled everything and said, ‘I can’t do this right now, I need time. I can’t go out every night and entertain an audience and pretend I’m super happy and okay.’ I wasn’t okay. So I stopped. We quit tour and went home to try and process what had happened.”

When The Pretty Reckless formed, in 2009, it was a love of Soundgarden that brought together its principal players. Founded by Taylor, guitarist Ben Phillips, and producer Kato Khandwala – the trio that wrote the songs on the group’s debut album, Light Me Up, from 2010 – LPs such as Badmotorfinger and Superunknown made these three near-perfect strangers feel as if they were the best of friends.

So delighted was Kato of The Pretty Reckless’ berth on a tour with Soundgarden that he flew to every one of its spring dates. Less than a year later, on April 25, 2018, Taylor was sitting on her couch in Maine when she received a call informing her that her 47-year-old friend and producer had been killed in a motorcycle accident in Los Angeles. Today the singer describes receiving the news as being like “a nail in my coffin.”

She says that “[it] took me into what I can only describe as an extraordinarily dark downward spiral. I was in a hole that I didn’t know how to get out of, or if I was going to get out of it; what’s more, I had no idea where to even start trying. It was a scary time because I didn’t care any more. I’d given up on everything. I thought, ‘What am I going to do? My musical partner is dead. My musical idol is dead. I don’t care, what’s the point of any of this?’ So I gave up.”

Only, she didn’t. “It took time,” she says, “and it sounds clichéd, but it was music that was the thing that brought me back to life. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t function, I couldn’t leave my house, I couldn’t talk to anyone – I was a mess. And so the only thing that I could turn to was music and that eventually led to me just writing how I was feeling. It was like going back to childhood, really, and writing another diary that was my best friend, the only person I could talk to. And it turned into this record, which essentially I consider to be a rebirth.”

The record to which Taylor refers is the newly finished, fourth album from The Pretty Reckless, Death By Rock And Roll, which had been due for imminent release until the world held its breath in the face of you-know-what. In lieu of an entire LP, fans can at least take comfort in the unveiling of the band’s first single for three years. Released today, the album’s impressive title-track features as its intro the sound of the footsteps of Kato Khandwala.

“We spent over a year recording the album,” says Taylor. “And it’s all in there. There was no hiding from it. It took everything we had to make this record. In fact, it felt like we were making the first album again. That’s the thing we had with Light Me Up, we threw everything we had at that album, too. And we did that again this time.

“It very much feels like a rebirth,” she says.

Taylor Momsen is used to making music in trying circumstances. When The Pretty Reckless gathered themselves to record Light Me Up – which celebrates its 10th birthday this summer – the then-15-year-old singer was better known for playing the role of Jenny Humphrey in the television series Gossip Girl. By day she would film her scenes in New York City, and then by night retreat to the House Of Loud studio in Elmwood Park and Water Music in Hoboken, New Jersey, to record songs during the vampire shift. If she caught three hours’ sleep as the sun bid good morning to the Garden State, she was lucky.

The album hit at the first time of asking, but the singer faced all the predictable problems of a woman in early 21st century rock. She dodged the sour intentions of men working in an industry in the days before the #MeToo movement – “I think like any woman, yes, there were uncomfortable and inappropriate moments,” she says – and ignored the sharks on social media by turning away from her phone with the attitude that “it’s not real – it’s not like someone is actually right in front of you, screaming in your face”. Similarly short shrift was given to those who believed that she was a MAW – ‘Model, Actress, Whatever’ – who had a new musical plaything but nothing to say.

“I felt bad at the beginning that there was no clean slate so people already had a perception of me,” she remembers. “That was the thing that I had to overcome, and in the beginning it was frustrating at times. But the way I overcame it was by not telling [people] over and over again that I was real and that this is who I am. They don’t hear that, they just hear you preaching. Instead, I just did it.”

She came to England and gazed in wonder at the landmarks of rock’n’roll heritage. It felt “like I was suddenly part of the history that I’d been reading about”. She snapped a photograph of the Battersea Power Station, over which Pink Floyd flew a giant inflatable pig for the cover of their Animals album. She saw the crossing outside a famous recording studio in Northwest London, across which The Beatles strode for the cover of their Abbey Road LP. And outside the Notting Hill Arts Centre, on May 12, 2010 she witnessed a crowd queuing tight around the block to see The Pretty Reckless make their debut in the capital.

“That was such an incredible feeling as an artist,” she says, “to see that I’d really connected with people.”

But more than anything, Taylor Momsen grafted. Imbued with a work ethic that saw her begin modelling at two years of age – “That taught me how much work and sacrifice it takes to pursue a career in any of the arts,” she says – she took The Pretty Reckless on the road for months on end without once looking back. Were it not for the small matter of a planetary pandemic, this summer she would be sharing stages with both Guns N’ Roses and Pearl Jam.

“I am an entire workaholic,” she says. “But it’s all music so it doesn’t feel like work. Before I spoke to you I was playing my guitar, and I’ll go back to playing it as soon as we’re finished. That’s the lucky thing about this job – I would be doing it anyway. The line that separates work for pleasure is kind of gone. It’s non-existent.”

Which is just as well. Through no small measure of talent, and a double scoop of application, over the course of three hit albums The Pretty Reckless have managed the enviable feat of prospering in an age of declining music sales. Better yet, this success has been earned with a measure of pizzazz and good old-fashioned Star Quality in the shape of Taylor Momsen. When the planet finally decides to take its finger off the pause button, she’ll be right there waiting and ready, with a smile that says: ‘Nice planet, I’ll take it.’

“If I’m going to be famous, I want to be famous for the music that I make,” she says. “I want be famous for something that I’ve worked really hard to create. I don’t want to be famous for the sake of being famous. I want the songs to be more famous than me. I want people to recognise the song without necessarily knowing that it’s even sung by me. My goal is not to be famous as myself, but to have the songs live on through time.”

#Taylor Momsen #the pretty reckless #2020 interviews

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cr-noble-writes · 5 years

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Title: Welcome to the Badlands

Chapter 1: The Fort

Pairing: Destiel, Lucifer/Rowena, Lucifer/Lillith, Anna/Gadreel, Jesse Turner/Lillith

Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Lucifer, Rowena Macleod, Crowley, Jesse Turner, Anna, Gadreel, Michael, Ash, Cole Trenton, Raphael, Ketch

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, endgame destiel, fusion, dystopian au, into the badlands au, slow burn, minor character death

Summary: The wars were so long ago, nobody even remembers. Darkness and fear ruled until the time of the Barons, seven men and women who forged order out of the chaos. People flocked to them for protection.That protection became servitude.They banished guns and trained armies of lethal fighters they called Clippers.This world is built on blood. Nobody is innocent here.Welcome to the Badlands.

A/N: This fic is my third lot for @ficfacers 2019! It’s gonna be dark, bloody, and angsty, and I really hope you enjoy it! Somehow this turned into a massive long-term project so I hope you guys are in it for the long haul haha.

Huge thank you to @slytherkins for being an amazing and thorough beta!!

@bees0are0awesome this is for you! Thanks for the awesome prompt!

Preview:

The autumn air is still hot and humid, and the late morning sun is bright over the poppy fields. Red and green blur by as Castiel speeds down the wide dirt road on his motorcycle. He’s sweating in his heavy leather duster, but he supposes he’ll be glad he wore it should something happen that ends with him thrown from the bike and sliding across the dirt. Being hot is a small price to pay for keeping his skin firmly attached to his body in case of an accident.

He’s searching for a group of nomads in the area that has been interfering with the Baron’s transports. Three opium trucks have been robbed over the last month, the drivers and Clippers guarding the supply killed. Now, a shipment of cogs is several days late, and Raphael, the man Castiel’s Baron purchased replacement cogs from, says he knows nothing about it. Castiel’s job is to find the problem and take care of it. Whatever that means.

For now, he tries to enjoy the weather as much as he can, despite the fact that his uniform sticks to his back. The fields are beautiful, even after Castiel has passed the end of the Baron’s farmlands. This far out, he knows there are wildflowers dotting the verdant plains, though he can’t see them right now because of his speed. The trees are far enough from the road that they don’t seem to move as quickly as the tall grass, and those are what Castiel admires as he rides. He doesn’t know much about trees in general, but at this time of year, they are a beautiful mix of earthy colors. The red, gold, and orange leaves seem to shine even brighter under direct sunlight. It’s unfortunate that they will soon be falling from the branches that have been their homes for an entire season.

At least an hour has passed when Castiel sees something on the side of the road up ahead. It’s a large black transport truck, and even though he isn’t close enough to see the insignia yet, he’s sure it belongs to the baron. He sighs, slowing as he approaches it and looking around to make sure there is no ambush waiting for him. The back doors of the truck have been flung open, and he can see the inside is empty. He doesn’t see the bodies until he stops his bike and lowers the kickstand.

Read it on AO3

If you’d like to be tagged in this or in any of my other works, please visit my Add Yourself Taglist and drop your Tumblr url in the appropriate place :)

Tagging under the cut:

The Usual Suspects: @ellen-reincarnated1967 @grumpy-kittycas @shadyexperttiger @hobby27 @paigums @malmuses @fangirlingtodeath513 @babybluecas @winchester-ofthe-lord @cutelittlekittykorner @didnt-survive-twist-and-shout

Destiel: @envydean @anangelamuse-castiel-spnfam @imbiowaresbitch @winchester-ofthe-lord @galaxystiel

The Pond: @manawhaat @dr-dean @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @notnaturalanahi @impala-dreamer @scorpiongirl1 @deandoesthingstome @jelly-beans-and-gstrings @mrswhozeewhatsis @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @chaos-and-the-calm67 @madamelibrarian @writingbeautifulmen @thewinchestielboys @castieltrash1 @mysaintsasinner @ruined-by-destiel @evilskank-inthemegacoven @faith-in-dean @bohowitch @4401lnc @winecatsandpizza

#cr noble writes #spnfanficpond #destielfanficnet #writersofdestiel #profoundnet #spnfamily #destiel #spn #fanfic

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swanqueeneverafter · 5 years

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What Dreams May Come, Pt.10

Henry’s Dreamscape. Refugee Camp. (Henry squats beside his motorcycle and opens his Tron lunchbox, which he now uses as a toolbox.) Henry: “Okay, Zen and the art of fixing a busted motorcycle. First lesson, know thy tools. Starting with the humble torque wrench.” Ella: (Taking the wrench:) “I like this torque wrench. Thanks for letting me help. Really.” (The moment is interrupted by three smelly thugs.) Thug 1: “The magical carriage is real. Bet it's worth its weight in gold.” Henry: “And let me guess. You fine fellows are here to kill us and take it?” Thug 1: “Hey, he's smarter than he looks.” Henry: “Yeah. Good thing you’re not.” (Henry and Ella leap into action, Ella armed with the wrench, Henry with his toolbox. The pair of them make short work of the thugs, working as a team and running off the would-be robbers.) Henry: (To Ella:) “You okay?” Ella: “Yeah, I’m fine. Nothing we couldn’t handle.” Soldier: “How about us?” (Turning at the sound of the voice, Henry and Ella see that a platoon of men have surrounded the camp. Glancing at their armour, Ella can tell they’re part of King Richard’s army.)

Storybrooke. (David sits outside his house on the front steps, staring at the coin in his hand. Upon hearing his name spoken, David looks up to see no one around. After hearing it again, he gets up to investigate. Seeing nothing, he is about to blame it on the wind when he turns and comes face to face with a vision of a man who's hands are covered in blood.) David: (Shocked:) "Father?" (Overcome by the sight of his long-dead father, David collapses to the ground.) Storybrooke. The Dragon’s Lair. (Needing a pick-me-up from her disappointing adventure through the dreamscape, Zelena sits at the bar drinking while Maleficent listens with less than a sympathetic ear.) Zelena: (Downing another shot:) "I know it was only a dream, but I couldn't even make that work." Maleficent: "A blind man and his two annoying, self-righteous children? Sounds to me like you had a lucky escape. Listen Red, count yourself lucky for what you have, not what you want. Besides, men are usually far more trouble than they're worth, trust me. (Spots Robin enter to begin her shift:) Oh, thank god. Robin, customer for you." (With that, Maleficent turns and heads toward her office in the back and out of sight.)

Zelena: "Hey stranger, when did you get back?" Robin: "You're kidding, right? Haven't you heard?" Zelena: "No, I... haven't really checked in with anyone, I came straight here." Robin: "From the dream world?" Zelena: "Yes, but how did you... Oh, your aunts told you didn't they?" Robin: "Yeah and Mom, you can't mess around with that stuff anymore. Promise me." Zelena: (Scoffs:) "I don't think that'll be a problem, my experience was hardly what you'd call fulfilling. But enough about that, what's your news?" Robin: (Takes a deep breath:) "When Alice and I crossed the town line back into Storybrooke, some guy followed us." Zelena: "What?" Robin: (Nods:) "From the Land Without Magic." Zelena: "So, what happened?" Robin: "Well at first we thought we caused it, but it turns out the guy was texting and driving so that's why he... drove into a tree." Zelena: "The bloody idiot. Were you hurt?" Robin: (Shaking her head:) "No, Alice and I are fine, but the guy had some injuries." Zelena: "Serves him right, the daft twit. I'm so glad you're all right." Robin: "Yeah, me too. Jefferson said that dreamscapes are not to be messed with." Zelena: "The Mad Hatter? What's he got to do with it?" Robin: "He's the one who warned Alice and I about the dream world. He said bad things will happen if-" Zelena: "Oh, sweetie. There's a reason he's known as the Mad Hatter. The man's bonkers. Don't worry about him." Robin: "Well he sounded pretty serious about it." Zelena: "Yeah, well you've nothing to worry about. My dreamscape was one big bust." Robin: "Why, what happened?" Zelena: "It doesn't matter. I went there looking for something that just... wasn't meant to be." Robin: "I'm sorry." Zelena: "No, I'm sorry. Robin, I want you to know something. Any happiness I have, it all began with you." (Mother and Daughter stand and embrace as Zelena allows a tear to fall down her cheek.) Storybrooke General Hospital. (Greg Mendell walks back to his room attached to an IV stand. Entering, he finds two people waiting for him.) Rumplestiltskin: "Ah, Mr. Mendell. Glad to see you're up and around." Greg: "W-who are you?" Rumplestiltskin: (Gesturing toward her:) "This is Alice. She was there at the scene of your accident and wanted to see how you were." Greg: "I-I'm fine." Alice: "Are you sure? My girlfriend and I feel partly responsible for what happened." Greg: (Shaking his head and taking a seat beside her on the bed:) "No, please, it was my fault. I should've been concentrating on the road." Alice: "Well, as long as you're all right." Greg: (Smiles:) "I'll live. (Turning to look at the man beside them:) A-and you are?" Rumplestiltskin: "That's not half as important right now as finding out who you are." Greg: "I-" Rumplestiltskin: "No, no, dearie. Not here. My friend and I have many questions and I think it best if we were not disturbed while I ask them. Let's go for a drive, shall we?" (Greg glances nervously at Alice, who smiles.) On The Road. (Alice stares at Rumplestiltskin while he drives.) Alice: "I don't know about this." Rumplestiltskin: "Alice, we're just going to ask our friend a few questions." Alice: "Yeah, but-" Rumplestiltskin: "I had my suspicions about Mr. Mendell the moment he entered our lives. Now with the sudden reappearance of our mutual acquaintance, along with his warning, there's definitely more going on that meets the eye." Alice: "You think Mr. Mendell isn't who he says he is?" Rumplestiltskin: "Oh, I know he isn't. Alice, those protective spells across the town line are among the most powerful magic ever created. No mere 'ordinary' man should ever have been able to penetrate them." Alice: (Glancing back towards the trunk of the car:) "So who do you think he is?" Rumplestiltskin: "I'm not sure. But if my inkling is correct, we could all be in a lot of danger." (Alice's eyes widen at this, looking once more towards the trunk and the faint sound of pounding coming from it.)

Kingdom Of Valencia. (The Jester exits his quarters just as Madelena corners him.) Queen Madelena: “Where are you going? It's time for four o’clock fool-around.” Jester: “Is it? M-my sundial must be slow because of the... c-clouds.” Queen Madelena: “If you're worried I'm upset about you helping my husband with that ridiculous show, then don't be. Who cares? He's an idiot.” Jester: (Pulling away from her:) “Yes, well, that's the thing. I don't think I can do this anymore. I guess I just feel a little... guilty.” Queen Madelena: “Well, that's very noble of you to care about someone's feelings. Guards! If you're developing a conscience, then you're no good to me. (To the guards:) Take him to the dungeon, the really scary one. With the mice.” Jester: “Wait, no! Please! (As he’s being dragged away:) At least let me change my clothes! These are gang colors!” King Richard: (Rounding the corner:) “Oh, hello. I was just coming to see Steve.” Queen Madelena: “Who's Steve?” King Richard: “Steve McKinzie. The jester. You don't know his name? Well, no matter. (Taking her arm:) Say, what do you call a tiny mosquito in a tin suit?” Queen Madelena: (Allowing herself to be lead away:) “Oh, God.” King Richard: “Nope. A gnat in shining armor. (Chuckles:) I've got so many of these.” Queen Madelena: “Please stop talking.” King Richard: (Laughing:) “No, I love talking with you.”

Storybrooke. Swan-Mills House. Morning. (Extracting herself gently from her wife's embrace, Regina slowly sits up, fixes her hair and pads softly towards the bathroom. A short time later, at the sound of the shower running, Emma yawns then pushes herself up onto her elbows. With only the slightest hint of trepidation, Emma slides out of bed and walks over to the bathroom. Standing at the door, she smiles at the sound of singing coming from the shower.) Regina: (Upon seeing Emma enter the steam filled room:) "Hey, you." Emma: (Stretches languidly:) "Hey yourself." Regina: "Well? You coming in here or not?" (With a smirk, Regina turns her back and resumes her shower. Not needing to be asked twice, Emma quickly removes her shirt and underwear before joining her wife.) Emma: (Kissing Regina's shoulder:) "Good morning." Regina: "Mm, morning." Emma: "Well this is definitely different to last time we were in here together." Regina: "Mmhmm. A lot has changed for the better." Emma: "You're telling me. (Sliding her hands softly up and over her wife's belly:) We're getting pretty big." Regina: (Laughing:) "Yes we are." (Placing her hands over Emma's, Regina turns and faces her wife, kissing her deeply.) Emma: (As they part briefly:) "I wasn't too rough with you, was I? I mean-" Regina: "Shh. Baby and I are fine. All that remains is the memory and the glorious night's sleep that came with it." Emma: (Slightly relieved:) "That's great to hear. I know it was just a dream, that we weren't really there but-" Regina: "It was real to us. Every. (Kiss:) Magical. (Kiss:) Moment of it." Emma: "I have never felt closer to you than I do right now, and I am so excited we're on this journey together." Regina: (Smiles:) "Forever."

A Short Time Later. (Having showered and dressed, the pair are about to head down to breakfast when Regina calls Emma back.) Regina: "Emma, about yesterday... You were right. I was a little rough on Snow and she didn't deserve it." Emma: "She'll forgive you, it's what Mom does." Regina: "Yeah, I know, but... I guess old habits die hard. I shouldn't be keeping her at arms length. She's family and despite our history, I truly care for her." Emma: "She loves you too, so much." Regina: "I know. I'll make it up to her somehow. I just wanted you to know that..." Emma: "Message received." Regina: "Yeah." Emma: "Awesome. (Taking her wife's hand, she leads them toward the stairs:) And all it took was me pounding you against a tree." Regina: "Emma! (As Emma laughs:) You know our son could've heard that." Emma: “He’s not even here. And trust me, if Henry’s dreamscape is half as fun as ours, it’ll take a lot more than that to wake him up.” Henry's Dreamscape. Kingdom of Valencia. (Ella, Henry and several of the refugees are lead into the castle by the king's soldiers. Standing at the staircase is a gloating King Richard.) King Richard: "Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. Princess Ella of Valencia and her rebels. (To a guard:) Has she been searched?" Guard: "Yes, Sire." King Richard: (As the guard holds out the Jewel of Valencia:) "Ah ha. I'll take that, thank you. (To Henry:) And if it isn't the hero." Henry: "The name's Henry and this isn't over yet." (Seizing the guard's sword, Henry manages to disarm three soldiers before turning to see Ella in Gareth's grasp.) Gareth: (With a knife at Ella's throat:) "Your move... 'Cause I haven't killed anybody all day.” King Richard: “Gareth! We agreed I would say the cool things.” Gareth: (To Henry:) “So, what's it gonna be?” King Richard: “Damn it, Gareth!” Henry: “Fine.” (Drops the sword.) Ella: “Henry, no!” Henry: “Now let her go.” King Richard: “You are so noble. But, no, I don’t think I will. Well, well, well... Looks like it's time for dinner. (To Gareth:) Nailed it.” Gareth: “Boom.” The Dungeons. (Henry, Ella and the other prisoners are lead into the dungeons.) King Richard: (To Ella:) “Well, normally I would let you say your goodbyes but I'm executing Henry the hero straight away. Guards, take this man to the gallows immediately.” Ella: (As Henry is hauled away and a hood put over his head, Gareth closes the cell door:) “No!” King Richard: (To Gareth:) “Hmm. It's nice to finally have people down here. Feels lived in.”

Storybrooke. (Dressed only in his hospital gown and robe, Greg Mendell is shoved inside a shipping container. Following him inside are Alice and Rumplestiltskin.) Rumplestiltskin: "There, we shouldn't be disturbed here. Now, dearie. Who are you?" Greg: "M-my name is Greg Mendell, I'm from-" Rumplestiltskin: "Don't insult my intelligence. Tell me who you really are." Greg: (Looking back and forth between Alice and Rumplestiltskin:) "Okay, I give up, who the hell am I?" Alice: "Sometimes that's the greatest puzzle isn't it?" Rumplestiltskin: "Tell us who you are!" Greg: "You're mad, you've gone mad." Alice: (Shakily:) "We're all mad here!" (Alice suddenly pulls out a gun.) Rumplestiltskin: "Alice, what are you doing?" Alice: "This was in your glove box. I thought you wanted me to bring it?" Rumplestiltskin: "No, I keep that for my protection. I still have enemies. Now, put the gun down." Alice: "No, sorry. We don't have a choice." Greg: (Panicked:) "Why are you doing this?" Alice: (Waving the gun around frantically:) "Because we need answers." Rumplestiltskin: "Alice, no!" (When Rumplestiltskin makes a move for the gun, it goes off, shooting him. Aghast at what she's just done, Alice drops the gun as Rumplestiltskin collapses to the floor, a pool of blood forming around him. Having seen more than enough, Greg Mendell turns and runs out of the container, as fast as his legs will carry him.) Henry's Dreamscape. Kingdom Of Valencia. Gallows. (Striding confidently onto the platform, Richard approaches the hooded man.) King Richard: "Not so tough, are you now, (Removes the hood:) Henr- (The Chef is revealed underneath the hood:) Aah!!" Chef: "Aah!!" Meanwhile... (Henry is pushed into a chair and his hood removed. Laid before him is an exquisite banquet of food.) Queen Madelena: (Entering the room:) "Hello, darling." Henry: (Turns:) "Queen Madelena?" Queen Madelena: "There's braised rabbit and Bordaux." Henry: "You saved me?" Queen Madelena: "Oh, I've done a lot more than that. (Picking up a bread knife, she cuts Henry's hands free:) I have a proposal for you. (Taking a seat opposite:) I've written someone, and he's coming to execute my plan. He doesn't play nice. (Raising her goblet:) Everything's about to change."

#sq #swanqueen #swan queen

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jungdrizzydraco · 5 years

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An O.C. for Your Asses!!!

I wanna see if the characters are legit before I move forward with this short story im working on (I'm a character first kinda guy, so I work inside-out) leave any form of constructive critique you wish, they are still works in progress, thanks!!

Augustine Harriet Andersson

Age:22

Sign: Gemini (sun) Cancer (moon) Virgo (rising)

Height: 5'8

Eye Color: Formerly dark-brown, bleached to a pastel-hazel because of some dark magic fuckery

Hair Color/Cut: dark-brown,q shifting variations of a fade, whose design changes somewhat based on his thoughts and emotions (yes, this is an enchanted fade)

Build: lean, lightly muscled from years lifting cauldrons in his grandfather's potion shop

Notable Features: Dimples; left-dimple is deeper than right, multiple piercings on each ear, artificial left eye (looks organic but to magical eyes, it looks otherwise)

"Have you ever been like...fundamentally angry? I feel that way...like at my core, there's this rage that seethes and coils at the pit of my stomach, everyday, like a python that can't quite squeeze his prey all the way to death. Everytime I think I've grown up, forgiven something or someone or myself, there's this anger that tightens right back up all over again...like it's reminding me of something. Somedays...I feel like that feeling will petrify everything I've ever loved about myself, and I'll just be another slave to outrage and ego and pain...just like everyone else...haha, then I'll really be a normie." -August Andersson, on his depression and internal anger issues.

Augustine Andersson is a witch-boy. But you could probably already tell that from looking at him: the way his eyes are almost constantly fixed towards some unseeable infinity, the way air molecules hum with fresh, manic energy around him, how he seems to absorb sunlight and the way his brown skin would filter the glow as a result of his connection to the natural...it was all very off putting to others around him for most of his young adult life. And as we all know, no one likes a freak, so such years had a hand in building his current trust issues, feelings of great anger and inadequacy, and all the tics and tricks he uses to keep such feelings at bay. He's not at a total loss; at his core he is a humanitarian, deeply compassionate and available to those who have managed to capture his heart, as well as wild and humorous. However, he keeps a tight lid on his darkest feelings and insecurities, out of fear that they may be too much for those around him (also, he might accidentally call forth a vile arch-daemon on accident, but that's neither here nor there.) After finally having had enough of his mundane time amongst the humans, he vanishes from his college campus one day and takes to the open road, hoping that like the many young, angsty teens in the movies he loves, he will find himself in his own solitude. But the best way to deal with oneself is when confronting someone else, and after a close-call with a reckless (and very cute) motorcycle rider on an interstate, August will be forced to deal with every single part of himself, the good, the bad, and the strange...

A few more things about him...

1. His father is Afro-swedish, hence his last name.

2. Loves to travel and is nomadic by nature.

3. He gets a special kind of warmth out of being moderately petty at all times.

4. He loves open spaces and bodies of water, as well as hikes through mountains (ok so he only went once in Vegas, so sue him, he really liked it!)

5. Surprisingly low maintenance, really just likes being around people that are happy, and the feeling easily rubs off on him.

6. Both positive and negative emotions easily rub off on him.

7. Can get caught up in moments of warm content, given his unstable interior life, and can get lost in wasting/spending time.

8. Gets restless easily.

9. Budding film buff, faves include Kill Bill vol. 1&2, Her, Moonrise Kingdom, Gone Girl, Blue is the Warmest Color, Moonlight, & Mean Girls.

10. August's father is very engaged with politics and civil rights, so in honor of that, he decided that his son's middle name would belong to one of the greatest figures of the civil rights movement: Harriet Tubman.

11. Favorite new movie is The Favourite.

12. Due to a lack of acceptance of his full self and the full spectrum of his sexuality, he is judgemental of others and holds them to the same near-impossible standards he holds for himself.

13. Things he expects from others: To read his mind and conjure what he wants without saying, to have his needs and boundaries respected without actually stating so, for others to fit in whatever box he thinks they should be in, for everyone's intellect to be slightly lower than his own, but high enough not to annoy him with silly questions, ect.

14. Listens to Lorde, J. Cole, Rex Orange County, Frank Ocean, Lana Del Rey, Tyler the Creator, Young Thug and assorted film soundtracks.

15. Enjoys playing into his double-sided nature when it suits him, and has a secret glee in melding into different roles depending on who's around him.

16. Is attracted to more eccentric personalities in platonic and romantic relationships

17. Smokes weed to escape boredom. (and his problems)

18. Smokes weed because he likes the feeling.

19. Is secretly a little ratchet, but he'll kill you if you say so, it'll fuck up his reputation as the quasi-sociopathic erudite.

Magic House-Thoth

Augustine is a member of the Sacred House of Life, witches whose magic is passed down from the Egyptian Gods themselves. August himself is a descendant of an African slave-witch, once known as Ashe. She was taken to Egypt as a typical piece of cargo from zealot raiders, and was sentenced to a life of building the pyramids. Or so she would have thought: Thoth, the God of Magic and Knowledge, took pity upon her and beguiled her to follow an invisible force into the desert one night. He then revealed himself to her in his ibis-headed brilliance and bestowed upon her a set of choices: he could free her now and set her loose across the desert with all the things she would need for survival, or he could give her secrets and wisdoms unknown to man at the time, but she would have to frequently return to him for lessons. Ashe always prized knowledge and growth over any material thing, or even something such as freedom (I prefer to disagree myself). And secrets from a God must count for that much more, right? She indulged in option two. Thoth grinned and whispered to her the mysteries of life, the secrets of the stars, and the riddles of worlds lost and intangible, he spoke magick into her very soul. She would then use her newfound knowledge to fool her captors, freed any slave that would believe in her, and with her wits about them, guided them across the desert to build a library-like sanctuary, in honor of Thoth. The former slaves then learned from the god's teachings, passed through Ashe, and became witches and educators in their own right, and Ashe came to lead this new coven of magi. This is how the House of Thoth became to be.

Magick: As a member of house of Thoth, August has the ability to manipulate various aspects of the moon, writing, hieroglyphics, knowledge and sciences, and the progression of time. His particular specialty is the creation of Moon Dust, a substance used as a medium for most of his spells. By gathering various quantities of mineral, be it: crystal, rocks, pearls, aluminum, or even silvers and golds, he can channel his magic into them and break down and rearrange their atomic components into a corrosive, abrasive substance that also tends to stick to objects due to an electric charge. This dust is also dangerous to breathe in. He tends to carry around a pouch or two on his person, as trying to create some on the fly is nearly impossible given how much time and intricacy is needed to create the substance. (I mean, working with just a pile of plain old rocks would take a couple of hours to convert, let alone harder or more distilled substances.) Spells that he has mastered so far include...

Spell of Refraction: A spell in which the moondust bonds to whomever or whatever August desires (sans the harmful effects, it's enchanted in this state) and whatever is enveloped in dust turns invisible via light refraction.

Spell of Revelations: He can spread his moondust over an area and have the pieces cling to imprints of negative emotion or dark magick. A spell used for forensic work.

Spell of Retribution: An offensive spell that uses moondust to its fullest offensive powers and creates small funnels of dust to ravage the opponent. The largest funnel made could surround a fully grown man.

Golemancy: Can create golems out of the moon dust he has formed, usually no larger than a human toddler. They tend to take form roughly resembling lego-men (he was a big fan of the Lego Expanded Universe as a child), but one can easily be fooled by their size: each golem has the strength of three men, and can combine to further power themselves up.

There are a few spells that don't require the moon dust...

-The Veil: A surface-level illusion layered directly over the skin. This allows the caster to look like whatever he wants to look like and sound however he wants, but can be broken if struck with bad intentions (like a slap from an offended woman on the street)

-Somnus: A very old, yet practical spell. Also one that does not require moondust, this handy spell induces sleep. Those affected by this spell will not remember being forced to sleep, but they will have active and vivid dreams for distraction. Also necessary for Dream Diving.

-Dream Diving: A skill Augustine has yet to master, this allows the caster to astral project into one's consciousness for complete access to the afflicted parties mind, if the brain is distracted by dreams. August has gotten stuck in several public nude dreams, and it takes long hours to remove oneself from another's mind.

-Illusion Casting

-Temporary Madness Inducement

-Script Magick: By writing down a word or phrase on any surface that can be sufficiently marked on, whatever has been written manifests somehow, just so long as it is within his power. He can't create miracles with it though.

Top 10 Roadtrip Songs

Sobriety- Sza

No Role Moldelz-J. Cole

Sacrifices -Dreamville, assorted artists

Grown Up Fairy Tails- Chance the Rapper, Taylor Bennett

My Boy-Billie Eilish

U.N.I.T.Y.- Frank Ocean

West Coast: Lana Del Rey

Cruise Ship-Young Thug

400 Lux-Lorde

Let Em Know- Bryson Tiller

#writblur #oc #my writing #my ocs #iwrite

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gentlemansaurusrex · 5 years

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Arabian Knight

Hey friends, this week we will be looking at the mysterious and iconic T.E. Lawrence. Lawrence has been romanticized as this great figure in history for his exploits in exploration, archaeology, and rebellions. So, with summer coming up pretty close, I thought it would be neat to take us to the blazing hot desert of the Middle East.

Thomas Edward Lawrence was born in Wales in 1888 to the unmarried Sarah Junner and Thomas Chapman. Junner was a Scottish governess Chapman was an Anglo-Irish nobleman who eventually rose in rank. A year after T.E. was born, his family moved to Scotland in 1889, the same year his brother William George was born. The same year, the family moved to the town of Dinard located in Brittany, France. In 1896, the family moved to Oxford, England where Lawrence started his professional education in history at Jesus College. He graduated in 1910 where he was hired by the British Museum working as an archaeologist. He would often work in Carchemish (Karkemish) located in Ottoman Syria. When the Great War broke out in 1914, Lawrence volunteered for the army and was stationed in Egypt. In 1916, he was reassigned to do intelligence work in the Arabian Peninsula. This began Lawrence’s covert career against the Ottoman Empire.

What Lawrence is most known for during his time in the Arabian Peninsula was helping revolutionary leaders of the Arab Revolt. The Arab Revolt was a revolution based on what British and Middle Eastern leaders established as a single Arabic state stretching from Aleppo, Syria to Aden, Yemen. If the revolt were to succeed against the Ottoman Empire, the British would formally recognize the territory as an independent nation. Lawrence was sent to Hejaz to interview the would-be leader Sharif Hussein’s sons to find who would lead the revolt. Out of his three sons, Faisal was best suited for the job. Faisal and Lawrence’s relationship bloomed soon after. Lawrence received word that would eventually be replaced, but due to miscommunication, Lawrence’s replacement did not show up on time. As a result of this delay, the two men strategized how they could best use Arab forces to prevent the Ottomans from taking railways in Syria that would surround Medina, located in the southern part of the peninsula. When the replacement came, Faisal objected to the British command. Faisal suggested that his replacement be sent somewhere else and that Lawrence stayed under his command. The wish was granted, and the two men served with each other until the end of the war in 1918. The two would work on several different missions together stopping the Ottoman Empire from devastating more of the British lines and spreading the Arab revolt.

His guerilla tactics led to many legends about Lawrence, who would later be known as Lawrence of Arabia. As part of his exploits aside from guerrilla tactics, was a 300-mile journey to recruit and warn Arabs about the Ottoman threat. In 1917, on route to Aqaba located in Jordan, he stopped in various towns in Syria to tell Arab villages to not attack the Ottomans until Faisal gave them the word. As part of his instructions to the Arabs in the Jordanian town of Azraq outside of Damascus, Syria, he destroyed a bridge the Ottomans used. The destruction of the bridge created a diversion for the Arabs and showing how guerilla warfare was used became a powerful example for the British. Lawrence was considered to receive the Victoria Cross which is considered the most prestigious award in England. However, his consideration was past on and he received a companionship in the Order of Bath (still prestigious as heck though). He was also promoted to Major. His years in Middle Eastern Theatre served as the majority for his fame. In the wilds and desert of the Middle East, stories of Lawrence riding around on camels, living with Arab rebels, and dawning the garb of an Arabian mystified and enamored the world. When the war ended, he became romanticized and toured around the world giving lectures of what he learned.

Aside from lectures at Madison Square Garden discussing the life he lived in the Middle East, work still had to be done. He served in the British Foreign Office during the post-war activity. He received word that Faisal had asked him to be a part of his delegation during the Paris Peace Conference in 1919. While in-route back to the Middle East, his flight from Italy to Egypt crashed, in Italy. The pilots were killed, but Lawrence only received a broken shoulder and ribs. While hospitalized he was visited by King Emmanuel III of Italy. His work to promote and secure a British-backed the Arabian state became fruitless. While regions like the Hejaz became temporarily independent, much of the Middle East after the fall of the Ottoman Empire either went to European powers. A good portion of Yemen in the southern peninsula fell under British rule, while Arabia and Oman were somewhat independent. Unfortunately, various tribespeople would wage war against each other and did so until a unified Saudi Arabia emerged.

With the idea of a fallen Arabian Peninsula put down by those who promoted it, Lawrence still served the foreign office diligently. During this time, he would work closely with American Lowell Thomas.

Thomas was a journalist who became great friends with Lawrence. He and Lawrence promoted the culture and history of the Middle East by creating a photographic show detailing how exotic the countries Lawrence visited were. This is what launched Lawrence into fame, and possibly (I hate to say this) caused him to talk himself up in public. He would wear clothing such as Bedouin robes while regaling his tales. Many people in England began to fantasize of how wondrous places such as Syria, Jordan, and Arabia must be from the stories that Lawrence told. While he did the show on the side, he would eventually land himself working alongside Winston Churchill doing colonial work for the foreign office. Despite working for a man who would later become prime minister of England, Lawrence hated the bureaucratic work he did. While doing this, he had earned a bad reputation in France for his opinion of French colonialism in Syria. The rumor in France was that Lawrence was a notorious Francophobe that encouraged the Syrians to rise up and take arms against the French. This was not the case. Lawrence loved France. By 1922, Lawrence decided that he would join the Royal Air Force (RAF) under the alias of John Hume Ross.

The goal for Lawrence was to become a pilot. He was interviewed by Flying Officer W. E. Johns who would later create the Biggles novel series (I have never heard of these, but we all love fun facts). Johns was suspicious of Lawrence and had assumed that the Ross name was falsified. He dismissed Lawrence, who later confessed that he had forged papers along with the name. Later, Johns would send word to recruit Lawrence into the RAF. He was in the RAF for roughly a year, where he was dismissed due to falsifying his information. This led to another attempt at changing his identity. He went from John Hume Ross to T. E. Shaw which was super creative. No, not really. Under Shaw, he joined the Royal Tank Corps in 1923 where he was unhappy. By 1925, he was back and accepted within the RAF. During a short tenure with the RAF, he published his autobiography, Revolt in the Desert, based on his experiences in the Middle Eastern Theatre with the Arab Revolt. Due to his knowledge, the RAF moved him to the Pakistani region of British India. He was in this area from 1925 to 1928 where he had to return to Britain after rumors circulated around him helping locals break free from the British.

Once he returned from British India, he served various RAF posts around England. This never amounted to much, but he kept serving Britain diligently through his military services. Two months after he retired from military service in 1935, he was leaving his home in Dorset, England on a motorbike where he swerved away from two young men riding their motorbikes. He landed headfirst on the side of the road. Six days later, T. E. Lawrence passed away. At his funeral, mourners included Winston and Clementine Churchill, T. E’s brother Arnold, the first female member of the British parliament Lady Astor, and author E. M. Foster. Though his death was a surprise too many, it led to many surprising legacies. While Lawrence was survived through his legends in the Middle East, there is a unique remembrance to him that is used every day. One of the doctors who cared for him during the six days after the accident later created the Motorcycle helmet. Aside from the helmet, Lawrence wrote books such as The Mint and Seven Pillars of Wisdom. While many people helped form the literary mind of Lawrence, the one author that stuck out to me the most was Joseph Conrad. Conrad wrote The Heart of Darkness which was non-fiction based on Conrad’s adventure into the Congo. The book is a scathing inditement of how poorly the Belgians treated the Congolese. Literature is great, but his life was also made into a 1962 movie titled Lawrence of Arabia where Peter O’Toole (who was a tool, in my opinion) portrayed him. Now to end this long tirade of fanboying. I have never seen the movie, which is a three-hour journey through the desert. My grandfather has; he saw it in his youth. The reaction my grandpa had was along the lines of, “I left the theatre in a hurry so I could get a drink of water. It looked so hot and dusty.” While T. E. Lawrence had lived a long and dangerous life, it is shrouded in mystery whether he just boasted lies or whether these heroics were true. To me, Lawrence will always be a unique and romanticized figure despite what has been said.

“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.” – T. E. Lawrence

#history

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belphegor1982 · 6 years

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Way back in December 2015 I made a post that started with (tldr) “I’m writing the sad and I’m afraid I’ll fuck up”. Well, I finally finished the chapter, so I’ll leave you to judge whether I fucked up or not.

BETWEEN THE MOUNTAINS AND THE PLAINS

Chapter One: September Chapter Two: The Clandestine Chaplain Chapter Three: Tidings of Comfort and Joy Chapter Four: Giosuè

Chapter Five: Vigil

Quand la vie ne tient qu’à un fil, c’est fou le prix du fil ! (When life hangs by a thread, you won’t believe the price of the thread.)

Daniel Pennac, La Petite Marchande de prose (Write to Kill)

August 1944

In the heart of summer, heat is no laughing matter in the Lowlands. Whoever decides to go out on the roads in the dead hour, between one and three in the afternoon, when the air trembles above the ground and you can burn your fingers just picking up a pebble, needs at the very least the protection of a hat if they don’t want to keel over from sunstroke. Going from the cooler houses out into the sun too quickly feels like being on the receiving end of the hottest, most powerful slap in the face you can imagine.

When the sun is at its zenith, everything is painted white: the sky, the roads, and even the grass on the dykes. Thin shiny threads of stagnant water stretch in the bottom of canals whose proportions then look completely excessive to an outsider. Lizards and grass snakes loll on hot stones, birds hide in trees or in the cool of hedges. Everything slows down, everybody waits for the worst to pass. The searing heat makes it hard for anyone to believe that the world hasn’t just stopped and that things, presumably, are still happening somewhere.

And yet.

* * *

It was an hour after lunch on one of the hottest Thursdays of August. Don Camillo was slumped in his armchair with his eyes closed and his collar undone. It was too hot to light a half-cigar or even read; a nap in the relative cool of the rectory seemed the best way to pass the time until the heat abated. Besides, it would be a welcome distraction from his thoughts.

The procession of the Assumption had been two days ago. Windows and doors all around town had been decked with the traditional flowers and garlands to celebrate the Madonna as her statue was carried along the streets, but only half the usual people turned up; most of the ones who did looked nervous from start to finish, glancing around anxiously and jumping at sudden noises. In the end, instead of Nazi or Fascist tanks, only Guglielmo Fantoni, the head of the local Blackshirt section – which consisted of half a dozen men and a dog – showed up on a bicycle to watch the proceedings.

Toward the end of the procession, however, as the cortège crossed the main square back to the church and people started to relax, they became aware of a low humming sound that quickly turned into the roaring whine of plane engines. It grew closer, so much that the terrified people picked up their children and their old folks and scattered; in the blink of an eye Don Camillo was alone in the middle of the deserted square with the statue of the Madonna. He ran to the terracotta statue, gritted his teeth, and lifted it with a huge effort. A few minutes and a lot of sweat later, he had carried it to the parvis, under the porch of the church, just in time to look up and see the planes fly over the square, so low you could make out their markings, and continue north-west to the river and the Canalaccio.

Two or three seconds later, the earth shook. The Germans had just lost three trucks, a tank, and half a dozen men; on the other hand, fifteen villagers of a nearby hamlet had lost their homes, and two families had lost their lives down to the last child.

The funerals had taken place this morning. The carpenter had to borrow wood from Boretto to finish the nine coffins, even though two of them were no more than a hundred, a hundred and ten centimetres long.

It was not uncommon for Carlino, the current altar boy, to fall asleep in the middle of Mass and forget to ring the bell at the moment of the Elevation1; Don Camillo usually muttered “Carlino, the bell!” between his teeth and, if it didn’t work, woke him up with a smack to the top of his head. Although he never let his hand do more than brush past the boy’s hair – otherwise he would probably knock out Carlino altogether – it was always more than enough for Carlino to yelp awake. This time, though, the reason the boy missed his cue for the bell was because he was sobbing too hard to pay attention; one of the dead children had sat next to him in class for the past two years and they were good friends. Don Camillo sighed, and ended up gently taking the bell from the boy’s hands and ringing it himself. Nobody blinked at the anomaly.

Grief won over fear. The entire town accompanied the bodies to the cemetery.

After the funeral, Don Camillo stayed in the church for a long time to talk to the crucified Christ on the main altar, as usual when the coffins lowered into the ground that day were a little too many, or a little too small. As lunchtime drew near, though, heat and hunger overcame sorrow, and he retreated to the rectory for a bite to eat and a nap. Or at least some shut-eye.

Don Camillo was just starting to doze off when someone knocked at his window so frantically he almost fell off his armchair. Once he was the right way up he ran to the window, where he saw the upturned nose and freckled face of thirteen year old Angelina Mozzini from the Boschetto. She was in such a hurry that her bicycle lay discarded on the ground.

“What happened?” Don Camillo asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Angelina, panting after a ten-minute bicycle ride at full speed under the sun, inhaled deeply and said in one breath, “My dad told me to tell you my grandpa is very sick and he wants to see you right now and there’s no time to lose.”

Don Camillo hastily put his collar back on and fastened up the couple of buttons he had undone as a concession to the heat. Then he rushed out of the rectory and into the church, followed by Angelina.

“Did he have an accident?” he asked loudly as he rummaged in the sacristy then under the altar for the holy oil, the vestments and the usual things needed for the last rites. “Or was it the heat? He was fine this morning!”

Angelina had stayed in the aisle; she twisted her index finger in her right hand and said nothing, looking red in the face and rather distressed, so Don Camillo did not insist. He locked the door of the church and tied his bag to the pannier rack on his bicycle. After a second thought he ran back to the rectory to take his hat. When he got back to his bicycle, Angelina had picked up her own and was already halfway across the square, pedalling towards home.

The Boschetto was one of the frazioni of the town, a few houses planted here and there next to the little grove that gave it its name. It took Don Camillo a few minutes to get there, and when he did, Angelina’s bicycle was already propped up against the wall of her house.

He found her inside with her parents and, more surprisingly, her grandfather, who was sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper and waved cheerfully when he saw Don Camillo.

“What—”

Angelina interrupted him. “I’m really sorry I lied to you, Don Camillo,” she said, visibly upset. “I didn’t want to.”

Her father gave her a comforting smile and turned to Don Camillo, looking grave.

“Sorry about the trick, Reverend,” he said. “I believe there is indeed someone who needs the last rites, but not here.”

“You mean in the mountains?” asked Don Camillo slowly. He had suspected Maurizio Mozzini to be in contact with the partisans for a while now, but since he was not absolutely certain, he had said nothing. Besides, there were so many brigades and small bands roaming the mountains and the hills. Who knew which one, or which ones, Mozzini communicated with?

Mozzini nodded. “I have a radio,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “I usually use it to relay information and report the Germans’ and the Black Brigades’ troop movements. I just received a message that said, ‘Tell Don Camillo that Agostino’s cousin is in a very bad way and wants to see a priest right now’; since it wasn’t part of any code I know, I sent Angelina to get you. Does that make sense to you?”

Don Camillo nodded, suddenly worried. ‘Agostino’ was Signora Antonietta’s code name. No cousin of hers lived nearby. It could only mean one thing: she was sheltering somebody who might not be long for this world. Angelina’s father had been right. There was no time to lose.

Since Angelina still had guilt written all across her face in capital letters, however, Don Camillo said quickly, “Look, you didn’t lie to me. You said your dad told you to tell me those things. That wasn’t a lie, was it?”

She shook her head, looking a little relieved. Don Camillo hastily saluted everybody – old Mozzini gave him a toothless smile from his armchair – and took off on his bicycle like a rocket towards Pasotti’s.

A few weeks ago, Pasotti, tired of having to get out of bed or stop working every time Don Camillo needed his motorcycle, had given him a spare key to his barn. Don Camillo took the motorcycle, leaving his bicycle in its place, and sped off in a roar of engine and a cloud of dust.

Riding a motorcycle, especially in the summer, had nothing on riding a bicycle. Not only the machine made him gain precious time and save up on energy, but the speed created a wind so strong he had to tie a handkerchief around his hat to keep it in place. After the trips to the Mozzinis’ and Pasotti’s with the sun beating down hard on his head and his shoulders – respectively covered with a black hat and a black cassock – he felt like a fish the fisherman had just thrown back into the water.

Who could be the poor soul in need of the holy oil? A soldier, maybe, with some information he could only tell to someone who would keep his secret to the grave? A civilian? One of the partisans?

And why had they asked for him?

The motorcycle swerved, jerking Don Camillo from his grim train of thoughts. He shoved the worry to the back of his mind and twisted the accelerator.

Despite the air shimmering above the ground that made it look like puddles of water in the distance, the dirt road was very, very dry, and by the time Don Camillo reached Roccaverde, around three in the afternoon, he was covered in white dust up to his hair. He barely took the time to brush off the worst of it before knocking on Signora Antonietta’s door.

Nobody answered.

Don Camillo knocked again, louder this time. Since he still didn’t get any reply, he tried opening the door.

It was unlocked.

The transition from the blazing sun to the darker indoors – the shutters of all the windows facing south and west were closed – was so jarring that it took a few seconds before his eyes got used to the lack of light. As he blinked and opened his eyes as wide as he could, there was a dull thud and sudden movement next to him.

The first thing he could make out clearly was a gun pointed straight at his face. The second was a pair of eyes just behind the gun.

Don Camillo had never been afraid of weapons, but he knew enough about human nature to freeze at the sight of those eyes. The person they belonged to was clearly beyond knowing friend from foe and could shoot without a second thought. All of a sudden the sweat that had been running down his temples went cold, and he shuddered.

“Brusco,” he said with a placating gesture, “it’s me. Calm down and put that gun aw—”

Two things happened at the same time: Brusco recognised Don Camillo and lowered his weapon, and Don Camillo took a better look at Brusco and gasped. The man’s clothes were spattered with blood and his hands and arms were blotched almost up to the elbow.

Brusco slowly put his gun back in his belt and bent to pick up what he had dropped: a mass of sheets with large stains of a colour that was instantly recognisable, even in the half-light. The expression in his eyes had shifted slightly. Not that it got any easier to look at.

A lot can be said without anyone opening their mouth at all. The two men stared at each other in wordless dialogue for a few seconds, then Don Camillo ran to the corridor.

The trapdoor to the attic was open, the ladder down. He clambered up, still dragging his bag.

What he saw when he scrambled to his feet made him stop dead. The bag fell from his hands with a thump on the dusty floorboards.

The tiles lay directly on the rafters and the purlins, and the rays of sunlight peeking between them were more than enough to see by. Signora Antonietta used the vast space mostly for storage, but also to hide fugitives stalked by the authorities, partisans between two actions, or downed Allied flyers. Small boxes of stuff that were not sensitive to cold or humidity were strewn here and there; in the back, a few piled up crates and boxes usually served as a low makeshift screen to isolate the old mattress she kept for the occasional traveller in transit. Signora Antonietta sat beside it, her sleeves rolled up high on her sinewy arms, taking knife-like tools out of a tureen full of red water and cleaning them with ethanol in slow, deliberate gestures despite the fact that her hands shook a little. When she was done with one of them, she handed it to the man sitting opposite on the dusty floor, a middle-aged bespectacled gentleman in his shirtsleeves who handled the knives with the kind of familiarity that comes with long experience. He took them one by one and carefully put them back into a long, thin box.

There was someone lying on the narrow mattress behind the two of them, and Don Camillo’s heart seized up in his chest, because it was Peppone.

Not the Peppone he knew, the one he had last seen just a week and a half ago as he waved him goodbye, face and arms very brown after almost a year of outdoor living, one hand gripping his submachine gun’s strap, firmly planted in the ground like a tree. This Peppone was still, silent, limp; his skin was grey, his eyes sunken, his lips almost as white as the thick bandage around his midsection. His jacket, his neckerchief and what was left of his shirt lay in a heap nearby, so drenched in blood that the floorboards underneath were red.

Don Camillo felt around for something to lean on. The nearest rafter was too far, and he swayed on his feet. Signora Antonietta had looked up at the sound of Don Camillo’s bag hitting the floor; when she saw the expression on his face she stood up with some difficulty and hurried to him.

The man vaguely looked up from his bag. He was drenched in sweat and looked exhausted.

“I’m afraid you won’t get much of a confession from this one, Father,” he said, taking off his glasses to clean them. “I hope it’s not that much of a prerequisite to get to Heaven.”

Was it the pervasive heat, or the pungent, sickly smell of blood and antiseptic mingled with dusty wood? Don Camillo’s legs wobbled and would perhaps have given out if Signora Antonietta hadn’t taken a solid hold of his arm and supported some of his weight. She glowered at the man, her eyes gleaming out of her pale face.

“He’s a friend,” she said sharply, bending down to retrieve Don Camillo’s bag from the floor and walking up to the mattress and the prone form on it. Don Camillo didn’t correct her. He followed like a ghost, his head strangely empty, as though full of winter mist.

The man – obviously a doctor – put his glasses back on and sympathy softened his expression.

“I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. He’s still alive; I managed to take the bullet out and sewed up the wound and what I could inside. The damage to the internal organs wasn’t all that extensive, considering, and I gave him an antibiotic to ward off infection. But he did lose a large amount of blood, and I’m not equipped to give him a transfusion – even if I could find out his blood type and find someone with the same I don’t have the proper equipment here. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, but…” He shook his head. “Honestly, it’ll be a miracle if he even lasts the night.”

Don Camillo half-fell, half-sat heavily on the floor.

Funny how some kinds of silences can have different textures, different colours. The doctor’s voice had been low, and nobody else made a sound, but the silence suddenly became even heavier as a fourth person – fifth, if you included Peppone – added his own lack of words. Brusco had come back with clean hands and a pile of folded-up sheets just in time to hear the last sentence, which had frozen him in his tracks.

Signora Antonietta sighed, and went to take the sheets from him. Between the four of them, they managed to make a decent bed without jostling Peppone around too much. Peppone did not complain or even make a sound the whole time. The only outward sign of life he gave was his chest rising and falling imperceptibly along with his thin, uneven breaths.

The doctor retrieved his jacket, his hat and his bag, and took his leave. Signora Antonietta picked up Peppone’s shirt and jacket and followed him down the ladder, adding in a tired voice that she was going to make some tea, being out of coffee. The red neckerchief – now a much darker red – fell from the heap of clothes right next to Don Camillo. Don Camillo picked it up automatically, then let it go as though it had burned his hand. The fabric was soaked through and through, probably from an attempt to stem the flood of blood.

Brusco went to sit down next to Peppone, staring into space. He and Don Camillo stayed silent a long time. The only sound that mattered to both of them was that faint irregular breathing.

Then, at some point, Brusco rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Bad luck. That’s what it was. We’d subdued the driver and the passenger, and were about to take the truck and go when that damn—that Kraut came out of nowhere. Turned out he went in the woods to relieve himself, lost track of his squad and bumped right into us. Still had half his trouser buttons open. Can you believe it?” Incredulity broke from behind the dark despair, then was gone as soon as it had come. “He only fired one shot. We got him before he could fire a second, Nino and me. One of us shot him right in the head. Might’ve been me or Nino. No way to tell.”

From downstairs came the muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. The middle hinge always creaked a little, no matter how often Signora Antonietta oiled it. Outside a goat bleated.

“Peppone insisted we bury the body before anything else, because there’s always reprisals when the Germans get wind that one of their own got killed. He’s the boss, and the wound didn’t look so bad at first, so we took care of the corpse and handed the guys from the truck to another band we’d rendezvoused with. Signora Antonietta’s house was a dozen kilometres away, so I took the truck and headed there with Peppone.

“At one point Peppone said that we’d have plenty of things to tell the chaplain next time you came to visit. It was a narrow, dangerous road to drive on, so I didn’t really pay attention. Then a little later he said, ‘You couldn’t stop by my house, could you? There’s something I forgot to mention to the wife.’ He was getting white and the seat was getting red, so I stepped on it. And then a couple of kilometres later, he gripped my shirt and said real quietly, ‘Get him. Go. Now.’ He stopped talking pretty quick after that.” Brusco cleared his throat and continued with an effort. It was the longest Don Camillo had ever heard him talk. “When we got here I sent Smilzo to get the doctor in Borghetto and wrote a message for Francesca to send over the radio. I’m supposed to meet with the others in half an hour, with or without news.”

Brusco fell silent. Then he got to his feet, his body unfolding limb after limb, looking like every joint should be creaking at least as much as Signora Antonietta’s front door did.

“When… If… Anything happens, leave a message in the usual tree. We’ll check whenever we can. The sooner we know, the better.”

Don Camillo was still incapable of forming a coherent sentence; he only nodded. The situation felt completely unreal, yet at the same time he felt as though somebody was hitting him in the head quite soundly with a thick plank.

Signora Antonietta climbed the ladder to bring the tea and give Brusco the go-ahead; Brusco downed a steaming cup in almost one go, most likely burning every single taste bud in his mouth. When he was able to speak again, he whispered a few words, probably in thanks. Signora Antonietta responded in kind and laid a gentle hand on his arm, but Brusco shook his head and left without looking back. A minute later the front door creaked again as he closed it.

Signora Antonietta put down the tray on a box and drew a crate to sit on. She was silent for a while, nursing her cup of tea and absent-mindedly rubbing her fingers. Most of the blood was gone and she wore a clean apron, but it was obvious from the way her hands still trembled a little that she would keep seeing that particular shade of red on her fingers – the same shade that was now on Don Camillo’s from when he had picked up the red kerchief – for a long time.

She put the other cup in Don Camillo’s hands. Once he noticed the tea, he drank it up, like Brusco had done – and, like with Brusco, it set his throat on fire. Only after the burning sensation started to fade and his face went back to a more normal colour did the world really come into focus again.

It was not a pretty sight.

Signora Antonietta slowly drank the last of her tea. Then she picked up Don Camillo’s bag which was lying on a box nearby and gently put it down next to him.

“I imagine you’re going to need this,” she said quietly. She took the empty cups and the tray to put them away and added, “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. There’s a lot of washing to be done and the goats need milking. I’m going to close the trapdoor just in case; knock four times if you want the ladder.”

“Thank you,” said Don Camillo in a voice he didn’t recognise. He heard her footsteps thud across the attic and down the ladder, then all sounds from downstairs were muffled as Signora Antonietta shut the trapdoor. This time she had taken the bloody kerchief with her.

As the silence stretched and stretched, it seemed to weigh so much that his heart and his limbs felt like they were made of lead. Reaching for his bag was an effort. When he looked inside, though, he immediately closed it again.

Don Camillo knew, for having learned it in seminary all those years ago and practising it all too often, that the holy oil was not only for the dying, but for the sick as well. Extreme unction existed to help souls on the way to Heaven, make sure they got there quickly and didn’t get lost along the way, even if said soul still had quite some time to spend on earth. It was ‘just in case’.

It was that ‘just in case’ that kept some people from calling the priest until the very last moment, when they or their loved one was practically drawing their last breath – almost as though the oil was not seen as a consequence of someone being at death’s door, but as the final confirmation that the person would indeed die.

There were priests – generally from big cities – who shook their heads at that and called it ‘silly rural superstition’. Don Camillo had always found it anything but silly. It was superstition, of course, but how could anyone call ‘silly’ people who just aren’t ready to say goodbye to a parent, a child, a friend?

Don Camillo took a deep breath and reached for the bag again. Then he closed it once more.

No, not now. It was too early.

The only sounds that came from outside was the occasional bird song and the ferocious thuds of the washing paddle on wet fabric below. Signora Antonietta was otherwise completely silent as she worked. Considering the amount of blood that had stained her sheets, she would be at it for a long time.

It was the heart of the afternoon; the sun had left the zenith a couple of hours before but was still beating brutally on the trees, the ground, and the rooftops. In the attic, directly under the tiles, the heat was crushing. Don Camillo wiped the sweat from his forehead with the hand that didn’t have blood on it and looked down at Peppone, who was still breathing shallowly, grey-faced and sunken-eyed.

Don Camillo looked at his bag again.

No. There was still time.

Don Camillo shifted position to get on his knees – little bones popping in his back and shoulders – and started praying.

They weren’t the usual prayers one said at someone’s death or sick bed; his missal was in his bag and he wasn’t opening it for the world (not for the moment at least, as he kept telling himself). Rather, he borrowed from Masses: the daily ones, the Sunday ones, the weddings and baptisms. The Ave Maria, the Magnificat, the De Profundis. The prayers addressed to God directly and the others, addressed to men in comfort or consolation.

And still time crawled by, agonisingly.

* * *

Signora Antonietta came up around four with a pitcher of water. She managed to have Peppone down the contents of a glass.

“Try to have him drink at least every hour,” she told Don Camillo, adding before she went down the ladder again, “and it wouldn’t be a bad thing if you helped yourself, too. It can get fairly hot up here.”

As understatements went, this one was rather spectacular. Don Camillo had to make several trips to the kitchen pump.

When temperatures started to go down a little and the sunlight softened and turned gold, then orange, then red, Signora Antonietta climbed into the attic again, this time with a bit of broth and bread, hard cheese, and culatello. Peppone drank the broth without waking up; Signora Antonietta ate half the rest of the food. When she insisted that Don Camillo should have something, he politely but firmly declined.

A while later, Signora Antonietta looked at him, sighed, and brought him a blanket.

* * *

Don Camillo spent one of the longest nights of his life, huddling under a blanket on that hard, dusty floor, staring into space and listening with unprecedented attention to one particular sound. Time was suspended to that faint breathing, right there, fifty centimetres from him. A few times, it slowed to a crawl, and Don Camillo’s heart froze and only started beating again when he realised it hadn’t, in fact, stopped.

When Latin started to slip away from his mind – because it’s always right when you think hardest about something that your memory fails you – he switched to Italian. At some point he realised he was praying in dialect, too.

Seconds passed, turned into minutes then hours, then abruptly turned into seconds again. Peppone kept breathing. Don Camillo kept praying. The bag remained unopened.

* * *

“Reverend?”

Don Camillo had not realised he had closed his eyes. When he did, his heart gave an ugly lurch and he quickly looked down at Peppone.

Not much had changed. He was still deathly pale and almost completely motionless, as though keeping what little life he had left huddled in his chest to keep his heart and lungs working. Breathing looked a little less like a huge effort, however.

The faint blue light of pre-dawn seeped in through the spaces between the upper tiles. Signora Antonietta was crouching in front of him, already dressed and with a shawl around her shoulders. When she saw his panicked glance, she gave a wan smile.

“He’s still with us, thank the Lord. I brought breakfast. Do you want some?”

“No, thank you,” said Don Camillo, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand that didn’t have dried blood on it. “I can’t before morning Mass.” He took out his pocket watch; it was a little past four. There was still time for him to make it home before morning service.

The last thing Don Camillo wanted was to leave Signora Antonietta’s attic, but he knew that if he stayed away for too long, there would inevitably be gossip, especially from the little old ladies who never missed even the six o’clock mass barring snow, sleet, or buckets of rain. Gossip was not that dangerous in and of itself, but since the German invasion, anything could be turned into a weapon. Having already missed vespers last night for no apparent reason, he could hardly afford to miss another Mass.

He rose to his feet with some effort. Signora Antonietta put down her cup of tea on a box nearby and gently touched Peppone’s hand. Peppone didn’t stir.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked softly. She wasn’t quite looking at him, and she wasn’t quite looking down either, so Don Camillo wasn’t sure whether she meant him or Peppone. He nodded all the same and left silently.

* * * *

Pasotti’s motorcycle flew towards the horizon as though on its own accord. Its rider was too preoccupied to consciously do a good steering job. The fact that they both reached Pasotti’s farm intact was nothing short of a miracle. It was only when Don Camillo took up his bicycle again that he realised he had left his bag in Signora Antonietta’s attic.

There was quite some time left before Mass, but Don Camillo didn’t stop at the rectory to brush the dust off and change. Instead, he slipped into the church through the little door of the bell tower.

The church was cool, still, and quiet, as it usually was this early in the day. Sunlight was still halfway down the belfry and it would be a while before it reached the stained-glass windows. The candles next to the altar and in the little chapel devoted to the Madonna had gone out, but the little light on the main altar still burned as it always did.

That little light had never failed to comfort Don Camillo, not once, for as long as he could remember. Now, though, as he stared at it, it seemed to him that it shone from afar.

His head still felt empty, but his heart was full to the brim, like the river when swollen with winter rains. And, like the river, it suddenly overflowed with barely any warning.

He raged against the Germans, who invaded lands that did not want them and murdered their people; against their guns, and their bullets, and the harm they did; and, most of all, against idiots who had wives and children and still went out to fight like they thought they were Garibaldi. He strode back and forth along the railing before the altar as his words filled the little church.

The church and its surroundings were deserted. The only people up and awake at this time are the farmers, who know that land and livestock don’t keep office hours, and they don’t come to the heart of town to work. Nobody interrupted or interfered, and after a while, Don Camillo simply ran out of steam and collapsed on a front pew, his face in his hands.

The silence that followed was not quite as absolute as it had been in Signora Antonietta’s attic, but it came close.

Then there was a sigh.

“Don Camillo.”

Don Camillo didn’t move.

“I know you are worried, Camillo, and upset, but this is not the way to go about it.”

Don Camillo finally let his hands fall. On his cheeks, tears had left tracks in the dust.

“Whose fault is it, then, Lord?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

“You’ll always find blame if you go looking for it in others and in yourself. But where it truly lies is in hate and indifference to the fate of other men.”

“But if they… if he just…” The blood on his right hand had dried, gone brown and cracked, now a little smudged in places. He stared at his feet to avoid looking at it. “That soldier had a choice. Peppone had a choice. He could have… I…”

“Of course they had a choice. But why did they make it? The soldier shot, because he was taught to hate and to destroy the enemy. Brusco and Nino killed him because he had shot Peppone and threatened to shoot other people. And the soldier’s family will wonder forever whether they had a choice, too.”

“A soldier knows he can get killed at any given moment in war.” That lesson had been learned quickly in 1917: the uniform, no matter what kind, painted a target on your back. People even shot at stretcher bearers – and chaplains – provided they wore a different colour.

“Peppone knows this, too,” said Jesus kindly.

“He hasn’t been a soldier for over twenty-five years!”

“If you asked him, I think he would say it doesn’t matter right now.”

“I can’t,” said Don Camillo, trying and failing to swallow the lump in his throat. “I can’t ask him right now, because he’s… not here.” He sat up straighter and, for the first time since he had come in, looked up at the crucified Christ on the main altar. “War is a young man’s game. What possessed him to go looking for German soldiers, and at his age too? He’s got four children!”

“People have different ideas of what it means to protect the things they love,” said Jesus. “Are you angry with him because he made a choice, or because you are afraid?”

“I’m not angry,” snapped Don Camillo. Then he cleared his throat and said quietly, “He can’t die, my Jesus. He just can’t.”

“Only souls are immortal, Camillo,” said Jesus very gently.

Don Camillo lowered his head. “I don’t want him to.” He ran a hand across his eyes; his cheeks were still wet. “Not like this. Not without a confession, not without his family around him. They didn’t even get to say goodbye, Lord.”

“I know. Such is the way of things sometimes.”

Silence fell again, because Don Camillo had no idea what to say. Words had tumbled out of him earlier; now they deserted him completely.

Outside, the sun was rising, sunlight slowly descending on the church, warming the stone walls and drying up the dew. When the first ray of sunshine hit the top of the stained-glass windows, a small rainbow spilled out inside on the wall opposite, and it was like watching a second sunrise.

Don Camillo, lost in his own head and still looking at his feet, did not see the colours. Then, slowly, he unfolded his great mass from his pew and disappeared into the rectory.

It was much too early to go buy candles from the general store, so he took the four or five he had left and went to light them near the main altar. Then he lit the other candles around them and the ones near the terracotta statue of the Madonna.

He watched his candles burn in silence for a dozen minutes, shoulders hunched and hands folded behind his back; then, as it was nearly time for Mass, he went down on one knee and made the sign of the cross before going into the rectory for a wash and a change of clothes.

* * * *

There was never much of a crowd for first Mass on weekdays. Only a few little old ladies, a couple of old men, and the town’s road mender sat in the church.

Don Camillo went through the entire liturgy like a sleepwalker. He did not get one word wrong, but people noticed something off about him. They were not accustomed to a faraway voice and unfocused eyes from their giant of a parish priest, who on some days seemed the human embodiment of a thunderstorm.

Carlino, though half-asleep – as usual, so early in the day – seemed to catch on, too. He kept throwing him furtive glances; when he realised that he had completely forgotten to ring the bell for Elevation and Don Camillo had said nothing, he looked downright scared.

“Are you all right, Don Camillo?” he ventured after the few faithful had left, sharing puzzled looks.

Don Camillo looked at him absently and waved him off. “Go home,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like him at all, “and be careful.”

Carlino ran off, still in his altar boy attire, wondering what calamity could make such a drastic change in someone. Surely it was something awful. Maybe the end of the world.

When Carlino slipped out of the church he left the front door open. Don Camillo went to close it, out of habit.

Outside, the sun was already shining bright as it rose in the cloudless sky, the promise of another scorching day. People took advantage of the relative cool to go about their businesses, riding by on bicycles and walking under the arcade that bordered the square, left of the church. Stores opened, people greeted each other cheerfully, and a few children played marbles, watched lazily by a dog drowsing in the shade of the statue in the middle of the square.

Don Camillo watched life happen for a little while, then asked quietly, “Jesus, is Peppone still alive?”

“What do you believe, Don Camillo?” came a voice behind him from the heart of the church.

“I believe I should go back. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Signora Antonietta hasn’t left his side. And no-one is ever alone.”

“Signora Antonietta is a good woman, and I know You’re watching over him, but if he… He needs someone from home. And Brusco and the rest of the gang are in hiding.”

“And you left your bag with the holy oil at her house,” Jesus remarked.

A few seconds passed in silence. Then Don Camillo closed the door and turned to face the crucified Christ.

“I won’t need the holy oil,” he said slowly.

“Do you think so?”

“I believe so. Peppone is not going to die. Not today.” Don Camillo locked the door and walked up to the main altar with new purpose and energy. When he was at the foot of the crucified Christ he hastily crossed himself. “I have to go, Lord, sorry. I’ll talk to You on the way.”

Don Camillo rushed up the rectory stairs to his bedroom to take his hat; after a second’s reflection, he grabbed the little wooden crucifix on the wall above his headboard and put it into his pocket. Then he ran out to where he had left his bicycle only a couple of hours before and pedalled like mad towards Pasotti’s farm.

* * * *

When Don Camillo reached Signora Antonietta’s little farm, he was drenched in sweat and covered in dust, just like he had been the day before. Unlike the day before, the owner was there to let him inside when he knocked.

“How is he?” he asked immediately.

Signora Antonietta looked tired and worn; his heart skipped a beat. But she gave a small smile.

“Still hanging on. Looks like he decided to prove the doctor wrong.”

Don Camillo mentally thanked Jesus, God, and the Madonna as fervently as he could, and all but ran to the ladder to the attic.

Yes, Peppone was still limp and ashen-faced, his eyes were still closed and his breathing ragged, but he was still holding on to life like the pigheaded mule Don Camillo knew him to be. Relief hit him like a cannonball, powerful enough to make him see stars, and he exhaled slowly.

“I’ll only say this once – sometimes it’s not easy being your chaplain.”

Peppone, being unconscious, didn’t say anything. In nigh on forty years Don Camillo had never seen him remain silent for so long. There was something he found profoundly disturbing about it.

Still, he reminded himself, being a chaplain is not something one decides to be because it’s easy.

Something jabbed his right hip and he remembered the crucifix in his pocket; he propped it against a box near Peppone’s head and looked around. His bag was where he had left it, out of the way to and from the trapdoor, within easy reach.

Like last night, Don Camillo didn’t open it. Only this time something in his heart told him he wasn’t wrong not to.

To his surprise, the white spots just wouldn’t disappear no matter how much he tried to blink them out of his eyes; worse, the world started to spin suddenly and he had to lean on the framework to avoid dropping to the floor. That was how Signora Antonietta found him as she climbed up the ladder. She took one look at his white face and hurried to Peppone��s makeshift bed, hitching up her skirt and her apron in her hands.

“Did he—” She made sure he was still breathing, and looked up to Don Camillo, puzzled. “What’s the matter with you, Reverend?”

If Don Camillo had had the energy to, he would have blushed.

“I haven’t eaten anything since noon yesterday. I only just remembered.”

Signora Antonietta eyed the big black-clad mass in front of her and frowned.

“Father, that’s not very sensible.”

“I agree,” said Don Camillo over the rumbling of his stomach.

“Sit down, I’ll bring something up.”

Signora Antonietta came back with bread, cured ham, some tomatoes and a couple of eggs, and shared an early lunch with Don Camillo. Don Camillo ate slowly, steadily, until the last spot was gone from his vision. From time to time, he glanced at Peppone, who still hadn’t stirred.

“You’re missing out, comrade,” he told him between two mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

Signora Antonietta smiled behind her glass of water. She straightened the little crucifix, which had slid against the crate and threatened to fall, and looked at Peppone.

“He’s lucky to have such a good friend.”

Don Camillo almost choked on his bread at the thought of the face Peppone would make if he heard.

“We’re not friends,” he said with emphasis once he could breathe correctly. Then, as Signora Antonietta stared at him incredulously, he added with his index finger in the air, “We’re enemies thrown together by circumstance.”

“And,” asked Signora Antonietta, who seemed to have trouble suppressing her smile, “how long have you been enemies?”

Don Camillo did some quick mental arithmetic.

“Thirty-nine years, more or less.”

Signora Antonietta gave a solemn nod.

“That makes you very faithful enemies.” She looked at Don Camillo from the corner of her eye. “I told you once that folks around here think you valley people are mad. From what I’ve seen this past year, Reverend, I can say that everyone from the Lowlands that I’ve met has a screw loose.”

“Take it up with him,” said Don Camillo, pointing at Peppone with his thumb. “He’s the mechanic, not me.”

But there was something like pride in his smile.

* * * *

The doctor was true to his word: he came back around two o’clock to change Peppone’s bandages, looking less harried but more tired. He was somewhat surprised to find his patient still clinging on doggedly to this world.

“He must be stubborn, to say the least,” he said as he opened his bag and pulled out his tools of the trade.

Don Camillo gave a shrug. “That’s how it is in the plains. We’re nothing if not persistent.”

“Today it’s a good thing. Do you know his blood type?”

“Yes,” said Don Camillo, “we have the same.”

The blood-transfusion instrument the doctor took out of his bag had tubes, a pump, and syringes; Don Camillo remembered seeing one in action exactly once before, on the battlefield in early autumn 1918. It looked just as barbaric then as it did now. He also distinctly remembered that the soldier had survived.

Back home, when Don Camillo rolled up his sleeves, people took it as a hint that blows were about to be exchanged with whoever was taking off his jacket at the time, and ran off to watch from a respectable distance and count points. This time, though, blood got drawn when he rolled up one sleeve, but no violence was involved.

The whole affair seemed to last a long time; by the time the doctor cleaned the syringes and put the whole thing back into his bag, Peppone’s colour had improved a little. Then again, it had been so awful to begin with that it might not mean much.

“Well,” said the doctor after he finished changing Peppone’s bandages, “he seems to be in good hands; if nothing else happens he might just make it. No strenuous activities for a few hours, Father,” he added while Don Camillo rolled down his sleeve on the brand new bandage around his elbow. “Eat something, and drink a lot of water.”

“I’ll see to it that he does,” said Signora Antonietta with a warning look at Don Camillo. To tell the truth, he was oddly exhausted, like after a long fever, and had no desire to do anything that might qualify as ‘strenuous’. Thus he gave Signora Antonietta his most innocent look.

The stony stare she returned told him he didn’t have much choice in the matter anyway.

The doctor saluted Don Camillo and followed Signora Antonietta down the ladder. Don Camillo looked down at Peppone, who seemed to be breathing deeper, and gave a small smile.

“Jesus, how angry do you think Peppone will be when he finds out he has priest blood in his veins now?”

“Is it really necessary for him to know that?” came Jesus’ voice from the little crucifix.

“Maybe not, but once he’s better he’s going to ask.”

“And you will of course show the kind of true humility and goodness of heart God asks from His ministers and not torment him in any way.”

“Of course, Lord.”

Only half of that was a lie. The scare had been a little bit too great.

Soon Signora Antonietta came back up with bread, a pot of jam and some tea; this time she only stayed a few minutes, having things to do around the little farm that couldn’t wait. When he was done, Don Camillo went downstairs to wash the cup, put away the jam jar, and place the rest of the bread in the bread bin.

Once back in the attic, he grabbed his bag and sat on the floor, in the same spot he had been a few minutes ago while the doctor worked. It wasn’t any softer, or any less dusty. From his bag he took out his breviary, carefully avoiding the holy oil. The cover was slightly worn, the pages had forgotten the meaning of ‘crisp’ years ago, but the familiar Latin words slowly soothed a piece of his heart that had been frayed and torn for the past twenty-four hours. Occasionally he glanced at Peppone and at the cross he had put down next to him, and returned to what he was reading a little more peacefully.

From the sounds that filtered from outside, not counting birdsong and a slight breeze rustling the tree leaves, Signora Antonietta tended to her horse, worked the garden, cleaned out the stable, and did a thousand things that needed to be done.

The heat was ferocious in the attic under the tiles, just like the previous day. The sounds of life outside the house seemed to come from a great distance, and Don Camillo, lulled by the faint but thankfully constant breathing next to him, gave in to tiredness and finally fell asleep.

* * * *

“…here?”

“Wh—what?” Don Camillo awoke with a start. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was, and why he was half-sitting, half-lying on a hard wooden floor with his breviary open on his stomach. He looked up, expecting to see Signora Antonietta, but no-one was there.

Then he looked down at his right, and met Peppone’s puzzled gaze.

Peppone hadn’t moved from his spot at all; the only change was that his eyes were half-open, and looked here and there sluggishly, as though he was trying to make sense of everything he had missed.

Don Camillo’s heart leapt in his chest. What threatened to be a huge, beaming smile started making its way across his face; naturally, he fought it tooth and nail. And failed.

“Look who’s decided to join the world of the living!” he said, closing his breviary and handing Peppone a glass of water. “You took your time.”

Peppone sipped the water carefully, and stared at him. One could practically see the cogs of his brain working at full speed under his deep frown. He lifted a hand that appeared to weigh a ton and felt the bandage around his stomach, wincing; then he looked around at the attic and rubbed his face with a sigh.

“The lads?”

“They’re fine,” replied Don Camillo immediately. “No-one else got hurt – nobody in your squad, anyway. I saw Brusco, he told me what happened.”

“Where is he?”

“In the mountains somewhere, probably worried up the wall about you. You almost bled to death on his passenger seat.”

“I remember,” muttered Peppone in a hollow voice. Then the look in his eyes sharpened as he focused on Don Camillo. “I sent for you, didn’t I?” It was barely a question.

Don Camillo nodded. “You did.”

“And you came.”

“Of course I came.”

“I…” Peppone blinked. “This I’m not sure I remember.”

“You wouldn’t. You were too far gone to…” Don Camillo’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat, hoping Peppone wouldn’t notice the shaky breath that came with it. “Well. Although you also could have sent for the priest of Roccaverde or Borghetto. It’s much closer, they would have got here a lot quicker.”

“I didn’t want any old priest I’d never seen before in my life,” said Peppone abruptly. “It’s my chaplain I called.”

This answer was to Don Camillo the equivalent of an uppercut to the chin. It caught him completely off guard, and he remained thoroughly speechless.

For once Peppone didn’t press his advantage. He still looked very tired, very pale, and very much not up for verbal boxing.

“What time is it?” he asked in a low voice after a while.

Don Camillo took out his pocket watch and told him. Peppone’s eyebrows went up.

“So I only blacked out for four or five hours?”

“Twenty-nine, more like,” said Don Camillo, sharper than he intended. “You got shot yesterday around one o’clock.”

It had been the ghost of the hollow, empty shock which had dogged him all day and night talking; Don Camillo regretted it immediately when he saw Peppone lose some of what little colour he had left.

A few deep breaths later, Peppone had recovered enough to ask, “Did you tell my wife?”

Don Camillo shook his head.

“No. I just returned to the village this morning for first Mass and I didn’t see her.”

“Good. I don’t want her or the kids to worry.” Peppone squinted up at him. “You were here a long time, huh.”

“Well –” Don Camillo shifted uncomfortably “– only as long as it took.”

“While I was… gone, you didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to give me extreme unction, did you?”

“Peppone,” Don Camillo said in the tone of someone who squares up for a fight, “when I give you the last rites, I’ll do it proper. To do this I’ll need a confession, and you’ll need to be conscious to give it.”

“Then you’ll have to wait a long time, Reverend,” said Peppone with some self-satisfaction, “because my last confession was some twenty-five years ago and I don’t intend to break with tradition.”

Don Camillo was about to retort something scathing, but stopped as Peppone made to sit up, turned stark white, and muttered a profanity his mother could have smacked him for, no matter his age. Peppone stilled, drew a few careful breaths, and turned woeful eyes to his old enemy.

“Now I know yesterday was bad. I’m sure you would have said something back if I wasn’t half-dead.”

“I would have, believe me,” muttered Don Camillo. “But it hardly seems fair right now.”

Peppone gave a mirthless laugh. “See? I knew having you for a chaplain was a good choice.” He blinked at the ceiling a few times, then his eyes landed on something on his left. “What’s that?”

“I would have thought that even a godless Bolshevik could recognise the Crucified Christ.”

“Oh for the love of – I mean what is it doing here? Did Signora Antonietta put it out to pasture?”

“Peppone,” roared Don Camillo, “quit it or you might just go from half-dead to completely dead.”

“Oh yeah?” Peppone bellowed. “I’d like to see you tr—”

This time Peppone did not swear. He gasped, and spent the next few minutes clenching and unclenching his fists, his eyes screwed up in pain. When he finally relaxed he was drenched in sweat.

“All right,” he panted, “truce.”

The state of things in Don Camillo’s head was a little complicated: anger and fear vied for first place, closely followed by good old exasperation, with sympathy lagging behind.

“Truce, but once you’re well again, we’ll have scores to settle, you and me.”

“You can count on it,” murmured Peppone in a tone that said, I hope so.

The silence that fell then was not quite the comfortable, companionable silence that sometimes reminded Don Camillo that words – or punches – were not the best way of communicating; but it was infinitely better than the previous day. Peppone’s breathing was still shaky and his eyes clouded, but he was here, with his sharp mind, his bad temper, his infuriating bullheadedness, and the big heart he didn’t bother hiding most of the time.

Don Camillo’s anger evaporated like the dew under the morning sun. It was too hot to stay angry.

“I put it there.”

“Eh?”

“The crucifix. Figured you might need help finding your way back.”

Peppone let out a deep breath.

“It’s good to know I had you in my corner, Father.”

“I didn’t mean me, Peppone,” sighed Don Camillo.

“I know. I’m grateful for that, too.”

It was as close to an actual truce as they could get, and under the circumstances Don Camillo didn’t insist. In the quiet that followed, both heard the front door creak, and then a clacking sound as the ladder was placed against the wall and the trapdoor opened. Signora Antonietta hoisted herself up and pinned both men with a look that was not quite a glare, but was fairly close.

“I was in the barn and I thought I heard yelling, so I figured both of you woke up.” She put her hands on her hips and asked incredulously, “Why is it that, every time you two are in my house, you have a shouting match? Can’t you just get along? Don’t you think there’s enough fighting the world over that doesn’t need adding to?”

Don Camillo and Peppone looked wordlessly at each other. While they figured out what to say, Signora Antonietta had crossed the space to Peppone’s mattress and crouched down. From up close she looked exhausted, with a few wisps of straw in her hair and smudged dirt where she had tried to wipe the sweat off her face; when she put the back of her hand to Peppone’s forehead she smiled thinly.

“You don’t seem to have a fever. That’s good; it means the wound is not infected.”

Don Camillo caught Peppone’s side glance and saw his own relief reflected in his eyes. Both had seen their share of the ravages infections could cause in the Great War. Most veterans lived in horror of the word.

When she had finished her inspection, Signora Antonietta stood up, a hand on the small of her back, and nodded.

“Well, I’m no doctor, but from what I’ve seen, you just might be out of the woods. No, don’t move,” she said as Peppone tried to sit up again. “I’ll be right back.”

She was gone a couple of minutes, and came back with a big pillow in an old-fashioned pillowcase that smelled like lavender and just a touch of mothballs.

“It’s from my daughter’s bed,” she explained as she and Don Camillo carefully put it under Peppone’s head and shoulders.

“Won’t she miss it?” he asked once he was settled, looking very grateful to be able to see something else than the rafters and the tiles, not to mention have something soft under his neck.

“I doubt it. She’s been married for two years now and lives in Parma. But since her husband is an idiot and a ne’er do well, I’m keeping her bedroom intact just in case she realises it and wants to return to the farm.” She shot an apologetic look at Peppone. “I’m sorry I have to put you up in the attic when there’s a real bed downstairs. Sometimes Germans come up here to patrol, or take a chicken or a slab of butter they rarely pay for. If they’d seen a strange man in my house with a bullet wound, they’d have shot you – and me – without asking questions.”

“Or worse, they could have asked questions,” muttered Peppone.

“Exactly.” She straightened up, tucked a stray strand of hair back into her bun, and gave a real smile. “Welcome back. You gave us quite the scare.”

Peppone returned the smile slightly, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Then he and Don Camillo caught each other’s eyes.

There were a lot of things Don Camillo wanted to say or could have said. Some of it were downright lies, some of it was true, and a lot fell in between. Therefore he remained silent, and so did Peppone.

As a result, they understood each other perfectly.

* * * *

The return trip could not have been more different from the previous day. Before going back to Pasotti’s motorcycle he had left in Signora Antonietta’s barn, as usual, Don Camillo went to the old dead tree to leave a message for Brusco and the rest. Then he rode home under a blazing sun, on the long strip of dust devoid of any trees that became an oven in the summer.

He was just in time for vespers. There still was some dust in his hair when he stood in front of his congregation; this, however, wasn’t what people noticed. What they did notice was that their priest, unlike for morning service, not only said all the right words at the right places but also appeared focused on what he was doing. They concluded that he must have got sunstroke, then got better, and they moved on.

Carlino, oddly, seemed quite happy with the return of the status quo. He was daydreaming again at the moment of the Elevation and barely heard the familiar mutter “Carlino, the bell!” in time. When he looked up and saw the priest scowling down at him, he rang the little bell with such a relieved expression that Don Camillo quite forgot to be angry with him.

After Mass, as Don Camillo was putting his vestments away in the sacristy and Carlino was almost at the door, they felt rather than heard a rumble that made the stained-glass windows shiver in the stone. The boy froze and turned absolutely white; Don Camillo grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and stuffed him under the altar until the planes were gone. It took him a while to make sure, because his heart was pounding in his chest fit to burst.

Bombs didn’t fall on the village that day, but on another village about forty kilometres to the north. Don Camillo delivered a still trembling Carlino to his parents’ doorstep and told them that, if the boy missed first Mass the next day, nobody would hold it against him.

Then he returned home to the rectory, closed the door, leaned heavily against it, and wiped the cold sweat off his face with a shaking hand.

* * * *

Three or four weeks passed before Don Camillo was able to take his field altar, borrow Pasotti’s motorcycle, and go back to his duties as clandestine chaplain. A rainstorm had come and gone; the sun now shared the sky with a few white clouds which made the horizon look like looming snow-capped mountains well before the actual mountains came into view.

This time the rendezvous point was a good fifteen kilometres from the dead tree. When Don Camillo got there, the old crowd came to greet him and several new faces stared at him, running the gamut between curiosity and suspicion. He went through the group, saluting people and shaking proffered hands, sidestepping crates of supplies and ammunition. Finally he found what he was looking for and stopped near a wreck of an armoured car standing on four concrete blocks.

The old Lancia was a sorry sight; it had probably seen more of the Great War than Don Camillo. Between the peeling paint, the rust, and what appeared to be fire damage, it looked like a war memorial for armoured cars fallen in battle.

Two legs stuck out from under the bodywork next to a toolbox. It was half empty, the tools lying neatly side by side on a big chequered handkerchief spread out on the short grass. From the various sounds that came from under the car, some serious tinkering was underway.

Don Camillo searched his pockets in vain for a cigar butt. “Do you really think you can get that ruin to run?” he asked.

The tinkering stopped, then started again.

“If I know my craft,” came Peppone’s voice, “the only thing this car needs that I can’t give her right now are four new tyres and some petrol. I’ll just have to get them – from somewhere.” His voice tightened on the last word. “Pass me the 12 point spanner, would you? This ruddy bolt just won’t let go.”

Don Camillo chose one spanner and put it into the big brown hand. After a few seconds the bolt surrendered and Peppone crawled out on his back from under the bodywork.

He looked good – a great deal better than the last Don Camillo had seen of him. His colour had almost completely returned, and although he moved somewhat gingerly, with a care that was foreign to his character, his eyes met Don Camillo’s with their usual sharpness. Don Camillo reached out to help him up, and his hand was warm and strong when he grabbed it.

When Peppone stood in front of him, his face still smudged with motor oil and dust, grass and earth all over the back of his shirt, and wearing the same old red kerchief around his neck, a small piece – a tiny speck – of the world that had been askew for weeks finally righted itself.

“Come to bring God to the mountains again, have you?” asked Peppone with a grin, pulling a large handkerchief from his pocket and rubbing his hands with it.

“God is everywhere,” replied Don Camillo absently, righting the strap of the altar box on his shoulder. “This is just the reminder.”

“Right. Speaking of, I have a favour to ask.”

“Speaking of what, exactly?” asked Don Camillo suspiciously before he even thought of asking about the favour. He followed Peppone to a makeshift tarpaulin shelter – of which there were a couple now – and watched him take out a long, thin bundle wrapped in paper and tied up with string.

Don Camillo untied the string and raised one corner of the wrapping paper warily, half-expecting to find dynamite sticks. Instead he found a somewhat large candle.

“Bought it in a village not far from here. Normally I’d have it engraved, but I didn’t have that much in my pockets and I didn’t want to stay there longer than necessary.”

“Where do you want it?” asked Don Camillo when his voice came back. Peppone hesitated.

“Well, if you think there’s room for it near the main altar…”

“There is.”

“Then you can light it there on my behalf.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Reverend,” said Peppone with feeling. Don Camillo nodded with a smile.

Then they talked while Don Camillo prepared the field altar for Mass, and found that for once, truce didn’t have to mean silence.

* * * *

When Don Camillo had given Pasotti his motorcycle back and retrieved his bicycle, he made a stop at the church. He put down the field altar next to the railing and unwrapped the paper around the candle.

“Jesus,” he said excitedly to the crucified Christ on the main altar, “look at this!”

“It’s a beautiful candle, Don Camillo,” said Jesus with a smile.

“Isn’t it? This is from Peppone, in gratitude for being alive. He’s sorry to be unable to come light it himself, but you know how things are.”

Don Camillo carefully lit the candle with another, and placed it next to the one he had bought after the last time he had come back from Signora Antonietta’s attic. Like Peppone’s, the candle was devoid of any ornament, because, like Peppone, he had lacked money for trimmings and hadn’t wanted to arouse suspicion. The two candles stood there among the smaller votive candles, one burned to the last quarter and the other still shiny and whole. Their flames made a pretty light, and Don Camillo sat on a front pew to watch them with his chin in his hands.

“Lord,” he said after a while, “there’s something I’m still wondering.”

“What is it?”

“There’s a lot of villages up in the mountains. Most of them have churches. Why did Peppone go to the trouble of taking his candle with him back to camp, and then give it to me?”

“Did you ask him?”

“No, Lord, I only thought about it on the way back here.”

Jesus let the lie pass and replied, “Maybe he wanted his chaplain to light his candle; maybe he wanted his candle to burn in the church he got baptised and married in; maybe he wanted something of him to remain here, in his village, while himself cannot. Or maybe it’s all three. Does it really matter which?”

Don Camillo thought about it for a minute.

“Not really,” he said eventually. “I think I understand.”

Exactly what he understood, he didn’t say, but stayed watching the candles in silence for some time.

Notes:

1In Catholic liturgy, before communion, the altar server rings a little bell while the priest raises the holy host. Carlino sleeping is a nod to Cinema Paradiso and the first time the viewer sees Totò as a child. I really love this movie. It’s one of the few melodramas that I really love.

I’ve had the idea for this chapter in mind since... August 2015 :o) (even made a post about it.) Basically, from the first film and one of the first stories:

PEPPONE: “Remember I have a weak spot in my stomach from that bullet I took in the mountains. No low blow or I’m grabbing a bench.” DON CAMILLO: “Don’t worry, Peppone, I’ll land them all upstairs.” *punches him on the ear*

*throws out her arms* How could I not do something with a hint like that? :D

Next up: Carol of the Bombs.

#Don Camillo #fanfiction #my stuff

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