#and hunger pains wringing your gut
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Durge whose nature is more on the feral side, where they're ferocious, but not cruel. The cruelty from before came from years of being shaped into the living weapon their Father would raze the world with.
Astarion seeing the ferocity of Durge, picking it apart from the cruelty of the blood whispers, and truly appreciating it. He sees Durge claw open a cultist and lick the blood from their claws without hesitation. Astarion is floored, and a little terrified, but it wins Durge a little more favor.
Durge and Astarion being creatures of the night, each a little ferocious in their own ways. Durge still enjoying ripping apart flesh with their claws, without fear they'll turn it on the wrong person. Astarion embracing his prey drive. Astarion and Durge hunting together, always keeping Astarion's hunger sated. They embrace their inner darkness, ultimately unleashing it to perform heroic deeds.
#bat rambles#mercy#this is about mercy specifically#they're my more feral durge#they're like a rabid cat#but theyre just feral not cruel#clearing out some drafts bc i write shit then draft it bc im too embarrassed to share ☠️#also this specifically was inspired by thinking about astarion's prey drive#bc i really like the idea of vampirism changing instincts + increasing sensitivity#so imagine a world too loud and too much all the time#and hunger pains wringing your gut
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@bloodyarn has encountered a problem...
The moon was at her zenith, crickets chirping their summer serenade when Attor stepped from his tent. He was in pain, spine arched as he curled in on himself. His thoughts were a cacophony of desires not his own, teeth gnashing as hunger ripped through his guts like knife. And he was hot, boiling, claws raking along his scales as the desire to pull off his own skin crashed into him.
-- want the rot want the rot the rot the red rend flesh from bone snap sinew rend tendon break bite snap spill the blood consume the flesh rend the soul give unto Him give share rejoice heed the call heed the call HEED THE CALL bask in the glory live your name your birthright your desires give in squelching squealing piglet people kill them all kill them ALL --
Sweat dripped between his scales and burned his eyes, but he tried to focus. The doll was in his hands, clutched tightly. A lifeline. A link back to the present.
-- give in let go heal the pain drown the pain with blood soak up the crumbs with offal drink deep the cries of the dying of the damned be a Good Boy be a Good Son be His son heed the call gut them like pigs wring their pheasant necks wallow in their misery mire in their filth --
Gods, he hoped no one else had been awoken as he stumbled out of camp. There was a river nearby and maybe the cold water would help. He prayed it would help.
Gods please let it help.
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three poems
by vanessa misiro (she/her)
1. August 30th, 3:00 AM
yesterday i dreamt
you were breathing birdsong
into my lungs
and your mouth became
the safest place
to carry decades
of my pain
the jadged edges smoothed over
by your tongue
it lay heavy and precious
like seaglass
disarmed in the warm and pink
coppery with blood
of light sacrifice
yesterday a strand of your hair
soaked golden with sunlight
lay like a reminder on my pillow;
the protagonist
of a last summer
before the rain we prayed for
washed us over
and my fears came flooding back into me
from where you had pulled them.
2. The last page of a journal half-empty
lick the salt off my wounds i am lethargic
teeth heavy with pulse,
blood
somewhere in there in the body running dry
i am in my bed and i think of the woods at night
how it must be right now to stand with my feet rooted to the soil
unafraid of life undulating and curling in between my toes
unafraid of what is calling me
i wondered if they would bring your body back home until i found out
they did not
i could not find solace even if i came to you and listed off
my random assorted memories of you as you disappear in front of me
the awakening, so i heard, will be stern and like a spirit wringing out
every inch of warmth from tomorrow‘s bones
this much i know:
the dent is only meant to get deeper
and part of me thinks i should have seen you close the door
to get used to it
to mark the beginning of an omnipresent awareness growing in me
to separate the now from the what-i-would-have-wanteds
but what i would have wanted is still as unclear as what i want
one thing that ties the ribbon around the gift of uncertainty is that
i never wanted this.
3. Self portrait in front of mirror
content warning : scars/surgery
one hand brushes the stomach
the other cradles decades of clenched teeth
and armored tongue
i count two crosses of flesh over flesh
one on either hip,
the white flag on an island of pain
piercing the flesh in reckless surrender
the gut invisible but moving
the girl floating
the girl ballooning
here she is
here she comes to life
the girl who thinks every decision is a bad one
the artist too tired too angry to hone her craft
the loved one unloved
the girl as the silence in a forest
her body the tree no one is there
to witness fall
the girl who thinks 27 is too late
the girl who thought 22 was too late
the girl who cannot cry
the woman the body outrun
tied in hunger and complacency
unintelligible knot
strung tight
over aching heartstrings
the dry blood, rust over metal
her eyes turn over red,
fightless and always
succumbing to
reckless surrender
Vanessa Misiro (she/her) is a Polish and Greek writer born and raised in Germany. She graduated from the University of Stuttgart with a BA degree in English Literature and Art History. When she is not writing she likes to draw what she cannot put into words. Her work will be featured in the fourth issue of Matratze Magazine. You can find her on instagram @vm_writes.
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The Town's Matron
TW: starvation, hunger, parental abuse, bbu warning
Flynn watches Kai out of the corner of his eye. Using one of Flynn’s mechanical pencils, Kai draws on the back of an old receipt. Eyes fully entranced on the pencil lines. Flynn pushes the shopping cart forward gently, so as to not disturb Kai who is sitting inside. A yawn leaves Flynn’s mouth as he looks across the shelves. The shopping list, if one could even call it that, sits clapped to the baby holder on the cart.
Holding up one of the sturdy backpacks, Flynn asks Kai, “Do you like this one?”
Kai eyes it for a second and hesitates before snapping to the chipper attitude he usually has and nods. Flynn blinks and looks back at the shelf, trying to follow where Kai flicked his eyes.
One thing he learned about box boys was that they never said no. That fact alone made Flynn worried for him.
What do they do to you to make you so compliant?
“Is there another one you like more?”
Kai pauses his drawing and slowly looks up at a green one. He points the pencil at it for a moment before going back to doodling. Flynn pulls the bag free from the shelf and holds it out. Kai beams and nods back at him, scrunching his nose like he usually does when he’s actually happy.
So, it’s safe to say that Kai really likes green.
Flynn looks over the price and the pockets of the bag. It’s made of decently sturdy material and is big enough to hold things other than one notebook. He slides it beside Kai in the cart and grabs the largest one he can see to go with it. These bags will need to hold a lot of things for a while.
Flynn tries to rub away the tiredness that eats at his vision. He had been driving for two hours before arriving at the nearest city to buy this stuff. He couldn’t do this in town. Everyone there knew him and someone would tell his father and he knew he would taste another piece of hell.
All of this needs to be yours and no one can know.
Kai sits in the cart surrounded by clothes for multiple seasons, bottles of soap, boxes of nonperishables, and a dozen donuts to use as a bribe for when Flynn returns to his Father’s house. One more month. That thought alone keeps Flynn going, keeping his eyes up. One more month until I take Kai and drive out west, leaving this hell behind.
Kai looks up and points behind him. Flynn looks over his shoulder and feels his stomach sink.
“Flynn!” an elderly woman, whom he knew well, cheers from across the aisle, “How are you?”
Pulling on his calm, practiced happy face, “I’m doing well Mrs. Dane, how are you and the family.”
“Oh excellent,” Mrs. Dane chirps, “The grandbabies are just so sweet and God has been good, what’s a young man like you doing this far out of town?”
“I could ask you the same,” Flynn smiles as he turns to the elderly woman. Mrs. Eliza Danes, the oldest woman in his small town and a woman who was respected. She is the kind of elderly woman with the tenderest heart but, at the flick of her eyes, could instill the fear of God into the devil himself.
“One of my kids lives out here sweetpea. Visiting the grandbabies, six, four, and three they are. All sweeter than honey! But you didn’t answer my question young man,” she beams as she looks past him into his cart, “And who’s he?”
“Oh, that’s Kai, he doesn’t do much speaking and well, something you just gotta come to the city for.”
Mrs. Dane raises a withered eyebrow, “Flynn, sweetie, you look like you haven’t seen a good warm meal in days. Whatcha doing with yourself?”
“Don’t worry, I’m walking on my own two feet.”
She smiles at him and says, “I don’t doubt it for a second honey. How ‘bout you come help little ol’ me finish shopping and come back with me to get you nice and fed.”
Flynn gives her a nervous smile, “I shouldn’t, my old man would wring my neck.”
And hurt Kai if he’s really mad.
Mrs. Dane drops her gaze and gives Flynn a knowing look before perking up again, “What did you eat last?”
A piece of toast yesterday morning.
“A sandwich for lunch, I’ll eat supper when I get home.”
Mrs. Dane shakes her head, “Lying does not please the Lord young man, and I know your father well enough to know exactly why you’re dodging this.”
“Mrs. Dane please-”
“Do not interrupt me young man, you and Kai are coming over to my house tonight and I’ma feed both of y’all, you hear? I do not care what your Father says I will personally escort to the Lord if he tries anyhing stupid.”
“Yes ma’am,” Flynn says, eyes on the floor and now very aware of the emptiness in his stomach.
Mrs. Dane looks up, “Now. Look at me.”
Flynn raises his eyes and meets Mrs. Dane’s. Fear eats at the lining of his stomach along with hunger. He feels his hands begin to shake against the cart handle.
“I remember when I was your age,” Mrs. Dane begins with a much softer voice, “There were alot more men like your Father raisin’ youngin’s and I know what that cart is for and you will be finishing the story after you're fed, is that correct?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Flynn turns around and locks eyes with Kai. Kai curled himself under Flynn’s hoodie and was watching the entire conversation. Unease reflects off the mirrors of his eyes. Flynn tries to give Kai a comforting smile but Kai sees through the facade like looking from a window.
Mrs. Dane talks about everyday things as they finish their shopping. The air presses into Flynn’s skin as he pays for what will be his salvation.
If Mrs. Dane doesn’t stop it before it even happens.
Kai helps Flynn stuff the bags into the area behind their seats. Flynn slides into the driver’s seat and Kai grabs his hand and gives him a sort of tender, questioning look. His slender fingers press into the hardened skin of his hand and send shivers up Flynn’s spine.
“It’s okay,” Flynn says, trying to reassure himself more than Kai, “Everything’s gonna be alright.”
Kai nods and lets go of Flynn’s hand. Kai returns to a still sitting position that he is sure is one of the numbered positions but he just doesn’t remember which one. Flynn lets a panic attack stew under the surface of his skin. The air in his lungs doesn’t taste right and it’s never enough. His vision is only clear on the road, his periphery blurred beyond usability.
Somehow, he makes it to the small log cabin next to the church.
Mrs. Dane lived alone, her husband passed a decade prior. Flynn, despite only being eight at the time, still remembers the suit his mother wrestled him into for the trip to the church. Mr. Dane was buried in the church cemetery.
Flynn steps out of his car and lets the crisp air of Fall snap him awake. Kai zips to his side, clinging to his arm. Kai’s fingers squeeze around Flynn’s arm and Kai nuzzles his nose into his shoulder. Flynn nods to himself and walks up towards the house, Kai on his heels.
He opens the door to let Kai and Mrs. Dane through before carrying all of her groceries into her home. All while, Flynn fights through the pain of hunger and fear. The ache of his stomach drags at his eyes. The emptiness in his gut almost feels too full and Flynn chokes back the urge to vomit up air.
Flynn can’t deny, the idea of any food in his stomach, no matter how revolting, was tempting.
Mrs. Dane gives him a warm smile, “Thank you, now about supper, I have a pork roast in the crockpot and I’m gonna bake up some potatoes for you and your little buddy. Now you two wash up and sit down.”
Flynn’s stomach growls and it takes every ounce of willpower he can muster to keep from curling in on himself. The cramps get worse by the second and they keep growing in area and intensity. Kai, after washing his hands, wraps Flynn in a hug. His eyes silently apologize.
Since Flynn has been giving Kai his food for the past couple of days.
Mrs. Dane finally calls them to the table. The food looks like gold and diamonds to Flynn. The pork is falling apart on itself and he can smell the spices and marinade from across the table. His mouth waters as he pushes Mrs. Dane into her chair.
Kai sits anticipatedly at the table, bouncing in his chair.
Flynn wraps an arm around his stomach as he sits. Mrs. Dane bows her head and says, “Let’s say grace.”
Flynn doesn’t hear what Mrs. Dane says as a prayer of thanks leaves her lips. The warm smell of food encapsulates his senses.
“Amen, Let’s eat.”
That’s all he had to hear.
If it weren’t for the years of table manners drilled into his skull, he might have ripped the pork out with his bare hands. He lets Mrs. Dane fills her plate first and then he fille Kai’s, out of both respect and to excuse the fact he wanted to eat everything on the table.
After the couple seconds that felt like years, he finally sunk his teeth into actual food.
His body just takes over after that and eats.
“Hasn’t eaten today hasn’t he?” Mrs. Dane says after a minute of Flynn snarfing down his food.
Kai, barely through a baked potato, shakes his head no.
Kai! Why do you betray me like this?!
“I knew it,” Mrs. Dane huffs, “I’ma kill that man, starving his son because of what, a lack of care!”
Flynn looks up and pauses eating, “I- It’s not- Um-”
Mrs. Dane shakes his head, “Let me tell you a story. When I was a young woman I had a sister, Anabel Peterson, she was a lot like you.”
Flynn shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He glances over and sees Kai leaning in, listening attentively.
“How so?” Flynn asks as he continues to stuff his face, slower now.
Mrs. Dane sighs, “Your Father likes to talk and most of the town knows that you… as we would call it back in my day, fruity.
That I’m gay. Yeah, he yelled it out in church last weekend.
“So was my sister, and she had… relations with a woman who was of a darker shade than we are. My Father found out one day and began to treat her very poorly and one morning I saw her grab similar things to what you have in your car and left. I have not seen her since.”
Flynn looks up from his plate and sees remorse and regret across the elderly woman’s face, “That must have been hard.”
“Yes,” she replies with a sigh, “I deeply regret not going after her, to take back many of the hurtful things I said.”
Kai looks back at Flynn and blinks. His eyes have a flavor of understanding that looked unfamiliar even to Kai. It is strange to behold. Flynn looks back at Mrs. Dane, “What are you getting at?”
“I know you plan to leave and never return, it is obvious and I do not blame you for the sentiment. I want to help you,” she says as she finishes her plate, “I know we will more than likely not see you again but I wish to at least make your last memories of here have some dignity.”
Flynn sighs, tons of worry and fear falling away like petals in a torrent. His head falls into his hands and has to hold back the reins of his tears to keep himself from crying in relief. “Thank you.”
“Pack your things here and let me know if you need anything, when you decide to leave come here and pick them up.”
The world both spins and tears for Flynn at once, some pieces of this plan come together and he finds himself smiling, “I- Thank you.”
Mrs. Dane smiles, “You’re welcome sweetheart, I hope God leads you to a better place than this one.”
Flynn and Kai look at each other and Kai beams a thousand stars worth of joy in Flynn’s direction. Flynn can’t help but absorb some of that happiness and smile at himself. The air seems lighter around him and for the first time in weeks he feels like he can breathe.
“Do either of you two want ice cream?”
Kai instantly perks up at the idea of anything sweet and nods frantically. The redhead practically vibrates in the chair.
Flynn nods, “Yes please.” Letting himself feel calm for a moment, he takes what he’s offered and eats.
Then his phone rings.
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Commissioned by @azurenocturne
Douma x Reader
- After your friend disappears while investigating the Eternal Paradise, you decide to follow after her. Little do you know, but the leader of the cult, Upper Moon Two, is as beautiful as he is conniving... -
warnings: mentions of death, blood, and gore
words: 2.1k
-
Birds of a feather flock together, but not this time. She’s walking on an unfolded road in a distant dream, long gone, almost forgotten. Sometimes, her laughter rings in your ears. Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you can see that very day, cloaked with white and the chill of winter.
It’s because of her that you’re the person you are today.
Seasons have passed, as have many moons; day by day, you wait for your crow to bring you an ounce of good news, but to no avail. Months have gone by, and yet your friend has still not uttered a single word.
You’re confident in her skills, of course. She’s a tough fighter, practically too stubborn to die, but paranoia follows you around, wraps around you tightly during the night’s long hours. You figure it must be because of the façade she must put up – to be captured means death.
The lead she told you about was strong, and she was more than determined to follow it to its ends and meet the leader for herself. The Eternal Paradise, as she explained, where Upper Moon Two leads blind followers to their deaths. It’s disgusting, isn’t it?
From your understanding, some demon sat on a pile of corpses and bones with an entourage of mindless sheep waiting for slaughter. It is disgusting, down to the tiniest detail. You encouraged your friend to take down such a damned blood-thirsty creature, but you sent her off with plenty of warnings in your stead. If anything looked to shady or dangerous to deal with, you begged her to make her return home. She didn’t deserve to die in a place like that, not to people like those.
You wish you were naïve. You wish you could tell yourself that it would be okay, that your friend will come back to you safe and sound someday, but that’s not the case. Your gut told you otherwise, warned you of the truth. She was in danger and needed help, whether she liked it or not. You had to follow down that same road, seemingly disappear and become one with this so-called “organization.”
She was going to come home.
-
“You’ll like it here, sister,” Hanako says, voice devoid of all emotion. Hanako was appointed as your ”guide,” told to show you around the mansion, provide the ins and outs of how the cult worked. Unlike the others straggling in the halls, her expression is plain and lifeless. With hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, you wondered what hell she must’ve been through to find herself living in the halls of the Eternal Paradise.
As you pass the others, they turn to you with way too pleasant smiles, their eyes squinting to the point where it looks painful. There’s no way that they’re that happy to be here, right…? Surely, they’d have to notice how some of their fellow followers randomly disappear from time to time. It’s possible that their demon leader manipulates them to forget, or straight out threatens them to keep silent…
“You’ll be staying in here,” Hanako says, coming to an abrupt stop in front of a room. The room itself is on the smaller side, nearly devoid of any furniture besides a rolled-up futon sitting to the side. “This is where I reside,” Hanako continues. “There used to be another, but then they decided to leave.” Stepping inside, Hanako unceremoniously drops the spare futon and pillow she was holding onto the floor.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight at her ominous words. “Uh, what do you mean, they left? I thought anybody who became part of the… Eternal Paradise would never want to leave?” Saying the words leaves a nasty taste in your mouth; you’re a slayer, for gods’ sakes. You shouldn’t even be here, but you’re determined to find your friend. It’s partially your fault that she came here all by herself; you should’ve tagged along, made sure she wasn’t alone when going up against a cult.
Hanako blinks at you, her eyes a cold, empty shell. “They died.”
What?
“Everyone lives, everyone dies. That’s life, after all,” Hanako says. “They left before they passed. To die in this sacred place… It’s repulsive. Our lord doesn’t deserve such disrespect. Imagine if I woke up to a corpse and had to tell our lord? He’d punish me for not dealing with it.”
Swallowing thickly, you turn away. If Hanako was afraid of telling the demon that somebody died – that in itself raises an alarm, jeez – then what were they even like? Cruel and ruthless, obviously; why so followers, then? Don’t they know who they’re even dealing with?
“Hmmm, I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” a new voice says.
Hanako squeaks, then, whirling around to the door and snapping over in a deep bow. “Fool,” she hisses at you, “what do you think you’re doing? Show some respect!”
Glancing towards the door, your entire mouth goes dry in an instant. A large, muscular man almost completely fills the doorway, his wide shoulders nearly spanning the entire length of the opening. He’s beautiful, simply put; birch hair, multicolored eyes, a face carved by the gods. The man’s entire being oozes with power and intensity, yet his enticing scent is tinged with blood. So, this is the leader, Upper Moon Two, it seems. After another moment’s hesitation, you follow after Hanako and bend at the waist.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Hanako stammers. Rather than her monotonous tone before, she addresses her leader with the outmost respect. “The newcomer obviously needs to learn the proper mannerisms.”
The demon giggles. Shivers run down your spine; he isn’t like any other demon you’ve encountered, not by a longshot. The room becomes even more cramped as he steps in, his large body mere steps away from you. “Stand, my darlings,” he purrs.
Hanako shoots upright, her usual blank expression twisted into a pleased grin. Wringing her hands before her, she rocks back and forth on her heels, seemingly having a bit of trouble holding back her excitement. Like her, you stand straight, but you take the chance to truly analyze the man before you.
True, while he is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, you’re all too aware of what he really is, what he really does. Cocking his head, his long hair sweeps over his shoulder, frames his attractive face. He flashes you a knowing smile. Heart dropping to your stomach, you wonder if he knows who you are, just like you know who he is.
“I don’t think that will be much of an issue,” he continues. Offering his hand to you, he silently urges you to take it. “Welcome to the Eternal Paradise,” he purrs, “My name is Douma.”
-
You’re a fool. A total, complete fool.
How… how could you be so stupid? After all this time, after all the effort into finding your friend… You should have never come. That bastard stole your heart even though you knew it was wrong, terribly so, and yet you did it anyway. Despite knowing Douma is a demon and that he kills people for the fun of it, you fell for him. Hell, you should slit your own stomach for pulling such a move.
He played you this entire time, pulling at your heartstrings and treating you with utmost kindness. You let love get in the way of your mission, cloud your thoughts; for a short while, you believed that maybe things would turn out okay, that you would somehow have a happy ending to the story you call life.
But no, that isn’t how things work. Karma, that bloodthirsty queen, always gets what she wants.
You’re not sure what’s worse – the slurping of blood or the smell of it. No, scratch that; it’s the look in Douma’s eyes, the surge of power and unadulterated hunger. Violent rivers stream from your eyes, ungracefully drip from your chin and onto the wooden planks below. That’s your friend he’s eating, her blood that he drinks.
“I’ve always preferred female flesh, female blood…” Douma begins, tongue flicking out over his lips. His fangs gleam ruby as he flashes you a smile. “They’re so sweet, so wonderfully soft… How do you do it, love? How is your kind so delicious?”
“Don’t you dare call me that!” you growl. “You don’t have the bloody right to.”
Placing a bloody hand to his chest, Douma has the audacity to look offended. “That’s not what you said last night.” The corners of his mouth curl salaciously, a dark giggle spilling from his lips. “If I recall correctly, you were begging for more, my little slayer.”
That makes it even worse. Cursing yourself internally, your grip on your blade tightens. There’s no point in trying to hide it anymore; Douma knew exactly who you were from the get-go. Both yours and your friend’s missions were complete and utter failures. You’ve entered a damned slaughterhouse, for gods’ sakes. You should’ve seen this coming, but your feelings got in the way.
“You never loved me, you twat,” you spit.
Douma cocks his head, drops your friend’s severed hand. “No, no, no,” he begins, drawing himself to his monstrous height, “that’s where you’re wrong. The truth is, well, I’ve never loved anyone!” He breaks into a malicious cackle, then, his whole face twisting with mirth. “And to think you fell in love with me! I’ll admit, I liked you better than the others, but loved? Don’t flatter yourself, dear. Nobody could ever love you, especially not me.”
“I’ll pin your fucking head to a spike and watch you burn.”
Through your torrent of tears, you spring at him, an animalistic growl ripping itself from your throat. Despite the grotesque, bloodcurdling rage surging through your veins, you have to remind yourself to breathe. People used to tell you all the time that you’re worthless, weak, and that you should give up on becoming a proper slayer. At the time, you’ve become so angry that they were right; being a Breath of Water user, you could never get the technique correct. You envied others (mostly Tomioka Giyuu, the Water Pillar) for their abilities.
If it weren’t for your friend taking you to that viewing on that magical winter’s day, you would have never grown. No, you weren’t a Breath of Water user anymore; you honed your skills into something new, something wonderful. Breath of Ice is something to behold in itself, albeit relatively new. You’re proud of your graceful, fluid movements, but that nagging voice in the back of your head tells you that it’s pointless, just like what everyone else said before.
You didn’t want to do this, swirling around in a furious blizzard of snow and ice, floating and skirting around your friend’s remains. Douma follows through with each attack, nimbly dodging your blade, your range of attacks. In time, your body is covering with miniscule cuts, barely thicker than a hair, but the sheer amount of blood pouring from them is obscure. How much you’ve lost, you don’t know, but seeing crimson decorate the floor and Douma’s metallic fans tells more than you want to know.
It’s no good; he’s too strong, too fast, and he seems to know every single move you plan to make. Your face is wet with blood and tears, your vision blurring, snot running from your nose. A punched-out groan bursts from your chest as you’re knocked to the side, back colliding with the wall. You collapse to the ground with an unceremonious thump.
Gasping for breath, you scramble for your blade, fingernails digging into the wood in your desperation. A foot comes down on your hand, then, making you cry out in pain.
“I really thought you’d put up more of a fight,” Douma sneers. Dropping to his knee, he leans down over you, his hair curtaining his face. “Trying to take on an Upper Moon with an underdeveloped breathing technique… You’re so stupid!” With another cackle, he presses the tip of a fan to your throat. “You came all this way to save your little friend, and now look where you are! She’s dead! Funny how that works…”
“I’ll kill you, you lying bastard,” you wheeze.
“Love, you aren’t really in the position to say such things,” Douma says, his voice suddenly turning softer. It’s the same tone he used during the lovelier moments, the moments where he held you close and stroked your naked body. “I’ll let you stay with me forever, though. You’d make such a great decoration!”
“Douma, no-“
Splat.
#kny#kimetsu no yaiba#demon slayer#kny x reader#kimetsu no yaiba x reader#demon slayer x reader#douma x reader#douma#kny douma#commission#azurenocturne
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returning nightmares, only shadows
Summary: “Martin’s confused, he’s so confused, and Jon knows it—Knows it even, as he realizes with an unpleasant start that the Eye is drinking in all this fear and pain with absolute pleasure.”
Martin’s got a high fever, and Jon is there to comfort him through it.
(missing scene from between chapter 5-6 of "steady, love” but can stand alone)
(Jon’s thoughts are formatted in italics. the EYE speaks in glitched text.)
Steam nearly chokes Jon as he steps from the bathroom, having run the water on the maximum temperature for most of his shower. At this point, he’s willing to try anything to distract himself from the gnawing hunger that’s settled deep in his gut, leaving his body chilled down to the bone after a walk in the blustery Highland day. He has to admit—the warmth of the water spilling over his aching shoulders felt like a blessed embrace; like some holy sign that he needs to heal, that they both need to heal.
If only I could get Martin down to the shower.
Martin still sleeps up in the loft, with no noise other than the occasional coughing fit or bout of snoring to interrupt the hollow silence of the main floor. To pass the time, Jon has been reading some inane fiction book from Daisy’s shelf, all the while eyeing Martin’s notebook sitting open on the kitchen table. The Eye constantly itches at the back of his mind, tempting him into Knowing the contents so incessantly that he’s had to slam the book shut and place it out of sight. Better for Martin to show him than for him to read it without his knowledge.
I hope he will show me, Jon thinks as he curls back up on the sofa with his book. He gets whisked away for a while by the loveliest thought—the two of them tangled together in their bed, Martin reading him the verses that spilled forth onto the page from his own mind, petting Jon’s hair as he plants soft kisses up and down Martin’s muscular arms—
THUD.
Jon is up and standing as soon as the noise hits, book flying across the room.
Oh god oh god oh god
“MARTIN?!” he yells, bounding up the stairs two at a time, stomach clenching as he imagines him on the ground, covered in blood—
He flings open the door to find him merely half-sitting up on the floor, in the midst of a coughing fit—planted in place where he had apparently fallen out of bed. The tension leaves Jon’s body in a rush so powerful that his knees go weak.
“Christ, Martin,” he breathes, bracing himself against the doorframe and laying a hand to rest over his own heaving chest.
At the sound of his voice, Martin sits up straighter, back supported by the bedframe, and forcibly halts his coughs—the only remaining indication the constant fluttering of his chest. Long strands of his mussed fringe fall into his eyes as he ducks his head, muttering something under his breath that Jon can’t quite make out.
“Are you alright?” Jon asks nervously, having recovered from the shock at last and approaching him tentatively.
Martin does not reply to this, merely continuing his muttering. Leaning closer, Jon can just barely make out the words:
“M’sorry mum, m’so sorry I woke you, I didn’t mean—”
Jon’s stomach flips over once again.
Oh god.
How high is his fever?
Brow furrowing, Jon kneels slowly in front of him, trying to catch his eyes.
“Martin, listen. It’s me, it’s Jon. It’s Jon,” he repeats, patting at his arm gently to gain his attention.
Hearing his voice again, Martin looks up—fever-glassed eyes meeting his own, unhealthy flush coloring his cheeks, sheen of sweat over his entire being as he stares at Jon in confusion.
“It’s only me, darling,” he says softly, rubbing a hand up and down Martin’s forearm.
At last, something about this seems to get through to him, as he shakes his head like a dog that’s just been swimming.
“God, sorry,” he mutters before choking off into the remainder of his stifled fit, lips closed around the awful congestion rising to the surface.
The audible weakness in his chest sends the first warning bells ringing through Jon’s mind.
I don’t think this is a cold anymore.
Maybe it never was.
“What happened?” he asks as the fit comes to a close.
Martin does not reply, staring instead into the middle distance.
This is not good.
Furrowing his brow in concern, Jon slides a bit closer to him in order to rest a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey. Are you with me? What happened?”
“Mum…needed to help her,” he replies at last, breaths still coming in pants.
Oh, Christ.
Okay, stay calm. You need to stay calm.
“Right. Erm…did you—did you hit your head?” Jon stammers, fighting to keep his voice low and soothing.
“Dunno.”
“That’s not…comforting,” Jon murmurs as he begins to search through Martin’s curls for any sign of bleeding or bruising, but ultimately finding nothing.
When he pulls away, Martin gives a little whining noise of displeasure, having closed his eyes against the soothing feeling of Jon’s hands in his hair.
“Okay, let’s get you back in bed then, alright? Come on—” he encourages gently, pulling at Martin’s upper arm in an attempt to drag him at least to half-standing.
With significant difficulty, Martin manages to follow his lead, collapsing backwards onto the bed as soon as he’s up. Anxiety spikes in Jon’s chest again at the renewed pallor of his face, at the heaving breaths with wet crackling behind them, and at the fact that he has to swing Martin’s shaking legs up onto the bed for him.
Stay calm, stay calm, it’s just the fever.
He’s just confused.
Bending over him for a moment, Jon pulls the light blankets back over him and reaches behind his head to fuss at the mountain of pillows on which he’s meant to be propped up. As soon as he does so, Martin’s shoulders begin to shake violently.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a hoarse sob as tears begin to flow in rivulets down his cheeks.
The sight of it breaks Jon’s heart.
At once, he lowers himself to sitting on the side of the bed, taking Martin’s hand from where it has reached up to rub at the raw inflammation of his nose.
“For what, darling?”
Martin does not reply, instead squeezing his eyes shut and furrowing his brow, straining to understand anything that’s happening around him. He’s confused, he’s so confused, and Jon knows it—Knows it even, as he realizes with an unpleasant start that the Eye is drinking in all this fear and pain with absolute pleasure.
STOP IT.
He’s not yours to Know.
Trying to focus on what’s in front of him—that is, Martin desperately needing his attention—he reaches toward the nightstand to pluck a tissue from it, swiping it as gently as possible beneath Martin’s sore nostrils. Something about this motion must stir some awareness back into him, for as soon as Jon finishes, the coughing resumes—his lips still closed around the horrible damp echo of it as it pulses through his lungs. It’s obvious to Jon that he’s focusing his efforts on holding it back, on keeping it soft and just bubbling under the surface.
“You sound dreadful, Martin. Why don’t you just let it out?” he asks softly, running a hand up and down his forearm.
“Sorry, sorry, m’so sorry—” he mutters in response, his breaths coming in shortened gasps.
Jon grips his hand even tighter.
“Why? Sweetheart, please tell me why.”
At the gentleness, another sob tears its way out, nearly choking him as he begins to apologize at full volume.
“I’m sorry, mum, it’s so loud, it’s so loud, I’m sorry—”
“Martin—”
A bit panicked now, Jon places his hands on either side of Martin’s scorching face.
3͓͛9̓̔.͓̰5̘, the Eye tells him.
Jesus.
“I’m sorry I woke you—”
“Martin, listen to me. It’s Jon. Your mum…” he trails off for a moment, measuring his words. “…your mum isn’t here, darling, I’m so sorry.”
All he receives in reply is a watery stare, blinking at him uncomprehendingly.
“It’s just me, it’s Jon.”
At last, something about his tone manages to break through his fever-addled mind, and he closes his eyes—hand traveling up to pinch at the bridge of his nose and exhaling wetly.
“God, Jon. I’m sorry.”
Frustration at the repeated apology blossoms in Jon’s chest, but he shoves it down with all the force of a hurricane.
“Are you alright?” he asks in as soft as voice as he can manage.
“I just need—” he’s choked off by another cough, which he stifles vigorously behind his lips.
“What do you need?”
“The cough suppressants,” he whispers, pressing a hand into his lower ribs to rub at them painfully, breathing still unnaturally quick.
Jon’s heart sinks into his stomach.
“You need to cough, Martin; you need to get it out,” he replies in a tone that leaves no room for argument.
Martin is fully panting now, ragged and burbling.
“It’s too loud, it’s too loud, you shouldn’t have to—”
“Stop, stop.”
Jon takes his hands into both of his own, pulling them down from where he had been wringing them in distress.
“Listen to me,” he demands, meeting his eyes with as much intensity as he can pour into them.
“It’s loud, and it’s alright. It’s loud, and it’s alright—I promise, darling. Please…let yourself get well.”
At his plea, Martin’ eyes immediately well up again—chest still fluttering with effort before he squeezes Jon’s hand back.
Jon can’t help the small smile that spreads across his face.
Martin then takes a deeper inhale than any in the last ten minutes, shuddering and strenuous, and allows the force of the coughs bursting from his chest to pitch him forward—bracing over his pajama-clad thighs. Rolling out over the blankets, spilling between the creaking floorboards is that same thick fog—the Lonely pouring from him in billows. All Jon can do is listen to the agonized churning, rubbing at his back in what he hopes is a comforting motion as he tries desperately to make a path for oxygen to flood his lungs. Nearly a minute goes by before it stops, Martin folding weakly back against the pillows in its wake, panting.
“Are you alright?” Jon asks again, not liking the color of his cheeks.
“M’sorry, Jon I—” he breaks off to inhale. “I can’t seem to—heh—”
He rubs painfully at his nose and sinuses for a moment before continuing.
“—my head’s not right, I don’t know why.”
“It’s the fever, sweetheart. You’re alright.”
I hope you’re alright.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” he asks, patting his knee where it lies beneath the blankets.
Distinctly not looking at him, Martin pauses for a moment, considering.
“You don’t have to,” he whispers at last, guilt flooding his face.
Jon quirks up a smile in comfort.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”
Seeing the lightness of his expression causes Martin to mirror it, lips turning up gently at the corners despite the weepiness of his eyes. He brushes his lips against the back of Jon’s hand, over the burn scar and down, turning his palm gently to kiss the sensitive skin over his pulse point. It’s enough to send sparks of lightning through Jon’s body, and he immediately feels the heat rushing into his cheeks.
“You’re too good for me,” Martin murmurs, eyes drooping closed as he drops Jon’s wrist.
Shaking his head with a smile, Jon steps out of the room to collect his book, fully intending to spend the remainder of his evening curled up by Martin’s side.
I must be the luckiest person in the world, he thinks, the love buzzing through his head forcing the static of hunger far, far away.
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Two-Back
(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)
Word count: 3406
Well. I didn’t expect to be posting this today but I need get it out of my drafts so it’ll stop haunting me.
This fic is based on personal events that happened during this month last year. It’s gone through several different rewrites before I finally settled on this version of it. It’s a vent, of sorts, I guess. Which means it’s both very close to me and quite dark at the same time. I don’t sugarcoat it, so please pay attention to the trigger warnings. If you can’t handle it, don’t read it. I wrote this more for myself, not for anyone else, but I don’t want it to go to waste, so that’s why I’m posting it.
With all that out of the way... Check the triggers, and I hope you enjoy. I love you all 💕💕
TW: Rape
——————
“Where’s Boleyn?” Snarled the man who had broken into the theater late that night.
“I’m here.” Answered his prey.
Something in her told her to say it. Deep down, she didn’t want to, but it was the only way to protect the queen. If she gave him what he wanted then he would leave. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Sate the hunger within and the beast would settle.
“You look different.” He said, sizing her up.
“Reincarnation sometimes changes the body.” She replied calmly, despite her mounting fear. “I thought you were smart enough to know that, Cromwell.” She knew him from his eyes- cold and hard like chunks of obsidian.
Thomas bared his teeth like a rabid wolf. His gaze is hungry. His forward stride is so quick that Joan couldn’t even think to move, but it didn’t matter anymore, because she’s pinned against the wall of her dressing room. She feels stomach acid creeping up her throat, burning, itching, the urge to expel it all. But her mouth is twisted shut.
“You've wanted this for a long time, eh?” Thomas smirked. “Otherwise you would've pushed me away already.” He knew she couldn’t, for he was pressing hard against her, his weight much greater than hers. “I’ll make it enjoyable for you, I promise. I’m going to do all the things I should have done back then, my lady.”
Thomas’ tongue laps gently against the “queen’s” earlobe before nipping and pulling with his teeth. He bites hard enough to leave a mark and doesn’t stop until his victim yelps.
Joan’s heart aches so bad. It’s like someone’s reaching in with their hand, grasping it so tight, twisting and tugging. Wringing it like a rag.
Thomas pulls her closer, hugging her against him. Joan can’t breathe for a moment as her face is smothered against his shoulder. He’s sucking on her neck, starting at the side and making his way to the front, to the sensitive part of her throat. Joan is forced to lift her chin, which just gives him more space to bite and mark. She claws at his back.
“Stop-” She hissed. “You f—” She whined sharply when yellow teeth nip on her collarbone. It comes out pained, but Thomas hears a moan of need.
“Do you like that?”
Joan glared at him, but struggled to keep up her strength when Thomas began to make a mess of her chest. He’s pinning her wrists above her head, leaving her helpless to his assault. Slimy trails of saliva are left across her breasts and she cringes.
“Please— Thomas, stop!”
Thomas enjoys the way she pleads his name and starts to bite harder, just to get a reaction.
“You like this, don’t you?”
“Thomas, you-” Joan cuts herself off with a pained noise when Thomas squeezes one of her breasts hard enough to definitely leave bruises. She whimpers and her resolve finally comes crumbling down, along with what feels like her entire life.
Her conscious wavers for a moment. It’s hard to pull it back, as it was far from her reach. Every inch of her body felt numb and she could only squirm helplessly, with each of her movements being slow with fatigue and fear. She barely registers her body crashing to the ground; her eyes shut tightly upon contact with the cold floor.
“Oh, you look so beautiful like this...” Cooed Thomas’ slick voice.
Joan struggled to force her eyelids apart again and moaned softly, head lolling across the ground. A panic attack is rising in her chest.
“The noises you make are almost as cute as...”
For a moment, all her senses were wiped out before coming together again. Colors and light bled together like wet paint on a canvas. She didn’t hear what Thomas had said, but it only took a little common sense to put two and two together.
“T...T...” She tries to speak, but her voice drowns out as her head falls to the ground again. “S..sto...” She can’t get any coherent words out of her damn mouth.
“What’s wrong, my dear Anne? Cat got your tongue?” Thomas croons.
A momentary headache throbs through Joan’s entire skull, making her moan softly in pain. She writhes, kicking out her legs weakly at something that wasn’t there. Thomas notices and chuckles.
“You look so adorable like this.” He said while approaching her, “Like a little baby deer.”
He crouches down, running his fingers over Joan’s clammy cheeks. The tears burn like lava etching trails down her face.
“Moments like these need to be savored.”
“G...go to h...”
“Aww, can’t even finish your threat.” Thomas chuckles and shakes his head. “Now, stop wiggling around. I want to make sure your focus is on me. It’s the only way I can make sure you have a good time.”
Joan eyed him wryly for a moment before doing the exact opposite of what he said, thrashing as much as she could. She tried to scream, but the sound that came out was completely noiseless. A boot drives into her stomach, making her wheeze and then sprawl out limply.
“What did I just say?” Thomas said through his teeth before loosening himself up. “Though, I can’t expect you to get it just yet. After all, it’s your fault we’re in this mess. Anne, I don’t want to hurt you. I just need you. Why won’t you just let me have you?”
Joan is in that half state of unconsciousness again. She’s whimpering and squirming around like a hurt puppy, staring up at Thomas with big grey eyes that only fueled his bloodlust even more.
“My adorable, beautiful little Anne.” He purred.
Bands of hot iron compress Joan’s lungs to a point of bursting. The panic attack rises to the surface and she gasps desperately for air, trying to crawl away from Thomas. Another headache from the anxiety and lack of oxygen lances into her skull like a spear and her eyes are rolling around her in their sockets.
“Now, let’s-” Thomas grunts when Joan manages to kick him in the leg. It doesn’t hurt, but he still glares evilly at her. “You don’t ever learn, do you, bitch?”
Joan scowls at the man.
“But you are such a little fighter, aren’t you? Here you are, crying on the floor, and yet you still try to get away.”
Thomas is turned away, but he’s moving his hands around a lot. Joan doesn’t want to know what he could be fiddling with so she began to search around the room desperately. She ends up finding a broom she had used earlier that day, when things were still okay, and swung it at Thomas’ head. It misses her intended target, but instead slams against his shoulder, which she takes.
“You cunt!” He shrieked, reaching back to see if he had gotten badly hurt. “Do you know what you could have done, you dumb whore?!”
Joan felt a swell of pride. She uses that to get up, but Thomas is suddenly upon her. They tussle and fight, but, try as she might, Joan is no match for the larger, older, clearly-deranged man. The broom is yanked from her hands and her head is smashed against the wall; she swore she could hear the sickening sound of bones breaking. She slumped to the floor, moaning, as Thomas fumbles with her pants and underwear.
“You fucking animal—”
Like that, Joan loses the ability to speak as a searing pain shot through her colon and guts. It takes her breath away; she can’t breathe at all. Her mouth opens and closes frantically, but just can’t understand why she’s unable to pull air inside. It’s because there’s too much inside, too much of the wrong thing, and it’s stuffing her and holding her close and—
“Dear, look at me while I touch you. That’s just common decency don't you think?"
Joan refuses to open her eyes. She wants to lose herself in the suffocation. Thomas pulls her hair.
“Don't be rude.”
She can feel more tears coming- how long had she been crying? She’s shaking her head, whimpering and wheezing as her need for air gets more and more painful.
“N-No..!”
She can't hide the fact that she’s having a panic attack. Her voice is crackling and she sounds snotty. She wants this to stop right now. She tries to ease away, but he’s firmly holding her in place. She keeps muttering “no” over and over again, trying to drown out his voice.
Thomas leans over her more, restraining her with his body weight.
“I said,” White hot pain sears through Joan’s groin, causing her to howl, “Look at me while I touch you, dear.”
She’s dry, and the friction between her legs burns so intensely that it made her see stars. Within moments of only a few thrusts, she already feels raw. The stinging only increases.
All at once, she feels everything- the pain in between her legs, Thomas’ fingernails hooking in her hips, the hand that raised up to fondle one of her breasts, the blazing heat that blooms in her stomach, the broomstick shoved up her rectum. Then, she feels nothing at all.
———
Four hours.
He came in at midnight. It’s now four in the morning.
Four hours.
He tortured her for four hours.
Joan wonders why he didn’t kill her. She wished he did. She wanted the pain to go away.
She lies on the floor of the dressing room, naked, barely away, and struggling to breathe. Her bare, scratched up stomach is splattered with semen- he did her one favor by not coming inside of her. He didn’t want to risk a child from the infidelity.
The broom is lying a few feet away, the end coated in a shiny caking of blood and other fluids. The hole it left in her felt like it would never close.
Joan pushes herself up slowly; the pain is unbearable. It’s a constant, aching thing in her stomach that never seems to relent it’s throbbing. Hot coals were shoveled into each part of her body when she moved again, stoking the raging fires burning inside of her. Her muscles were crackling painfully from the strain of getting up.
She has to clean up the mess left behind. It’s a humiliating, shameful thing. She wipes off her belly and legs and tries to do the same from her vagina and rectum, but they seize up the moment her hands get near, so she leaves them be. The blood congealing between her thighs squelches uncomfortably as she scrubs off the floor with a rag (not a mop. she doesn’t want to feel the similarities of the broomstick). It bubbles and smears and sticks on her skin, sometimes running down the length of her legs and Joan has to quickly swipe the trail away. It’s like wiping away the tears of her ruined virginity.
Every air freshener in the building is sprayed in that room. Joan doesn’t know if it’s enough to mask the scent of sex and blood and sperm because she can still smell it, but she can only hope.
The broom is cleaned and hidden. Joan never wants to see it again.
She puts on her clothes from before once she’s finally done. The pants get soaked instantly and the underwire of her bra cuts painfully into the bruises left behind on her breasts. She deals with it, though. She needs to for a little bit longer.
She limps home on unsteady legs. Every step is absolute agony. When she gets to her single flat, she makes a beeline for the bathtub and stays there until the water is cold. Laying down like she was is uncomfortable. She’s worried about how bad it’ll be when she needs to use the bathroom.
She makes herself a cup of tea when she’s changed in fresh clothes. It soothes her abused throat, but it hurts to swallow. The warmth is good for her regardless. Wash away the taste. Force down whatever stickiness is still latched against her esophagus. She takes a painkiller as well.
The TV stays on tonight. The darkness is unwanted. She lies down on her side on the couch when laying on her back and stomach both prove to be painful. She makes sure she can still see the door. She’s made sure it’s locked twice.
Joan knows she probably won’t sleep, and she knows that’s to be expected. She’s prepared for it. She knows how this works.
———
Joan smiles shyly at Aragon. She rolls her eyes at Kitty. She helps Cathy with an original song. She follows the director’s orders.
She avoids physical contact. Which is normal. It’s what people who experienced what she did, do. Nothing to be ashamed of, just a typical reaction.
The others don’t suspect a thing, and she’s relieved. It isn’t easy to cope with what happened, but she’s confident that if she just kept at it, by herself, she can do it. There’s no need to confide in anyone—especially Anne. They don’t need to know.
Nobody needs to know.
———
It’s October, now. Five months have passed. Joan has recovered.
Physically speaking, her vagina and rectum eventually closed back up to normal sizes and using the bathroom became less painful as time went on. It’s still sensitive down there, but not as bad as it used to be. The bruises on her breast have healed, too, and the hickeys Thomas left behind were no longer visible.
Mentally, however... Well, Joan was working on it. She was really good at hiding what happened, masking it and twisting it around until it seemed harmless. It wasn’t, she knew, but she let the illusion remain.
The little things tipped her off. Hearing the word “rape” or seeing it happen shows or something like that didn’t phase her. She knew most of it was fiction, and there was a fine line between reality and make believe. However, she couldn’t stand to look at broomsticks anymore. As shameful as that was.
The nightmares start, too, but they’re an on and off thing. Her dreams are mostly blank, now. The memories only shove their way in when they want to taunt her, teasing her mind with their horrible tendrils.
Therapy’s supposed to be beginning, but, somehow, she knows she’ll still have nightmares of his naked body, his disheveled hair, and fingers inside her. Sometimes she dreams of monsters on top of her, pinning her down, licking her, knotting her, smashing their mouths against hers, clawing and groping and grasping. Sometimes she dreams of just watching that happen from a distance, and it’s Anne beneath the beast.
Sometimes she wishes she had let that happen.
It’s selfish, she knows. She knows all too well about selfishness and envy. But, God willing, when Joan wakes in the night, shaking and shivering and trying not to scream, the comfort of the incident happening to someone else that wasn’t her is the only thing that could soothe her.
She can feel it sometimes, too. Fingers forcing their way in. Tongues lapping her breasts. Teeth tugging her ear.
And it burned, burned, burned...
But Joan copes. She forgets—that’s a better word for it. She doesn’t nurture herself or make herself stronger, she just tries to pretend it didn’t happen. And when she does recognize it, she jokes about the incident with herself because it’s the only way to make it hurt less.
People don’t like when she jokes about it. They found it rude and offensive. She didn’t see it that way. It was a coping mechanism. Telling her to stop is what was rude and offensive.
But there weren’t that many people that knew. She didn’t share it often. Only sometimes on her secret social media account, which is where the backlash stems from. She preferred it that way. And then she messed it all up.
It happened too quickly for her to really comprehend it. She was sitting by Anne during a lunch break before their next show, trying not to isolate herself anymore. Anne was talking with the other queens. They all had a tendency to joke about their experiences with Henry, especially Anne, who didn’t really have any boundaries, as she wasn’t phased by dark humored jokes. So that’s why she had made some offhand, but subtle comment about dubious consent, and Joan just had to open her mouth and say something on agreeing to that. She didn’t even realize she did it until she looked up from her granola bar to see eyes on her.
“What?” She blinked.
“What did you say?” Anne said to her.
What Joan had blurted out hit her like a freight train. Instead of replying, she just went back to chewing her snack, hoping everyone would just move on, but then Anne grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to an empty room.
“What happened?” Anne asked.
Joan doesn’t answer. She looks at Anne with wide eyes and she can feel the queen’s anxiety smothering her, but she can’t answer. The words are caught in her throat.
“Joan,” Anne’s voice lowered. Her eyes are bulging in their sockets.
Joan was dizzy, falling, the world and everything she knew rushing past her.
You saved her, you saved her, you saved her- She kept repeating that in her head, but it brought her no comfort. She wasn’t a hero. Especially because she sometimes wishes she never did what she did.
“Did someone...?”
Anne didn’t need to elaborate. She’s heard and seen enough context clues from the other queens to know signs.
Joan swallowed thickly, and then nodded.
“Oh my god—” Anne reared back in shock, as if the gesture had taken a physical form and punched her in the stomach. She took Joan’s hands in her own. “Oh my god, Joan. When? What happened?”
“A few months ago,” Joan stammered. The floodgates have opened. She couldn’t keep it back anymore. “He— Some guy— Cromwell is alive and he broke into the theater looking for you. S-so I...”
“Oh, Joan, no—”
“I told him I was you.” Joan whispered.
Anne went very still, very silent, very pale. Her eyes widen and widen, and a quiet tear slowly rolls out from one side. Her hands, which still held Joan’s, have tightened. For a moment, it didn’t even look like she was breathing—she just stared forward, over Joan’s head, not even meeting her gaze, and held perfectly still.
And then, she’s jerking backwards and storming out of the door. She paces back and forth, hands up at her head and tangled in her hair as she tries to breathe but it didn’t seem to be working well for her. More tears were streaming down her reddening face. The other queens looked over worriedly.
“It’s my fault,” Anne muttered. Over and over again—she got lost in that single phrase like she was in a trance. Joan was scared to snap her out of it, but she had to speak up.
“No it isn’t—”
“YES IT IS!!” Anne whirled to her, face flaming, eyes ablaze with guilt and despair and rage. “He was looking for ME, Joan! I-if I had just been there, then I could have—“ She clamped a hand over her mouth and screwed her eyes just.
“I saved you!” Joan cried. “I couldn’t let him hurt you! This— this is my—”
“No,” Anne shook her head miserably. She grabbed Joan’s forearms and held on so tight it hurt. “No, Joan, no! You-you should haven’t— You—”
“I WASN’T GOING TO LET HIM HURT YOU!!” Joan yelled. “I don’t CARE what happens to me as long as you’re okay! I want YOU to be alright! I want YOU to be safe!” Her voice cracks, wavers, and the tears spill free. They sting her eyes like hot needles. “Because— because I— I let so many people hurt you. Back then. And I didn’t do anything to help you. I could have, but I—” She chokes for a moment and dips her head. “I saved you. It’s what I couldn’t do before. And it’s what I deserve.”
Anne’s legs buckle and she falls to her knees. Her arms wind tightly around Joan and she sobs into her stomach. Above her, Joan is still, hands hovering over the queen, until she, too, falls.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. They were both crying too hard to talk at this point, anyway.
#six the musical#six the musical fanfic#six the musical fanfiction#six fanfic#six fanfiction#sixfic#anne boleyn#nana boleyn#thomas cromwell#joan on the keys#catherine of aragon#katherine howard#jane seymour#anna of cleves#catherine parr#tw: rape#two-back
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“Crown My Heart” Chapter 26: A Dark Cloud
Robin had worried that he was riding into a trap of some sort even before he left for Fort Nott. His gut told him there was more to Keith’s demands and hunger strike beyond stubbornness and his desire to make his cousin’s life miserable. Lady Wellingsbury agreed and had tried to argue with the others to let him stay. The others, though, didn’t want to risk that Keith would starve himself before they could interrogate him and had left Robin no choice but to retrieve his cousin.
From the moment he left his chambers, his heart told him to turn back and stay with Regina until their son came. He forced himself to keep going and he rode hard to Fort Nott, hoping he could retrieve Keith and return home quickly.
His cousin, of course, had other plans.
Even with Robin there, Keith refused to ride a horse back to Locksley. He had looked up at Robin, eyes cold, as he declared: “If you are bringing me back a prisoner, cousin, then do it properly. Put me in a wagon with bars and parade me through the streets. Let the people know what you do to your own family if they disagree with you.”
“I can handle disagreements,” Robin told him, keeping his voice even. “I welcome them for they can allow me to see things in a new way. You, though, are undermining me and plotting harm to my family and myself. Your family, I add. So don’t think of yourself as some martyr. No one will see you as one.”
He left his cousin in his cell, asking John to find a paddy wagon to transport Keith. It didn’t take long before his captain assured him one had been secured and that it would arrive at Fort Nott in a couple days. Robin penned a quick note to his mother, sending it with the fort’s fastest rider to let everyone—especially Regina—know he would be home soon.
Robin then went down to tell Keith. “You will soon be paraded through Locksley as the criminal you are.”
“And will you be leading the parade?” Keith asked, smirking at him as he sat in the cell.
“No,” Robin replied, getting a thrill from denying him that. “I am leaving ahead of you so I can go home to my wife. I’ve been away from her for far too long.”
Keith smirked. “Ahh, yes, she’s due to give birth to your first child any day now. It would be a shame if you missed the birth. And given how dangerous it can be for women, it would be terrible if you weren’t there for your wife’s last moments.”
A chill went down Robin’s spine but he kept his scowl in place as he stared down to his cousin. “The paddy wagon will be here in two days’ time. You’ll leave at first light on the third day. I will see you in Locksley, cousin.”
He somehow managed to walk out of the room calmly. Once the door closed behind him, though, he raced to his room. “I want my horse prepared immediately,” he told John. “I leave now.”
John frowned. “What is the urgency?”
“I need to get back to my wife,” Robin replied, gathering up his few supplies. “Something is not right.”
“What do you mean?” John asked, looking concerned.
Robin sighed, running his hand through his hair. “It’s something Keith said. He didn’t make any specific threats but something is going to happen to Regina, I just know it.”
“You think he has allies in the palace?”
“I don’t know if I’d call them all allies,” Robin replied, thinking of the poor maid who had been ordered to do the Ellises’ bidding. “But there are people who will do what Nottingham, Keith and the Ellises want done.”
John nodded, handing Robin his bag. “Then go. We’ll handle Keith.”
“Thank you,” he replied, clasping his captain’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in Locksley.”
“And hopefully when I do, you’ll be a father,” John replied with a smile.
Robin smiled as well, picturing Regina holding their baby boy. “Hopefully. And hopefully, Regina is there too.”
Robin left Fort Nott and rode hard toward Locksley. Summer was almost upon Sherwood and he took advantage of the longer periods of daylight to cover more ground. He only stopped once it got too dark and left at first light, taking only a few breaks to water himself and his horse. It allowed him to ride into Locksley two days after leaving Fort Nott rather than three but he could not feel any relief as he crossed into the palace’s courtyard, not until he saw his wife.
A stable hand took his horse once Robin dismounted, bowing to him. “Welcome home, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” Robin said, patting Outlaw’s neck. He left the horse in the young man’s hands as he walked as fast as he could into the palace’s kitchens.
Startled servants jumped up, staring at him with wide eyes. They then started moving around the room to no doubt get food ready for him. “Your Majesty! We weren’t expecting you to come home tonight!” one said.
“Are you hungry?” another asked. “We can set the table and get you something to eat.”
“Can you send it to my rooms? I am in a hurry,” he said, only slowing down to make the request. He didn’t hear the answer as he bounded up the stairs, eager to get to his rooms—and to Regina.
Robin opened the door to his rooms and stopped short. Will and Ana both stood from his couch, looking solemn. Aunt Eleanor straightened up in the armchair, trying to force a smile onto her face. “Robin! You’re home,” she said, voice shaking.
“Yes,” he said, growing concerned and suspicious. “What is going on?”
Mother approached him, a bundle of blankets in her arms. A lump formed in his throat as she tilted the bundle, showing him the tiny face of the baby swaddled in the blankets. “Congratulations, Robin. You have a son.”
“Henry,” he whispered. Mother placed his son in his arms, helping him to cradle him and support his head. Henry wiggled in his hold, adjusting to the new pair of arms. Though he raised his tiny hand, rubbing his face as his little pink lips smacked together, he continued to sleep, now safe in his father’s arms.
Robin studied him, using a finger to trace everything he could touch. He ran his finger over Henry’s hand, counting each of his little fingers, before tracing his face. Robin then counted all the other fingers on Henry’s other hand before returning his hand to the baby’s back, fingers grazing his soft wisps of brown hair. Henry was a comfortable weight in his arm and feeling his breath was already soothing Robin’s frazzled nerves.
When he saw Regina, he didn’t think he would ever fall in love so fast and feel it so intensely. As he gazed at the baby boy they created, though, he realized he was very wrong. Tears filled his eyes as he kissed his son’s forehead. “I love you, my boy,” he whispered.
“He’s beautiful, Robin,” Mother said, rubbing his back. “He has all ten toes and all ten fingers, good reflexes and a healthy appetite.”
“And a powerful set of lungs,” Will added, drawing a few chuckles from the other family members in the room.
Robin looked up from Henry, smiling widely. “How’s Regina?”
The mood changed and everyone looked away, unable to meet his eyes at that point. They all grew somber and his stomach twisted into knots as he recalled Keith’s words back at Fort Nott. Had the worse happened? Had he gained his son but lost his wife?
Mother took Henry from him and placed the baby in Aunt Eleanor’s arms. She then took his arm. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”
His heart jumped into his throat and pounded there as Mother guided him into his bedroom. The air was heavy in the room and a fire roared in the hearth, lighting up the room along with the other candles placed around the chamber. Tuck and Widow Lucas had been conferring in a corner but stopped when he entered, which concerned him greatly. Tink backed away from him, her head hung low, while Prince Henry stood up from beside the bed, wringing a damp cloth in his hands.
Looking at the bed, Robin’s stomach turned. Regina lay there, her skin ashen but her brow fevered. Her hair stuck to her skin and beads of sweat trickled down her face. She was still breathing but it sounded like each breath was a struggle, stabbing his heart each time he heard the wheezing sound she emitted. Robin staggered over to her, sitting on the edge of the bed as he took her hand in his.
“What happened to her?” he asked, his voice sounding strangled.
Widow Lucas stepped forward, Tuck not far behind her. Tink, though, spoke first. “It’s all my fault.”
She fell to her knees at Robin’s feet, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stared at the floor. “I should’ve checked the tea. I accept whatever punishment you see fit for failing to protect my queen.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Widow Lucas protested, her voice firm with her conviction. “She did nothing wrong giving the tea to the queen.”
Robin looked over at her as Tuck nodded. “We examined the tea leaves and found it is cotton root bark, which is not poisonous. Nothing would’ve happened had Tink tried it nor would it have been deemed dangerous had it been identified.”
“Not dangerous,” he said, glancing down at his feverish wife. Her eyes never opened despite the conversation going on around her.
“For the most part, it’s not,” Widow Lucas replied. “Some midwives give it to women to help them induce labor when the babe is late in making its entrance into this world. It can also lead to some painful contractions but can speed up labor.”
Her words were like daggers to his heart. “Painful? Is that why she is like this? The contractions were too painful?”
“I think the contractions weakened her,” she replied, wording her response carefully. “The reason I don’t advise women I tend to drink cotton root bark tea is that it can cause heavy bleeding after the birth. Since I can never know who will experience it, I feel it best to have women do other things to induce labor.”
“Bleeding?” Robin felt the warmth drain from his face.
Widow Lucas nodded. “It was too heavy and I couldn’t staunch it easily. Tink went for Tuck and the royal physician. Together, the three of us were able to get it under control. Unfortunately, that weakened her even more and she grew feverish within hours.”
“Infection?” Robin asked, familiar with the possibility from time spent under Friar Tuck’s tutelage.
Tuck nodded. “I’ve applied some herbs to where the infection is, following Widow Lucas’ guidance, and we’ve been feeding her some healing herbs in a broth. Otherwise, we’re making sure the fever doesn’t burn too hot, trying to keep her cool and praying it breaks soon.”
“How long has she been like this?” Robin’s mind felt like it was spinning out of control as he tried to process everything.
“Henry was born early in the morning two days ago,” Mother told him. “She developed the fever a few hours later, just before noon.”
Robin did the math in his head, realizing that Henry was born the day after he left Fort Nott. He never would’ve made it on time then to both witness the birth and keep his wife safe. The fact broke his heart as he reached out, brushing some damp locks from Regina’s face. “Will she get better?”
“No one can say,” Tuck replied sadly. “That is going to be up to her body. We’re giving it everything it needs to fight the infection but the fact she was already weak to begin with doesn’t work in our favor.”
He nodded, understanding the severity of the situation. Regina, though, was one of the strongest people he knew. If anyone could fight this infection off, it was her. As tears rolled down his cheeks, he leaned closer to her. Heat radiated off her and he closed his eyes, trying not to imagine the worst before whispering: “Get well soon, my love. Henry and I need you.”
“Come on,” Mother said softly, helping Robin up. “We’ll talk more in the parlor.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Prince Henry promised, squeezing his shoulder. He then took a seat again, dabbing Regina with the damp cloth in order to cool her.
Robin followed his mother out of the room, Tink following them as well. She once again fell to her knees before him. “I am still awaiting your punishment for failing my queen.”
Mother pulled him aside before he could respond, urgently whispering: “Trina feels very guilty over the whole affair no matter how many times we told her it wasn’t her fault. She served her queen well. She got Widow Lucas as fast as she could and has barely left Regina’s side.”
He nodded and approached Tink, his mind still a jumble as he processed all he learned in the past few minutes. Yet, he knew one thing and he gently lifted the maid to her feet. “I know you feel guilty for not noticing the tea was swapped but it does seem like something that would not have alarmed anyone. You also did what I expected—you helped your queen and stayed by her side. You have my gratitude, Tink, not my condemnation.”
She sobbed, hugging him. “I just wish there was more I could do for her. She’s my friend.”
“I know,” he replied, comforting her as he felt himself losing control as well. He hugged her back as tight as possible. “I wish I could do more for her too.”
“Trina, why don’t you head back to your quarters? You’ve only napped at Her Majesty’s bedside. You need a good night’s sleep,” Mother told her, gently pulling her away from Robin.
Tink shook her head, sniffling. “What about the prince? I need to stay with him.”
Mother shook her head. “He is surrounded by family members ready to take care of him. You can go sleep and then help care for him when you’re more rested.”
“I can make it a royal order if it’ll make you feel better,” Robin offered, giving her a soft smile in hopes of cheering her up.
Tink shook her head, still upset. “You don’t have to go that far. I’ll go get some sleep and then I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Good night, Tink,” Robin said, suddenly feeling tired himself. He rubbed his face and he felt his body start to sag.
Mother held him up. “You should get some rest too. Why don’t you go sleep in my room tonight?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to go too far from Regina. What if she needs me?”
“She’s surrounded by people who love and care for her,” she assured him. “She would rather you get some sleep than run yourself ragged for her sake and you know it.”
Robin sighed, knowing Mother was right. “I will go get some rest. But I will back first thing in the morning.”
“That’s all I ask,” Mother said, kissing his cheek. “Do not worry, Robin. Regina will pull through this. I just know it.”
He nodded, turning to leave his rooms and go to his mother’s. Robin wished he could be as optimistic as she was but there was a pit in his stomach keeping him from believing her. Adding to that was a little voice, one that sounded like Keith, taunting him that he couldn’t save his wife and that it was all his fault for leaving.
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Not a Beast at All
repost of a thread written on @theshirallen‘s old blog, the first thread set in ian and solas’s beauty & the beast verse. unfinished, but updates will post in thread tag when they’re written.
solas
He’s armed with naught but a hot bowl of water and a towel, hands shaking as he contemplates what he must do. No, what he should do.
A wiser person might turn tail and flee, leave the wolf to bleed out on the floor of his own castle, but he cannot. Not when the only the beast is the only reason he still stands. His hands tighten around the towel, drops of moisture dripping onto the floor, knuckles going a ghostly white. He forces a breath, catching the sticky scent of blood in the air, and draws a few paltry words to his lips.
“You’re hurt,” he says, voice soft. If he closes his eyes and ignores the harsh, staggered breaths he can almost pretend he’s speaking to Teldirthalelan, having caught itself on a bramble on a morning ride. “I can help.” Healing magic has never been his strength, but the herbs tucked under his arm will supplement what his hands cannot heal. They had been left upon a table, otherwise empty, as if waiting for him, but by now he had learned his questions will only be answered by an echo.
His heart hammers against his ribcage, his good sense pleading that he run. He ignores it, and takes a few steps forward to stand at the beast’s side. Fear threatens to blight the atmosphere around him, but he pushes past, maintaining a false sense of security that might keep the creature from taking his hand off. It hums with the familiar, warm fires and hot baths, the feeling of hands threading through his hair– all feelings a wild beast may not be able to relate to, but may lend to a feeling of comfort, so that he may keep his hands.
“I promise.”
the beast
He’s dying.
Or maybe he isn’t, but it feels like he is. He almost hopes that he is.
Breathing comes in labored heaves, each exhale leaves him trembling, disturbs the wounds he has been so careful to protect.
This is not the first time he’s been injured, though it never grows more pleasant. It hurts, and he’s probably going to die. This time, surely. He’s cold all over, all his warmth leaving him to pool against the stone in thick, dark puddles.
He hears the footfalls before the voice, and fear coils in his aching gut, tightening in unbearable urgency as his ears flatten against his skull. Soft words, crooning, gentle. Their intention is understood, even if their exact meaning eludes him. The elf is trying to calm the beast, to sooth the monster so that it does not rise to finish what the forest had begun.
One word lands clearly: help. Said…differently than he has heard it, but he hasheard it before. People screamed it when they caught sight of him, shouted it into the wind before they fled. But this elf speaks it softly, like an offering, and the meaning is understood.
The meaning is understood, but he opens his eyes, wary of the approach. Hesitance slows the elf, though his feet fall in a determined way, and the beast opens his mouth in soundless protest, baring teeth in warning–as though he could ever use them. He can’t, wouldn’t, but no one knows that save for himself. He bares his teeth in warning, heaving his corpse from the floor. His retreat is desperate, agonized and clumsy, ruined leg dragging achingly behind him. Two steps, maybe three, and he has fallen.
The roll of his eyes is wild, fearful, but he cannot lift himself again. The elf’s approach brings with him hands, and hands the beast fears most of all. Hands are heavy, carry weapons, sling stones. But…
But hands can fall soft, pushing to tuck hair behind pointed ears, weaving ribbons into braids.
The beast’s breathing eases by a margin, and he remains where he has fallen, and he watches as water drips from the wringing of a towel.
solas
White teeth flash and halt his approach, breath catching in his throat. They are still stained by bear’s blood, bared as if reminding him how small a threat he is.
A chill ghosts up his spine, pricking his skin with gooseflesh, and he contemplates again the prospect of running. Perhaps tell the town his tale, how he had slain the beast– oh, how they would cheer. Somehow, the prospect is less palatable than having his arm snapped off. When he steps forward again, the beast moves, but away from him, limping one, two– by the third its paw slips forward and he crashes to the floor. Haggard breath so loud that Solas cannot hear his own sharp inhales, but a thought hits him louder than the creature’s labored breathing: it fears him, perhaps as keenly as he fears it.
Solas lets out a breath he’s been holding, arm falling to his side. The front of his shirt is dark where he had clutched the towel to his chest, and every errant wind cuts him to the bone. “Moving will only exacerbate your injuries,” he explains, as if it will help.
He closes the distance between them before he has the chance to doubt again, dropping to his knees beside the beast as soft as his trembling allows. The bowl is set aside, clicking against the floor, as his fingers lift to comb through his hairs. Melted snow crowns him, dead leaves still tangled between auburn strands from his attempted flight from the castle. He does not bother to pluck them out as he twists his hair into a bun.
“Please, try not to take off my arm,” he says, lifting the towel from the bowl and wringing it. “It will render your heroics in the woods pointless.”
He places his hand upon the beast, first, brushing his fingers through fur not matted by blood or dirt. When his hand remains firmly attached to his wrist, he braces himself, readying the cloth. “This will sting, but it won’t hurt,” he says in a hushed whisper. The warning is followed by the cloth, damp and warm, pressed firmly against where the bears claws had caught the wolf’s leg.
the beast
The elf kneels, and the beast’s breathing grows shallow, trying to keep the heave of his side from closing the distance between them. He pushes, trying to pull himself up again, to retreat, knowing that even if he manages to drag himself another step, the wall behind him will pin him. He lacks the agility needed to circle back to open space. Even as his weight shifts to his front feet he falls, and where he falls, he lays.
He lays, twisting his head as he watches with wide eyes as the elf ties back tangled hair. His lips curl back as fingers extend.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t touch me.
Don’t–
The touch at his flank is gentle, smoothing fur along its grain, and beneath his skin muscles jump and writhe, instinct pleading with him to try once more at dragging himself away. Streaks of mud and blood along the stone floor mark the path to where he’s fallen, and he knows–the elf seems to know too–that another attempt will worsen his pain. Surrender comes with a sigh, his head falling to land against his front paws. His exhales are marked by soft whimpers–if he cannot frighten himself to safety, perhaps he can beg.
Warm cloth is pressed against his open wound, and his head swivels away, protesting the sharp sensation with a yelp, unwilling and unable to quiet his protests, to still the thrash of his leg as he tries to prevent further discomfort.
Why bother? Why tend to the injury of something so monsterous?
He doesn’t understand.
The elf fears him–he has seen it in his hesitance, in the way he waits for a strike to rebut his advances. Why, then, does he linger, pressing warm cloth against a weeping wound?
solas
The skin beneath his hand twitches, as if his fingers are knives that cut into its skin. Black lips pull back, lupine face twisted fiercely, but the threat doesn’t feel as real. Perhaps it is his head, always in the clouds, too foolish to see the teeth bared at him as a threat. Somehow, he cannot bring himself to see it, pity welling in the places of his heart fear had reined over before.
In his hands the cream-coloured cloth soaks up the weeping wounds, ‘til it almost glows crimson. He dabs at the wound until it will take no more water then dips another in the bowl (he does not even notice that he picked up only one, that a pile of clean cloths sat, as if anticipating his lack of foresight). The beast, to its credit, resigned itself to its fate. It whines like a child, long tail adhering to its back legs, its every angle displaying its discomfort in no uncertain terms.
His other hand continues to smooth its fur. The feeling is far from pleasant, its coat damp from the snow, as riddled with dirt as his is with leaves. He muses that if any soul were brave enough to bathe it, it might look quite handsome. When the fur parts he catches sight of a red undercoat, colours he thought not to see in this castle. Another towel is set aside, not so stained as the last, as the wound ceases its bleeding.
In the air he can feel the sound of questions without answers, and assumes they are his own. Even in his fright, he felt them. When there was nothing stood between him and death but it, he wondered. If not hunger, then what? The questions are borne anew as he works, never quite passing his lips, but shaping his shape. He presses the questions into the beast’s wounds, the sounds in his head urging the wolf’s body to quicken the process it had already been fighting to begin. Beneath his palms he can feel the skin come together, the edges hardening to a crystalline-like edge.
Memories it cannot hope to understand are poured into the gash, of hands pressed against a skinned knee, and the wonder in the eyes of someone who had not realised yet how small his world was. And questions, so many questions: about this castle, about this beast, about himself, questions that hurry to heal the wound so that he might find answers.
the beast?
His surrender washes over him, and he lays in the heap he had fallen into. Keening creeps past his teeth, plaintive pleas to be left alone, before the hands that are so gentle at his thigh change their intention into something more sinister while he lies helpless.
But the fear he tastes is more his own than anything, and that is years of unfamiliar. He’s so used to choking on the fear he inspires, the fear that freezes the hearts of those who see him. When was the last time someone dared to come so close? His own heart drums in his ears, discordant with the sound of another heartbeat–running apace even in the absence of sharp-tasting fear. Soft touches push through his mud-matted pelt and serve to distract him from the stinging dabs at his wounds. His injured leg jolts and quivers, aching through the attentions. He shuts his eyes, disliking the sight of piling towels, saturated with his own blood.
The touch at his gashed thigh changes, and magic sparks the air. The stinging of his wound lessens, flesh drawing together, and his tail thumps in the narrow range it might, curled tight yet against his knees. Distraction deepens, the world around him heavy with queries he cannot quite parse, and memories of tender attentions blur in the haze of his thoughts. Memories that are not his own, but carry with them familiar tones, soft comforts.
Don’t cry, child. It’s only a splinter. I get them, too. I know it hurts. I know they aren’t fun. Let me see it. Let me help. Give me your hand.
It had been the truth–pain, and then relief, lips pressed to a shallow pit in the heel of his thumb, murmured reassurances closing the gap as he had watched with tear-blurred eyes.
The magic at his wound works swiftly, muscle and skin knitting back together in a tight, knotted way.
His eyes open, head and torso twisting around, movement restricted, stiff, pushing his nose closer to his wound. Hands pin his injured leg, but he only wants to see–magic like this is different, but he remembers a mother kissing healing into tattered skin, and what should have taken weeks to mend might be set right in a matter of moments.
solas
A nervous smile cracks his lips, the high-pitched whines are those of an animal, but he feels a familiar kinship in them. The same kinship he might feel with his hart when its antlers tangled in his mother’s laundry. This is a more serious situation, the bears claws had raked deep, though with the blood cleared it does not look nearly so daunting. “I know it hurts,” he hums. “But it won’t forever.”
What does a beat know of forever, he wonders? The animals they keep at home live one moment to the next, always concerned with the immediate, which he supposed is a forever in its own right. Still, he burns with questions, questions a sharp-toothed mouth can never hope to answer. “Why did you save me?” he voices it anyway, the magic in his hands glowing brighter at the sound. Possibilities harden the wound that wept moments ago, the distant hope of finding answers healing broken skin.
A thought that isn’t his own strikes him, soft and yet shocking, as if someone had slapped him with a pillow. He breathes in sharply, straightening to glance over his shoulder at an empty room. On the mantle a porcelain cat that he’s sure wasn’t there before sits, empty eyes glinting at him, but no person. Only himself, and the creature before him. A chill skims his spine, suddenly unable to shake the feeling that they are being observed.
The beast’s twisting distracts him, and in his surprise his hands jerk away from the wound. Where his palms had been a thin scab has formed, not quite what it should be, and when no teeth sink into his wrist, he returns to his work. “Fascinated, are we?” he asks, a tremor wavering what otherwise would have sounded like teasing.
Shock ebbs from his being, melting onto the floor with the snow that they had both dragged in. Where it ebbs, curiosity flows, and the questions come quicker than they did before. Through the small wonders and idle fancies, one sings stronger than the rest, too persistent to pour into his spells and leave it be, but too foolish to speak aloud.
The question is asked in memories half-formed, an answer suggested rather than demanded, as a woman crouches over an unseen child, hair spilling down her back. His mother, but also a stranger’s, her features hidden, awaiting another’s impression to fill in details deliberately withheld, as elvhen minds are wont to do.
the beast?
The question of why hangs heavy in the air, humming through the same soft, soothing tones one might use to calm a fretful steed, or a frightened infant. He knows that tone, the one used when words are not expected to be understood and the speaking is meant only to mitigate the sharp taste of fear that overwhelms the atmosphere.
He knows it from long, long ago.
And he has an answer, hovering in the haze beneath his own fears, his pain. He has an answer, and he shifts his attentions to it with great concentration, pushing his thoughts beyond his discomforts, knowing he will not be heard. How can he be, when the elf recoils from his shift, from the sight of blood-streaked teeth moving closer to his hands?
He had only meant to see. To follow. The forest is full of dangers, dangers he has had time to learn as he makes his home within this ruined castle. And the elf had fled in such fear, worrying more about the beast at his heel than the forest he risked in his flight. And he had followed, knowing. The beast fears bears, fears most things. It had been terrifying, to leap between the bear and the elf, but he knows his size, had hoped…had hoped the bear might fear him the way that most things do. He had hoped that fear would be enough, had not realized that in fear bears respond much the way that everyone does.
Another keen passes his lips, and he rolls his face away, eyes closing as his form shudders, the memory of blows as present and real as though he has only just been struck. The elf’s words wobble, trying to hold their lightness as his fears creep back into the cadence of his speech.
Curiosity rises like a wave, splashing over cold fear in insistent, repetitive pulses until the fear is worn like a stone upon a shore. Smaller, less sharp. Present, but mundane. A question rises, different than the first. Probing and hesitant, as though the elf finds its consideration foolish. He doesn’t know, doesn’t really suspect, but he wonders, and while his hands return to their task–another sting, a quiet yelp–he summons the thought of a concept. Something familiar to him, but…
An empty canvas, a blank page. Recognizable in emotion, in scene–but not something a beast might see. To a beast, what is a mother? To this beast, she is not so unlike this empty form, this question waiting to be filled.
Not so unlike, but then…
He doesn’t remember her hair ever loosed from its knots. But no, he’d pulled it once. He remembers that, so it must have been down before she took to tying it far from his reach. He remembers too, the way she knelt so that their eyes might meet. Their eyes might meet if he could look up, and when she smiled it changed the shape of her face. Her whole face was her smile, creases folding at her eyes until they almost vanished, her lips pulled wide to bare her teeth. Not the way his teeth bare now, but soft, kind. Trying.
Something in his stomach twists. Guilt, sorrow. Aching. He cries again, a different sound for a different pain.
solas
What Solas sees is as plain as day: a beast with teeth the length of his palms, who knows nothing of people, save for the taste of their blood. What he senses, however, is… not so simply explained.
He feels the expected, to an extent. The fear and apprehension, both his own and the wolf’s, still lingers. The threat of harm persists, bitter in the air, even if they seem to have reached an armistice. Solas has seen its fear before in dogs that flee from thunder that shakes the heaven, or in his own steed when he had laid eyes upon the beast. But there is more in the atmosphere than this fear and his own questions, thoughts that do not quite solidify, impressions of memories. His own shape, stumbling through knee-deep snow, and the taste of cold air upon his gums as his lips draw back to bare white fangs.
His heart jumps, and he almost pulls one hand to his mouth before he sees the blood that coats his fingers. His tongue darts out, instead, tasting his own cut where the ice had split his lip open– but no sharp teeth.
Cold creeps up his spine, his heart coming to realisations his mind is not yet ready to define.
But the thought he had pushed forward without detail, the disguised question too foolish to ask aloud, is grasped as though by unseen eyes. Colour drains from the picture, like rain against a windowpane, the hair that spills down the woman’s back turning pale. Paler than his mother’s, even now that it has gone white. The face that turns to smile at him is foreign, even if the emotions she evokes are familiar. As Solas wraps his mind around the thought, his patient shrinks beneath his palms. The sound that tears from its throat is not borne of pain or fear, but something less base. A raw shame that comes from within.
Solas pulls his hands from its skin, his breath caught in his throat. The question drums louder now, still foolish, but stronger. Suddenly the word “beast” does not settle so easily in his mind, and he cannot say how he should refer to what– who– lies before him.
“You…” He stops, swallowing his own words, not speaking again until he can string together a coherent question. “You are no true beast, are you?”
the beast
Hands withdraw from his shaking flank, and the beast heaves with the sound of his aching. The question posed lingers in the air, and he feels its intent more clearly than he hears it–the words are lost in a foggy murk, a language he does not yet possess mastery of obscuring his understanding.
He feels the question, feels the intent penetrate his bones and spark something within their marrow. It feels like hope, if he were so inclined to trust it.
He does not answer the question, merely heaves himself away. Away, back to three feet and a dragging flank, circling away from the elf with what little dignity he might muster. The knuckles of his paw scrape against the stone floor, each grooved dip sending spasms through his wounded thigh, and he can feel the fresh-formed scab crack and falter when movement forces it to yield. He drags himself away, until space exists between himself and the elf, until his bulk blocks the heat of a sudden-roaring fire in an unattended pit. His head hangs low, nose swaying between his forepaws as his tail thumps plaintively against his ankles.
He’s afraid to look up. He fears looking up, when their eyes might meet. Their eyes might meet, and that would answer the question that has so charged the atmosphere. It might–except…except.
His eyes are still those of a beast. His tail against his ankles. His nose between his paws. Their eyes might meet, and his might betray him, and the hope that sparks within his marrow might be smothered as quickly as it had been birthed. He has had enough pain, tonight. He does not think that he could shoulder this, too. Hope, destroyed, will be more agonizing than had it never existed. Another whine, soft and plaintive, sneaks past his teeth.
He gives no answer, merely places space between them. He is too afraid to offer more.
But they are not alone, and where he fails to offer confirmation, the castle rises to do so in his stead. Atop the mantle behind him, he hears the soft, chiming steps of porcelain paws as the cat begins to pace. She does not speak–she is no more inclined to words than he is, now–but she moves, and in moving, she makes herself known.
Across the room, brass sings in the doorway. Sings as the rabbit shifts, paws retreating from where they had braced against the heavy oak.
“There, now. What did I tell you?” They hum, with no effort to hide their delight. It reverberates through his chest, and he lifts his head to watch as they shift, stretching their paws ahead of them before their hind end catches up in a lopsided bounce. As they step away from the door, it begins a slow swing inward, ready to rest against its latch without their weight to prop it open. They hop forward again, more balanced now, before turning to look over their shoulder.
“Excuse you.” The door freezes in its swing, half-open in a sheepish sort of way. The brass rabbit thumps one foot, and their nose wiggles in an aggravated sort of way, but the door yields no further than this. They sigh past their teeth and surrender, seemingly satisfied with half a victory. “I told you he was a clever one, didn’t I? Settle back down, Rosebud. You’re bleeding, again.”
Their words are lost in the same foggy muddle, but their intention is woven clearly into the air around him, and they gesture with both their front paws, in clear instruction. He yields, ears tossed back a little resentfully as he carefully lowers himself to the stones–glad of the warmth at his back as he curls to examine the cracked scab of his injury.
“He isn’t trying to be obtuse.” The rabbit hops closer again, drawing level with the stained water bowl, pawing through the saturated towels in search of a clean one. “I think he’s from very far away. We aren’t speaking a language he knows well–except for what people yell when they chase him off. I’ve been teaching him some, but you’ll have to be patient.”
solas
Solas doesn’t expect a verbal response. He seeks a nod of the head, a wag of its tail, or nothing, even that would help him make sense of the questions swirling in his head. It– they– shrink from him, however, curling pathetically just beyond his reach. The memory that had begun to form dissipates in an instant, and he is left in a torrent of his own thoughts. Unseen walls rise between them, windows shuttered against a storm, and he leans forward on his hands, trying to see past the paws that obscure their face.
“I’m trying to understand,” he presses, frustration sharpening his plea. “I know the face of every woman in my life.” Day in and day out, the same faces, the same people, the same tasks. Today was the first day in his life he had truly felt alive. “Iknow it was not I who thought of her, and if not me…” Then who? Who else but them?
His doubt ebbs, and he remembers questions not his own perched upon his lips. They are not asked with the same curiosity, but sound like weapons. He tries to answer them, pick words out of the pain, but they turn to high-pitched whines in his head. Lips part with intent to answer, only to be cut off by the tinkling of porcelain against stone. His eyes flit up, and painted eyes catch his gaze, then hold it. “I–” Rather than answers, he finds only more questions. They stick in his throat, hoarsely wondering if he was still outside, passed out in the snow. The fire that roars to life, heat licking his cheeks, suggests otherwise.
Ears flick back, and he tears his eyes from the cat to turn towards the door. Another creature stands in the door, made of brass rather than porcelain. Its every movement creaks, elongated ears turning every which way. Solas’s mouth hangs open, and can only watch as it approaches his patient, its very form humming with affection. The sound of metal wings flutter fast behind, as a glass peacock enters, wings spread in hopes of catching a pocket of air. “I thought we had agreed to wait.” It spreads its tail, shapes swirling in meditative twirls that distract from its terse tone. “Give him a moment to answer.”
Solas chokes on his words, even as the rabbit turns to address him with black-bright eyes. Finally, he manages a single word, the least of his questions, but it will do: “Rosebud?”
“A nickname, their idea,” the peacock hums, and the air trills with the sound of its own ideas (names that had not quite stuck). “He is as much a mystery to us as you are.” A comment that comes with meaning deeper than its words, images of a stranger trespassing into safe haven, disrupting the balance it had struggled to bring to this derelict castle.
He. The word strikes Solas suddenly, and he looks back at the wolf-shaped person collapsed by the fire. “So he is no beast.” Though who he is remains to be seen. Whatever he is, whoever he is, one thing is certain. “I would be dead, were it not for you,” he says in a low tone, addressing him and him alone. “Thank you, for saving me.”
the beast
“I did wait.” The rabbit protests, amusement clear as they continue to paw through the soiled rags.
They produce one that is almost clean, and they move to push the towel into the elf’s hands, making some attempt at an encouraging expression–no easy feat, with bucked brass teeth. “Here. Try again.”
The beast’s ears cant back, flat against his skull as his legs fold and he lowers himself to the stone floor. It’s cold against his belly, but the fire at his back sends splashes of warmth across his fur. When he trembles now, it has less to do with the snow that drips from damp-clumped fur and more to do with the fear that tightens his gut.
The brass rabbit bounces past, metallic music following in the wake of their paws, and the beast curls, whimpering as the movement tugs half-mended muscles. His nose brushes against the thin scab of his injury, and the scent of blood is harsh against a shallow inhale.
The air in the room takes on a different atmosphere, warmer in ways the fire has not touched. The brass rabbit brings a sense of safety, and the cat that paces on the mantle exudes honesty. From the doorway, calm washes in waves alongside the glass peacock. It settles the beast, who breathes easier–still ragged, still shallow, but easier–and who pulls back from the gash upon his thigh to lay his head against his front feet.
The elf is left to react as well as he might to realizing that a lonely, darkened room has grown suddenly quite crowded and bright. The beast can hear him stumbling over confusion, can feel his questions and incredulities rise and scatter as one certainty takes hold. The atmosphere changes again with his surety, fear losing footholds from his heart. The beast watches him, muzzle pressed against the back of his paws, with ears perked attentively. Gratitude–sincere enough to be felt, to stir affectionate purrs from the porcelain cat–shapes his words. The beast responds with a sigh, pushed slowly through his nose as his tail stirs dust where it thuds against the floor.
He looks up without lifting his face, hesitant in his hope, and allows their eyes to meet.
solas
“Whoever claimed love is patience has clearly never met you,” the peacock says, whistling through a glass beak, its voice somehow fond and frustrated. Fire casts light upon an unfurled tail, moving the coloured shapes like water in sunlight. Solas’s eyes snap to the rabbit, whose lifeless eyes seem to soften under his gaze. he takes the rag in-hand, twisting it between them, the ornament’s suggestion seeming like advice for how to lose a hand. “He means no harm,” hums the peacock, though Solas cannot tell if he speaks of his saviour– or him.
“I don’t suppose you speak,” he wonders to the wolf-shaped boy. “I would like to know your name.” Something tells him ‘Rosebud’ is not the answer. His name feels like a path ruined by a fallen tree, or a bridge broken by a flood. It comes to Solas like a forgotten memory, nagging at the back of his mind. “My name is Solas.”
It is not the name his mother gave him, but the name he chose when he was old enough to know himself. He speaks it now, proud of its meaning, though not to proud to ask questions. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much he assumed. Glass wings squeak against the peacocks body, and he swears he hears laughter barely contained behind its beak. “With that name, you will fit in well, here,” it says. “I am Peace, and they–” A stiff gesture towards the rabbit, “are Love.”
Rather than give him comfort, their names make him wonder if he will be the next ornament in this castle. The thought does not land with as much panic is it likely should, the sound of glass feet upon a hard floor ring like wind chimes, and his heart settles before it truly quickens.
His saviour’s ears perk, the aggression (fear, it was fear) in his stance giving way to something more approachable. Whatever these people had brought with them, it was doing him good. Solas wets the towel in water, then wrings it, before he tries again. “It may still hurt,” he warns, stronger now that he knows his patient can understand language, even if it isn’t the same he speaks. Gently, he presses against the offending wound, magic doing as it will. Possibilities mend the skin together where movement had cracked it, names common and fanciful that might suit the night’s hero. He pours into the wound the minutes he has lived since he was saved, the moments he will live because of him.
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Chapter 62 - Fair Share
Clementine found herself shivering as she stuck her knife into the fish's belly. The girl grimaced as she listened to noise of the blade slicing through its flesh. Her gloves were already soaking wet from the previous fish she had carved up, and she felt her fingertips going numb as she worked on their latest catch. She hurriedly cut out the organs, sliced off the head and tail, then tried to steady her hands long enough to cut the skin from the meat.
"Why the hell am I stuck out here at the crack of dawn catching breakfast for everyone?" grumbled Anthony as he adjusted his grip on his fishing rod.
"Because you're the best at it," reminded Clem as she skinned the fish a few careful gestures at a time. "And I'm here too."
"Yeah, and I hope you're paying attention," mumbled the young man.
"I am. Fishing doesn't look hard, there's just a lot of waiting."
"Especially when you're having to catch fish for six people."
"We only need one more," said Clem as she removed the skin and scales from one side of the carcass. "It shouldn't be much longer."
"Maybe for you. Once I'm done with this I'm stuck with Patty all day as we try to teach that old man how to get past the dead," griped Anthony. "And from the sound of things, then I'll probably be stuck teaching him and his grandson how to fish next. I still don't know why you three insisted on bringing them along."
"Because we don't just leave people behind," said Clem as she flipped the fish over.
"Oh no? We turned tail and drove the hell away from Houston the second we heard it was loaded with thousands of people," reminded Anthony. "And that's because more people just means more problems; I know it and you know it."
"Not always," said Clem as she started skinning the other side of their catch. "We know how to fish because of you. And you know how to get past walkers because of us. And Patty can fix things. And—"
"And what exactly can these new people do?" asked Anthony as he reeled in his line. "I doubt we'll find any more refineries the old man can work at and I'm willing to bet his grandson doesn't quite have your killer instincts."
"So what?" challenged Clem as she cleaved the meat from the bone. "Even if they couldn't do anything at all we should still help then."
"You really think that?" asked Anthony as he cast out his line.
"Yes. If I didn't, I wouldn't be taking care of OJ."
"What if you had another baby?" said Anthony. "You think just the four of us could take care of two babies and keep ourselves alive?"
"There's six of us now," insisted Clem as she dropped the freshly cut fish into their cooler. "Plus OJ."
"That remains to be seen. And seriously, just having the one baby is a big enough hassle. I mean you might be able to keep him locked up in that RV for now, but eventually he's going to get tall enough to open the door, and he won't understand why he should stay inside."
"We won't let that happen," declared Clem.
"Maybe, but if we keep just picking up every person we find, you and Sarah might not have the time to watch the kid every second of every day," reasoned Anthony as he started reeling in his line. "I mean, what happens if we did wind up with another baby somehow, or somebody who is seriously sick or hurt? Are we gonna take care of them too?"
"Yes!" stated Clem. "I don't care how many times you say it, but we're not just going to leave people behind."
"Except for everyone back in Houston," reminded Anthony. "That is, unless you want to go back and try your luck at helping them?"
"Sin said we probably couldn't get into Houston because of the military and mines and—"
"Yeah, all stuff he probably said because he didn't want to go back there himself. And if he hadn't of said those things, would you still have wanted to drive your RV and that baby right into a major city loaded with people we don't know?" Clem remained silent. "Yeah, I didn't think so."
"That's… that's different. Sin said it was thousands," argued Clem as she deposited the fish entrails into their bucket. "There's no way we could have helped that many people by ourselves, but we can at least help Sin and Jet."
"Okay, so what's our limit then?" asked Anthony as he reeled in his line and examined his lure. "Two more? Five? Ten? Twenty?"
"I don't know!" snapped Clem as she tossed the last of the bloody leftovers into a pail. "But we're not leaving Sin and Jet behind, so get over it."
"All right then, but at some point you three are gonna realize we can't be responsible for everyone." Anthony cast out his line yet again. "Because we don't need to get anywhere near thousands before we're in over our heads."
Clem sighed to herself as she wiped the blood from her knife. Peeking into their cooler, Clem saw they had four cuts of fish now for six people and a baby. As the girl tried to wring some of the water from her nearly numb hands, she watched as Anthony reeled in his empty line before casting it out once again.
"I know you and Patty like to give me a hard time about this stuff, but this is just how the world works," said the young man as he adjusted his coat. "Even before the dead started eating the living, I spent enough long nights just trying to stay warm to know there just ain't enough of everything to go around. Or if there is, most people aren't going to share it if it means they'll have to get by with less."
"That doesn't mean we shouldn't share," asserted Clem.
"Yeah, but how much can we share really?" pondered Anthony as he reeled in his line. "We're four people with a couple of vehicles, a trick for avoiding the dead, and a baby we're taking care off, and that's it. Even if the old man and that kid work out, that's only two more; two more people who will need food and water every day.
"I mean just think, you and I would be done right now if not for them. We got enough fish for ourselves, but now we need an extra one for our new guests. And as much as you might think of me as a master fisherman, I don't know if I could catch three fish every morning. Hell, I don't even know if I'm going to catch a third one this morning."
"We said we'd help them," repeated Clem, sounding less sure now.
"At least until they can take care of themselves," added Anthony. "Unless the old man knows where a literal paradise is, I'd be more inclined to just go our separate ways when the time comes. What about you?"
"I… I don't know," admitted Clem. "I—"
Anthony's reel began to spin and Clem watched eagerly as the young man pulled in his catch. It was just another puny bass, much like the previous two fish, but Clem was glad to see it anyway.
"Fucking finally," griped the young man as he unhooked the fish.
"I'll—"
"I'll gut it myself," insisted Anthony as he hastily laid the fish on the tarp and hit it with the hammer. "Just go get started on the cooking, I'm starving."
"Right."
Clementine collected their cooler and started moving back through the woods. Stumbling forward across the uneven dirt and maneuvering past the numerous dead trees blocking her way, Clem found herself more and more anxious to return to the warm comfort of her mobile home. Seeing a distant building through the forest, the girl began moving faster until she finally broke through back to the road.
Stepping back onto of the asphalt, Clem smiled as she saw the Brave glowing brightly in the morning sun. It was still parked in front of a gas station and between the others' vehicles. Hurrying back towards her home, Clem noticed Patty and Sin standing in front of the other RV. She knew the pair had gotten up early to tinker with the vehicle but was surprised to see they were still there.
Heading into her own RV, Clem quickly stored her gun and gloves. As she washed her hands, Clem could hear Sarah in the bedroom trying to pacify what was clearly an unhappy Omid. Wanting to help, Clem reasoned a good meal might be the best help she could offer right now and got started on breakfast.
The pan she had could only hold one fish worth of meat at a time, so she dropped a dab of olive oil into it along with a couple of strips from the cooler and turned on the burner. The sound of the meat sizzling, the scent of the roasting flesh, the feel of the lemon juice as she squeezed it into the pan all made Clem drool in anticipation. She was licking her lips as she slid the finished pieces onto a pair of plates. Ready to eat, the girl already had a fork in hand when Anthony walked into the Brave.
He had come to deliver the remaining fish to Clem, already cut up into neatly sliced strips. But upon seeing the freshly cooked meal just sitting on a plate, steam slowly rising off of it as he stared at it, it was obvious what else he wanted now. Seeing the genuine hunger on his face, Clem found herself unable to deny the man a meal and handed him the fork and plate, which he eagerly hurried away back to his camper with.
Before Clem could claim the other plate, Sarah entered the room, a still whimpering Omid cradled in her arms. The older girl's hair looked frazzled whereas the boy in her arms was noticeably pouting. Omid had been refusing to sleep the entire night lately and the girls had been taking turns staying up to try and console him; it had been Sarah's turn last night. Staring at the pair, Clem found the look of unhappiness on both of them harder to bear than her own hunger pains, so she gave the other fish to Sarah.
The older girl graciously accepted the meal and sat down to eat. As Sarah tore into the meat, alternating between eating it and offering small pieces to Omid, Clem turned back to the stove and started all over. Cooking the strips of fish wasn't hard, especially after just doing the exact same thing minutes earlier, but slowly watching that seasoned meat cook to a golden brown was just making the girl's stomach growl in frustration. She found herself barely able to control herself as she slid the next two neatly cut chunks of fish onto two more plates.
Before Clem could even grab a utensil, Patty stumbled into the RV, her face and hands covered in grease and bits of dirt. As she washed away the grime in the sink, Clem listened as she called to Sin, who was standing outside. Patty said she just desperately needed a bite to eat before she passed out, then Sin shouted something back about not being able to work much longer without breakfast. Reluctantly, possibly begrudgingly even, Clem offered the fish to Patty and Sin. The woman was hesitant to accept the steaming plates of freshly cooked food, but only for a second. She then grabbed them both and a pair of utensils before heading back outside.
Clem found it hard to concentrate as she cooked the final fish. Her head felt light, her stomach was rumbling constantly, and the smell had become utterly intoxicating. The girl couldn't stop herself from drooling a little as she resisted the urge to just pick the fish out of the pan before it was even done cooking. The slow process of watching the pink meat change colors for the third time this morning felt like an eternity, and once she saw the edges turn the slightest shade of brown, Clem couldn't stand it anymore.
Clem looked for a pair of clean plates, only to realize they didn't have any left. Instead, she fetched a dirty one from the sink and hastily rinsed it off. She turned off the burner, scooped half the fish onto the plate, grabbed a fork, and immediately took a big bite. The fish burnt Clem's mouth and the girl had to hastily spit the scalding hot piece of meat back onto her plate.
For the next few minutes, Clem alternated between drinking sips of water and trying to chew her fish. After what felt like ages, the fish cooled enough for Clem to finally eat it. Her tongue and the roof of her mouth were still sore from where they were burnt and chewing just made them both worse, but Clem ate through the pain, savoring her cooking the best she could.
The girl cleaned off her plate in no time, then took a deep breath to let her stomach settle. As she put her plate in the sink, she spotted the rest of the fish still sitting in the pan where she had left it. Clem went to wash off her plate, only to discover the water was barely drizzling from the faucet. She recalled something Sarah had told her recently about the lack of rain and assumed the RV's water tank was running low, or at least hoped that's what was wrong with it and not something more serious.
Clem did her best to clean off her plate and then slid the final cut of fish onto it. Looking at that piece of juicy meat just sitting there, the girl was tempted to eat it herself. She was still hungry and the smell was practically teasing her nostrils. Just seeing those golden edges was enough to make the girl reach out to take it, but then Clem stopped and pulled her hand back. She looked at the fish one last time, then stepped outside. Clem walked the short distance to the other RV and found Patty and Sin staring at one of the vehicle's tires.
"Is everything okay?" asked Clem.
"Yeah, just we were just finishing up," said Patty as she stomped down on a device sitting on the ground that had a pedal but no wheels.
"What is that?" asked Clem.
"Tire pump." Watching Patty stomp on the pedal again, Clem noticed the short tube running from the object to the wheel and realized it was pushing air into the tire.
"I didn't know we had one of those," said Clem.
"Picked it up when I got the battery charger and the generator," said Patty between pumps. "Figured if we were going to be towing a trailer, I might as well take some tools I couldn't fit in the RV or my motorcycle."
"Is there anything else we got when we got that generator?" asked Clem as she watched Patty kneel down to check the round gauge attached to the pump.
"Just a few tools for my tool box," said the woman as she unscrewed the pump from the tire. "You should talk to Sarah a little more about proper vehicle maintenance, she knows all about this stuff."
"I'll just leave that to you two," reasoned Clem before turning to Sin. "I just came over to let you know I've got another fish for Jet in the Brave."
Sin stared at Clem briefly before speaking. "We both appreciate your help." His voice was oddly emotionless. He didn't sound grateful, nor he did he sound resentful; it was just a stated fact. "Jet's in the RV, I'll go get him." The man slowly turned away and headed for the door.
"Is he okay?" Clem asked Patty.
"I think he's nervous," said Patty as she screwed the cap back on the tire. "This place me and Anthony scouted yesterday evening has walkers in it, and we'll be taking Sin out into them today."
"Maybe he's not ready?" suggested Clem.
"It was his idea," said Patty as she collected her tire pump. "I told him what we found yesterday evening, explained how walkers usually mean there's probably something left to scavenge since most people don't know how to get past them, and he said he wanted to come along with us when we went tomorrow.
"It'd make anyone nervous. I know I was nervous when I went back into Titusville with just a bloody raincoat that you told me would make me invisible to walkers."
"Hey." Clem turned her head to see Jet approaching her, his grandfather right behind him.
"Would it be okay if he ate in your RV?" asked Sin. "We're still yet to get plates or utensils of our own."
"Sure," said Clem.
"Oh, that reminds me." Patty moved to the trailer hitched to the back of the Brave. She deposited the tire pump and grabbed something balanced on the trailer's railing. "Thanks again for the fish," said Patty as she handed Clem a pair of plates. "As always, it was your best meal yet."
"Thanks," said Clem with a smile before turning to Jet. "You want to try it too right?"
"Of course." Jet happily followed after Clem as she led him into the Brave. While Clem placed the dirty dishes in the sink, Jet honed in on the fish resting on the counter. Watching the boy sit down to eat, Clem quickly washed off a knife and fork and handed it to him. He immediately began to tear into the warm meal while Clem turned back to the sink.
"Let me do that," said Sarah as she strolled out of the bedroom, Omid following right behind her. "You cooked, so the least I could do is wash the dishes. Just watch Omid."
"Okay," said Clem as she stepped back from the sink. "But I think we're about out of water."
Sarah turned on the faucet and sighed when she saw the tiny trickle that came out. "I guess we'll need to start boiling water again, at least until it rains."
"You enjoy breakfast OJ?" said Clem as she knelt down to collect the boy.
"Kem-men," he said with a smile as she picked him up.
"What about you Jet? Do you like what I made?"
Clem watched Jet devour several mouthfuls of fish before he finally noticed she was looking at him. "Sorry," he said as he finished swallowing. "It's really great. I was just really, really hungry."
"We gave you food the day before yesterday," reminded Clem. "You're not out are you?"
"No, we've been splitting a can each twice per day," explained Jet. "We… we didn't know if you'd give us more when we ran out."
"We're not going to let you starve," assured Sarah as she cleaned the dishes.
"I guess we're used to not asking for food, living with the military in control." Jet took another bite out of his meal. "Granddad used to not let me eat fish before things changed."
"Why not?" asked Sarah.
"He said I'd get mercury poisoning."
"Really?" asked Clem.
"If you ate it all the time, maybe," said Jet with a shrug.
"We have been eating it all the time," said Sarah with a hint of panic. "Anytime we catch some."
"Oh… well… I'm pretty sure you'd be okay," said Jet, his voice sounding fairly unsure. "He ate the fish Patty brought him, and he didn't look worried about it."
"But what about babies?" asked Sarah. "They're smaller, so it takes a lot less of something to affect them."
"I… I don't know." Clem and Sarah just stared at Jet with a look of concern. They all seemed to wait for the other to say something, but no one said a word. Instead, a small grunting noise broke the silence when the trio noticed Omid trying to grab at Jet's plate. Jet pulled back the plate at the same time Clem pulled Omid away from the dining table.
"Mah-bah," said the toddler.
"No OJ, you… you already ate earlier," reasoned Clem.
"I'll ask Granddad about it in a minute," said Jet with a sigh as he looked down at his plate. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, this sounds important," said Clem. "It's good you told us."
"But if it's true, we can't eat fish every day, even if we catch them," said Sarah with a sigh. Jet looked down at his plate, then shrugged and ate the last piece of fish. Clem left Omid with Sarah before walking with Jet back to his own RV, where Patty and Anthony were standing alongside with Sin.
"Did you enjoy your meal?" asked Sin, not sounding all that interested.
"Mostly," answered the boy. "I told them about how you used to say I shouldn't eat fish because I would get mercury poisoning, and now we were all wondering if that could really happen."
"That's the least of our concerns right now," assured Sin.
"Yeah, but they have that baby," said Jet. "And—"
"If you insist, I can tell you everything I know about mercury poisoning when I get back later."
"How much would… wait, get back?"
"I'm going with them to learn… how to fight those things and look for food," announced Sin, sounding like he had trouble believing what he was saying.
"What? You're doing that today? Right now?"
"You didn't know?" asked Clem.
"You did?" replied Jet.
"And while I'm gone, you should learn whatever you can from her and her friend," said Sin as he turned to Clementine. "You're still willing to teach him, right?"
"Umm… yeah. I—"
"Thank you," said Sin before turning to Patty. "I'm ready."
"Okay, we'll all be piling into Anthony's truck. Even with the camper, it's smaller than either RV, so it's easier to maneuver but still can haul plenty."
"All right." Sin turned back to Jet, who was just staring at the man in disbelief. "We're not in Houston anymore, our safety is in our own hands now. Listen well to what they tell you."
"I can't believe… I…" Jet sighed and looked down at his feet. "I will."
Sin's gaze lingered on his grandson for a moment, then he began walking with Patty and Anthony. Clem watched the trio climb into the rusty old truck parked behind the Brave, and then watched it drive away. After seeing the truck disappear into the horizon, Clem suddenly realized she was alone with Jet now. She stood there with the boy, awkwardly wondering is she should say something, then he started moving on his own. Clem followed Jet back into the Brave, after which he turned around and looked at her.
"So… now what?" he asked Clem in a shaky voice.
"Um… I don't know," she realized. "What do you want to do?"
"I got to do what I wanted yesterday," reminded Jet with a sigh. "I should probably do something else today."
"Well." Clem found her eyes moving towards the cupboard running over the front of the RV. "Have you ever used a gun?"
"No," said Jet with a sigh. "But I guess I should." Clementine grabbed the stool and used it to reach the cupboard. She eyed the pistols tucked inside before collecting her own and a magazine for it. "I guess we need to go back outside."
"Yeah," said Clem as she hopped down off the stool. "We'll go on top of the Brave so we can keep a lookout; the noise might bring walkers." Jet flinched upon hearing that but otherwise dutifully followed Clem back out. Climbing on top of the Brave, Clem took a moment to survey the area better. There was little to see beyond rows upon rows of dead trees running along both sides of this rural highway and the small gas station tucked in-between them. It almost looked like nature was preparing to rid the area of the final reminder that people ever lived here.
Turning to Jet, Clem noticed the boy appeared to be frantically searching for something. Remembering how mentioning walkers made him nervous, Clem realized he was probably anticipating them. "Don't worry, they're slow, and stupid; we'd see them long before they'd get here." Jet breathed out upon hearing that. "And we've got this if we see anything."
Clementine drew her pistol from its holster and held it out so Jet could see it. "Don't be afraid of it, it's just a thing."
"A thing that kills people," noted Jet.
"It can't kill anything if you don't let it," informed Clem as she offered the weapon to Jet. "Don't be afraid of it, but do… um… you know, treat it right, like with…"
"Respect?" suggested Jet.
"Yeah, that."
The boy stared at the weapon in the girl's hand for a few seconds before reaching out to take it, but Clem wouldn't let go of it. "The first rule is that the gun is always loaded."
"But it's not, I can see that—"
"Always," repeated Clem. "Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it." Clem let go of the gun, which Jet took into his hands.
"And anytime you pick up a gun, you should check to see if it's actually loaded or not."
"Is that rule two?" asked Jet as he turned the pistol over, confirming there was no magazine in it.
"It's more like part of rule one."
"So assume a gun is loaded until you've checked it," concluded Jet. "This one isn't."
Clem leaned forward and pulled back on the top of the pistol. "Don't forget to check in the chamber too. A bullet can be in there even if the gun doesn't have a magazine."
"Right, sorry," said Jet as peered into the weapon's innards.
"Rule number two is you never point a gun at something you don't want to kill, ever."
"Does… does that mean you wanted to kill Granddad and me?" asked a concerned Jet. "I remember you aiming a big gun at our car after it crashed."
"Of course I didn't want to kill you," assured Clem. "I… I just mean…"
"If you point a gun at something, you could kill it," realized Jet.
"Yeah… basically."
"Well… thanks for not shooting us."
Jet sounded sincerely grateful as he said that, which just made Clementine cringe with shame. "Rule three is always know what you're shooting at and what's behind it, because bullets can go through things."
"Got it," said Jet as he tested the weight of the pistol in his hand.
"And the last rule is keep your finger off the trigger until you're sure you want to shoot." Clem looked at Jet's hands, then watched as he removed his finger from the trigger. "Just leave it here," suggested Clem as she gently moved the boy's finger to the piece of metal looped around the trigger. "I think someone said this is the trigger guard. I guess—"
"It guards the trigger from your finger," finished Jet. "So there was no way you could have shot us because you didn't even have your finger on the trigger when you were aiming at the car."
Clem was about to answer Jet, but then she remembered briefly moving her finger to the trigger when Sin first spoke up. The girl tried to think of something to say to the boy, but her silence had said it all.
"Oh…" Clem noticed Jet was staring at her now, a hint of fear hanging on his face.
"When things are bad, and you're scared, it can be easy to forget the rules," confessed Clem in just a whisper.
"You were scared of us?" repeated a surprised Jet. "Why?"
"Because we didn't know who was in there. It could have been anyone, including someone bad."
"We had just crashed our car," reminded the boy.
"And you might have wanted to take our RV," suggested Clem.
"You think we'd do that?"
"Not you, now that we've met you. But when I was aiming that gun at your car, I thought it could be anyone in there."
"Has anyone ever tried to take your RV?"
"Once, when we were using the generator to watch a movie," recalled Clem. "People with guns unplugged it and waited until we went outside to check on it. They were going take the RV and everything we had."
"Did… did you have to shoot them?"
"No, not that time, we talked them into letting us keep the RV."
"That time?" repeated Jet. "So you've shot someone before?"
Clem found herself tensing up upon hearing that question. Jet must have noticed because he suddenly turned away from the girl and looked at the gun in his hand instead. "So… what do I do?"
Clementine removed the magazine from her pocket and handed it to Jet. The boy loaded the gun without being prompted and then, after a short pause, cocked the gun.
"Let's find something to practice with." Clem surveyed the desolate road they were parked on for a possible target. "How about that? Can you shoot that?" Clem pointed at the speed limit sign planted about thirty feet back from where they were positioned.
"I can try," said Jet he took aim at the road sign.
"Just line up the sights, and take your time," instructed Clem. "It's going to be loud, and it'll hurt your hands."
"Anything else I should know?" asked Jet as he tried to steady his arms.
"Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it. And don't hold your breath, just try to shoot in-between breaths." Clem watched as Jet squeezed the trigger, and it didn't move. "And always remember to check the safety."
Jet examined the gun briefly before finding the safety, which he clicked off. Clem sat and watched as the boy tried to line up a shot. He was clearly unsure of his aim, constantly adjusting the placement of his arms and trying to hold his hands still for a few seconds before rearranging himself to try again. Suddenly there was a shot and Clem jumped to her feet. What she heard sounded a lot louder than what she was expecting and the girl immediately searched the surrounding area for the shooter.
"Are you worried about those things finding us?" asked a nervous Jet.
"No, I… I thought…" Clem sat back down. "You shot the gun, right?"
"Um, yeah," answered a confused Jet. "But I missed."
"It's okay, I missed the first few times I shot a gun," reassured Clem as she waited for her heartbeat to slow down. "Just take your time." Clem watched the sign carefully as Jet took aim. There was another gunshot, but the sign was unharmed. A second shot followed shortly after the last, and then a third, and a fourth, and yet the sign remained untouched.
"Ugh, I suck at this," grumbled Jet.
"You're lining up the sight between the the two little things on the back of the gun, right?"
"Yeah," said Jet as he examined the weapon. "Maybe you could shoot it, and I could watch you?"
"Sure." Jet handed the gun to Clem, who immediately took aim at the sign. She lined her up sights and squeezed the trigger, creating a pop mark on the sign that produced a loud metal ding the girl could hear all the way from the Brave.
"You make it look easy," awed Jet.
"Just take your time until it looks right," explained Clem as she handed the gun back to Jet. "That's what I do." Clem watched Jet take a few more shots, the last of which grazed the edge of the sign. "There you go."
"That wasn't where I was aiming though," said Jet, sounding frustrated. "I don't understand what I'm doing wrong."
"Well, let me see if I can help you," said Clem as she moved behind Jet. "Okay, aim at the sign." Clem inched in close so she could watch the boy over his shoulder. She was going to try and correct his form, but he seemed to be holding the gun the exact same way she was a minute ago. His hands were shaking a little, but not much. Clem leaned forward and put her own hands on Jet's to stop him from trembling. "Okay, try it now." There was a slight pause, and then a shot; it was another miss.
"Dammit," swore Jet. "Can I watch you again? I must be doing something different." Clem took the gun and moved back into position. She slowly took aim so Jet had plenty of time to observe her and was about to fire when the boy said something. "You're right-handed."
"You're not?" said Clem.
"No. Maybe shooting left-handed is different?"
"I… I don't know. You could try shooting with your right hand, see if that helps."
"I guess it's worth a try." Jet took the gun back, awkwardly transferring it from his left hand to his right, then took aim. Clem noticed the boy was struggling to keep his arms straight now. He fired and there was a metal ding sound in the distance.
"You did it," said Clem as she noticed the new bullet mark on the sign.
"Yeah, but I can barely aim with my right hand," said Jet. "I'm gonna try again with my left, there's gotta be a way I can shoot with it."
Watching the boy closely, Clem noticed as Jet changed hands, he moved the gun towards the right of his body after gripping it with his left hand. Looking carefully, she suddenly realized what he was doing differently.
"You're only keeping your right eye open when you aim?" noted Clem.
"Yeah, just like I saw you did."
"But if you're left-handed, shouldn't you use your left eye?" Clem's words caused Jet to blink a couple of times. She watched the boy close his right eye and open his left one. He then moved the gun a little to the left until his hand and shoulder were lined up. There was another shot and a metal ding followed as the sign got another blemish.
"Good job," congratulated Clementine. "Now—" Another shot sounded, followed by another, then a third. A couple of these hit the sign, one missed, then the next two shots missed and then there was a click. Clem saw the gun's trigger was stuck now, which confused Jet.
"Oh crap, I think I broke it."
"No, that's just what it does when it's out of bullets," said Clem as she took the gun back.
"Sorry, It's just… it felt really good to finally get it right," professed the boy with a smile. "It's not so bad. Could I practice some more? Now that I know how to use it, I'd like to get better at it."
"We could, but I don't want to use up too many bullets," said Clem as she double-checked to make sure the gun was empty.
"How many do you have?"
"We've got like eight boxes of nine-millimeters I think, and there's fifty bullets in each box."
"So that's four-hundred bullets then," calculated Jet. "That's plenty."
"Yeah, but it's hard to find more of them," said Clem. "We've found guns in a few people's houses, but never bullets, at least not yet."
"In Houston, they asked if we had any guns or bullets in the house. We didn't, but other people who did said the military took them away."
"The only places we've found bullets are at gun shops, and then only the ones that had tons of walkers."
"Like… where Granddad was going?"
"No, Patty said there wasn't a lot of them where she was going," assured Clem. "The only times we've found bullets there were walkers almost everywhere. Both times, we almost got killed."
"I… I thought they can't find you if you did… whatever it is you said, cover a raincoat in their blood?"
"If you smell like them, then they can't smell you, and I don't think they can see, or if they do they don't know what to look for," informed Clem. "But if they hear anything loud they'll try to grab and bite it, and if they taste fresh blood, they'll keep biting."
Looking at a visibly frightened Jet, then at the empty gun in her hand, Clem passed the weapon back to the boy. "It's probably okay to use one more magazine." Clem hurried back into the Brave and retrieved some bullets. After letting Jet load the magazine, the boy cocked the gun and took aim at the sign.
"Don't hurry, it's more important you hit what you're aiming at then how fast you shoot," said Clem. "It doesn't do any good if you shoot a walker anywhere but in the head."
"It doesn't?" asked Jet as he steadied his arms. "Why not?"
"Nothing else kills them."
"You're sure?"
"Pretty sure. I shot one in the neck once, and all it did was slow it down as it tried to eat me," said Clem. "And I've seen them lose limbs and all kinds of stuff and not even notice. They really are dead bodies that just keep moving for some reason."
Jet fired the gun and another bullet mark appeared on the sign.
"Why do they eat people?" wondered Jet. "If they're already dead, what good does eating do them?"
"I have no idea," admitted Clem as Jet fired on the sign again.
"In Houston, I think the military was using cows as bait for… you call them walkers?"
"Yeah," said Clem. "Why cows?"
"They're slow and they usually don't run away from people, even sick ones. One of our neighbors used to work at one of those industrial cattle yards, and I remember him saying something to Granddad about how the military took over and would just tie a cow up outside every night. He said in the morning, the cow would be dead and they'd find people with their stomachs busted out, like they had exploded, but were still walking around. Granddad thought he had gone crazy, but I guess he was telling the truth."
"Probably, they never stop eating unless it's something they don't like," said Clem. "And they only like eating things that are alive."
"Yeah, that same guy who told us about the cows said the people never finished eating them, but they'd always try to eat the soldiers the next morning," said Jet as he lowered the gun. "I remember when I first heard about the soldiers shooting the sick people, I thought it was horrible. But… they're not really people are they?"
Clem shook her head. "They're monsters, like real monsters. All they do is kill things, and that's it."
"My parents always told me real monsters usually looked more like people than monsters," recited Jet. "I don't think this is what they were talking about, but I guess they were right anyways."
Jet fired and created another dent in the dead center of the sign.
"I guess that's enough for now," said the boy as he handed the gun back to Clem. "Thanks a lot for teaching me how to do this. It's not so bad once you know how. Well, at least not against signs. I guess it's different when it's one of the sick—or just dead people."
"It is, but you don't feel bad about shooting them either," said Clem as she unloaded the gun. "Or at least I don't. It's living people that…" Clem found herself instinctively biting her own lip. She momentarily lost her train of thought before realizing she was still holding the gun. The girl removed the round in the chamber, then hurried down the ladder without a word.
"So, now what?" asked Jet as he followed Clem back into the Brave. "What else should I know?"
"Um, well…" Clem found herself looking around the room for possible suggestions, only to find her eyes falling on the pistol in her hand again. "Do you want to learn how to clean the gun?"
"Okay," shrugged Jet.
Clem stored their ammo and retrieved a small bundle of tools from the cupboard. After setting the bundle down on the dining room table, Clem aimed her gun away from anything important and pulled the trigger.
"What did you do that for?" asked Jet.
"It's how you take it part," explained Clem as she tugged on a pair of tabs above the trigger before wiggling the top half of the gun off the rest of it.
"Wow," awed Jet as Clem laid out the pistol's barrel, spring, and slide. "Is every gun that easy to take apart?"
"No, the guy who taught us how to clean guns said this one was easy," said Clem as she grabbed a handful of cut-up patches of fabric from the cupboard. "Other ones usually have screws and stuff." Clem gave Jet a bore brush and sprayed the end of it with solvent.
"Finally…" Clem watched as Sarah shuffled out of the bedroom. "I finally got Omid to take a nap."
"Are you okay?" asked Clem as Sarah plopped down on the couch.
"Yeah, just tired," yawned the older girl.
"Don't worry, I'll watch him tonight so you can get some sleep."
"Oh, are you teaching Jet how to clean guns?" asked Sarah. "Remember, you want to push that brush through the barrel until it comes out the other side, then pull it all the way back out. If you change directions while it's in the barrel you might bend the brush."
"How do you two know all this stuff?" asked Jet as he pushed the brush through the barrel as instructed.
"The place Sarah used to live taught us and the other kids there a bunch of things about surviving," explained Clem as she threaded a piece of fabric onto a long plastic tool. "They taught us how to clean guns, a man taught me how to cook, another one taught Sarah how to drive."
"Really?" said Jet. "Why'd you leave there?"
"Because they were only teaching us that stuff so we could be useful to them," recalled Clem in a bitter tone.
"And if you weren't useful they'd let you starve," added Sarah, anger creeping into her voice as she spoke. "Or worse."
"Real… really?" asked a horrified Jet.
"Yeah, really."
"Even you two?" Clem and Sarah drearily nodded at the boy in response. "That's… that's…"
"Horrible," finished Sarah.
"We were lucky to get away." Clem handed Jet a long plastic tool with a piece of fabric stuck to the end. "Just push that it and out a few times to get the dirt."
"Where… where is this place?" asked the boy as he cleaned the barrel.
"Near Savannah, Georgia, where I used to live." Jet breathed a sign of relief upon hearing Sarah say that. "I actually wanted to go back to my old house when we first started traveling but… we didn't want to risk going near that place again."
"Here, use a fresh one now." Clem traded a tool with a fresh piece of cloth for the dirty one in Jet's hand.
"I still want to go back to Houston," admitted Jet in a weary voice as he continued to clean the barrel. "I feel like it was wrong to just leave, and not even try to help them. I mean, just knowing how to get past the sick—I mean dead people probably would have made a big difference."
"We left a message on that water tower, and we've stopped and crossed out New Orleans on every road sign we've seen so far," listed Clem as she tried to think of a rationale to soothe her guilty conscience. "We… we can't help everyone."
"I know, and I know that Granddad was probably right, and we may not even have been able to get back in the city, especially after what happened," lamented Jet. "But I still wish I did had done something instead of nothing."
Clem saw that the cloth Jet was using to clean the gun barely had any grime on it. Reasoning the barrel was clean enough, Clem put the pieces back in their places and snapped the weapon back together. As she moved to store the gun back in the cupboard, Clem looked over her shoulder and noticed Jet was slumped over in his seat now, likely weighed down by the same guilt Clem felt.
"How bout we go paint something on the gas station next?" suggested Clem as she headed for the closet. "That's something we could do. We could leave the message about using the smell again and a warning to stay away from New Orleans, and Houston, and Savannah, and—"
"Who would read it?" asked Jet.
"I don't know, anyone who stops here I guess," shrugged the girl as she grabbed a couple of cans of spray paint. "We can't be the only ones needing diesel, and if other people in Houston knew about this place your grandpa knows about, they might come this way too."
Clementine's reasoning created a slight smile on Jet's lips, and soon after the pair headed out together. Looking for a place to start, Clem noticed there were flat concrete walls between the gas station's windows; they might as well been blank canvasses. Clem started with repeating her message about the dead not eating the dead while Jet wrote short warnings about the various places they had already been.
Next, Jet thought to draw a circle around the hatches for the fuel tanks after he realized despite his grandfather's profession, even he didn't actually know where to access fuel without working gas pumps until recently. Clem then knelt down and painted 'GENERATOR + WATER PUMP' across the pavement, along with an arrow pointing specifically to the cover for the buried diesel tank.
"I think that's pretty good," said Clem as she studied the sprawl of warnings and instructions they had plastered all around the gas station. "Do you feel better?" One look at Jet's face and Clem could tell the boy still wasn't content. "Did you want to do something else?"
"I want to let my parents know I was here," he said. "You said it yourself, people from Houston might come this way going to… north, and they might get back there someday and go north too, which means it's possible they could drive by this gas station."
"Then leave them a message," encouraged Clem. "Write 'Jet was here' in big letters."
"Granddad wouldn't like it," muttered the boy. "I told him yesterday that we should leave a note or something behind. That way, if Mom or Dad ever go to one of the places we had been, they'd see it and know we're still alive. But he said it wasn't a good idea because if anyone from the military came this way, they might recognize his name, and try to find us."
"Why would they want to find him?" asked Clem, finding herself more than a little curious to the answer.
"I don't know. I guess because he ran away when the refinery blew up," shrugged Jet. "They might blame him for that, or blame him for leaving."
"Could he have fixed things if he stayed?"
"I don't know, I just know there was fire everywhere outside the car as we drove away…" Jet sighed. "If he saw my name painted on the gas station he'd know it was my idea, and he wouldn't be happy about it."
"Well, what if he didn't see it," said Clem as she looked at the curb. "You could paint your name on the road in front of the gas station and then we could hide it by parking the Brave on it. Your granddad wouldn't even know it was there and once we leave we'll never come back, so he'll never know."
"Yeah, that could work," Jet smiled at Clem, then shook up his can. She watched as he spelled out his message in big letters just as she suggested, but it didn't say 'Jet was here'.
"Namsing?" read Clem.
"It's my last name," said Jet as he stood up. "Granddad met with the military all the time so they probably remember his name, but I was just his grandson. Some of them might know my first name, but I doubt any of them even knew I had a different last name from him, let alone remember what it was."
"But you're just going to leave your name? You don't want to add 'was here' or something?"
"A lot of people probably won't even know what this means. Even the ones who know it's a name won't know what to think of it. But if Mom or Dad saw it, they'll know it had to be me," said Jet with a burst of confidence. "Although, which way is north?"
Clem checked her pocket for her compass, only to discover it wasn't there. It was late in the morning, but still early enough for the girl to determine which way east was by looking towards the sun. "That way would be north," determined Clem as she pointed down the highway.
"Great," said Jet as he shook up his spray can. "I'll just draw an arrow so they'll know which way we went."
"Wait, are you sure that's a good idea?" Jet stopped shaking the paint and looked at Clem. "I mean, if a bunch of people came this way, they might not know your name, but if they saw an arrow they'd could go that way, and they might find us."
"So?" asked Jet.
"So, you remember what I said about someone tried to take our RV?" asked Clem. "We've seen people do worse, way worse than that."
"But… the people who find this might not be bad people," reasoned Jet.
"But they could be," reminded Clem. "I… I just don't want to risk it. I mean, you said other people in Houston knew about this place your grandpa knows about, so they'd go north anyway, but they don't need to know someone went down this road."
"My parents would." Jet stared at Clementine for a few seconds, then sighed. He put the cap back on his spray can, then turned to move back towards the Brave.
"Hang on." Clem held out her arm to stop Jet, then walked over to where he had written his last name. She shook up her own can of paint and Jet watched with great interest as Clementine drew a circle around the first and second to last letter in his name.
"What'd you do that for?" asked a confused Jet.
"I circled the N's, for north," explained Clem. "Most people won't even think about it, but if your parents see it they'll know it's important and figure it out."
"Yeah, they would, they're both really smart." Clem could see a grin forming on Jet's face, which made her smile as well. "And Granddad will definitely know I did this; we should move your RV before he gets back."
The pair hurried back inside. After explaining their plan to Sarah, she started the vehicle and pulled forward. Clementine felt a sense of pride wash over her as the name disappeared under the Brave, completing her scheme. She turned to see if Jet felt the same way, only to discover he was still standing at the entrance.
"You guys are keeping track of how tall you are," said the boy as he examined the marks by the door. "I used to keep track of how tall I was because you had to be at least five-foot-two to be an astronaut, and I wanted to be sure I was going to be at least that tall."
"If you want, we could still keep track of that for you," offered Clem.
"What's the point? There's no way I'll be an astronaut anymore."
"Because it's fun," said Clem as she got out of her seat. "Just wait right there." Clem rushed into the bedroom and fumbled through the junk drawer for their markers.
"Kem-men." Clementine turned to see a half-awake Omid slowly rising from his crib.
"Did you have a good nap OJ?" said Clem as she found and pocketed the markers. "Why don't you come up front with us and we'll see how much bigger you've gotten." Clementine scooped the boy out of his bed and carried him back towards the front.
"Oh, he's up already," noted Sarah as she saw the boy.
"Kinda," said Clem as she handed Omid to the older girl. "I figured it was time we check to see how much he's grown." Clem removed the bag of markers from her pocket. "But we'll do you first Jet since you're already standing there." Clem fumbled through the bag before settling on a dark purple marker. Jet carefully stood with his back to the wall why Clem drew a line above his head on the doorframe. "There you go," said Clem as she wrote Jet's name next to the line.
"So, who are these other lines?" asked the boy as she studied the recently updated height chart.
"Clem's red, I'm blue, and Omid is black."
"And this green one?"
"That's Patty's."
"Huh, she's a little taller than me, but I'm a little taller than Sarah," observed Jet.
"Now let's make a new one for OJ," said Clem as she collected the boy from Sarah's arms. "Let's see how much you've grown." Clem set the toddler down on the stairs. "Jet, could you draw the line?"
"Sure." Clem handed a black marker to Jet while trying to keep Omid standing still. It was harder than the previous times they had measured the toddler. Now that he could walk, Omid kept trying to move away from where Clem had placed him. He also kept turning his head to look at the door handle. Eventually, Clem managed to hold him still just long enough for Jet to draw a fresh line on the doorframe.
"Good boy," praised Clementine as she helped Omid back up the steps.
"Come here Omid," called Sarah in a sweet voice.
"What's the date?" asked Clem as she took the marker back from Jet.
"January sixteenth," said Sarah as she scooped Omid into her arms. Clem wrote the date over the mark Jet had made, then moved back to observe the chart as a whole. The newest line was only a hair above the last one, but it was proof just the same Omid was getting bigger every day.
"So, now what?" asked Jet.
"I… don't know," realized Clem. "I guess I could teach you what I know about fishing, but Anthony knows a lot more about that than I do, and…"
"You're probably still worried about the mercury poisoning thing I mentioned."
"Yeah…"
Silence filled the room for a few seconds before Sarah spoke up.
"Want to play chess again?" she suggested.
"Sure." An eager Jet hurried back to the dining table while Sarah carefully carried the chess board out, the pieces already on it.
"I'd like to play too," pleaded Clem.
"You can, as soon as we finish," promised Sarah as she set the board down.
"You played chess together yesterday."
"Yeah, and we didn't finish," said Sarah as she sat down in front of Jet.
"You didn't?"
"No, I had to go before we could actually finish the game," explained Jet as he started eyeing his pieces.
"You were playing the same game the whole time yesterday?" Sarah just nodded at Clem but kept her eyes glued to the board. "Huh, that's why you didn't want me touching the pieces when we put it up."
Clem collected Omid and for the second day in a row, found herself entertaining the boy the best she could as Sarah and Jet faced off against each other in chess. Eventually, Clem managed to deposit Omid back in his crib and hoped he wouldn't grow bored with his toys before too long.
Returning to the front, Clem couldn't help noticing how much longer it took Sarah to decide on a move against Jet than herself. She knew Sarah would hold back so as to give Clem a chance to play longer, but watching her play against Jet made Clem think she had been giving her a lot more slack than she ever suspected.
Clem also noticed Jet would occasionally look out the window. It was just the occasional glance every few minutes at first, but as they moved slowly into early afternoon, he was looking outside more often and for longer periods of time. Eventually, he seemed to forget he was even playing a game and just started staring out the window.
"Jet," said Sarah.
"Yeah," he said as he turned to the older girl. "Did you move?"
"Yeah, like a minute ago," said Sarah, sounding concerned.
"Right, sorry." Jet examined the board closely.
"You're worried about your grandpa," realized Clem.
"Yeah," admitted the boy.
"We know how you feel," assured Clem. "Sarah used to worry about me when I would go out with Patty, and we both worry about her all the time."
"What about that tall guy?" asked Jet. "Anthony?"
"Eh. I don't really worry about him that much."
"Clem!" scolded Sarah.
"What? I don't. He's always talking about how we should only take care of ourselves and not worry about other people. It's hard to worry about someone who always talks about only worrying about himself."
"Well I worry about everyone," asserted Sarah. "Including Anthony."
"I know," said Clem in a sweet voice. "It's one of the reasons I love you."
"All I've ever done is worry about things getting worse," interjected Jet. "I used to listen to Granddad talk about how messed up the world was and was worried about how it could fall apart at anytime, then it happened. After that, I worried about having to leave Houston if something went wrong, then it happened. Now I'm worried something will happen to Granddad and I'll be all alone."
"You wouldn't be alone," assured Sarah. "We'd help you."
"Then I'd worry about what if something happens to you two." Jet sighed and looked up at Clem and Sarah, both of which appeared unsettled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be saying any of this stuff."
"It's okay," said Clem. "We worry about that stuff all the time too."
"The worst part is… I think I only worry because I'm selfish," confessed Jet. "I was worried about the world falling apart because of all this stuff I'd lose if it did. I was worried about leaving Houston because I wouldn't be safe. I'm worried about Granddad now because if something happened to him… I wouldn't know what to do."
"That doesn't make you selfish," insisted Sarah.
"Yeah, I think it does," stated Jet. "You both came to our rescue because you're not that."
"I thought about not saving you." Jet suddenly turned to Clem, surprised by her confession. "When Sarah said we had to go down there to save you… I said I don't know, and she had to tell me we couldn't just let you die."
"And I just wanted to leave after Clem killed the lurkers," added Sarah, shame dripping in her voice. "Because I was scared of what might happen to Clem if we checked to see who was in the car."
"I know you think we're brave for saving you and your grandpa, but we get scared and can be selfish too," admitted Clem. "You said it was wrong we didn't even try to help the people in Houston; we all didn't want to go there because we were worried about ourselves, and not all those people you told us about."
"Yeah, but you guys still helped us at least," said Jet as he turned away. "Ever since I saw that neighborhood where everyone was starving, I wanted to do something. I wanted to sneak out at night and try to give some of our food to them. Even if it was only enough for one person for one day, I would have helped them… but I never I did because I was afraid and selfish," lamented Jet as he lowered his head in shame.
"You're only twelve," said Clem.
"You're only ten," rebuked Jet. "And you saved my life even though you were afraid. I'd never do that because I'm a coward."
"That's not true," said Clem.
"Yes it is."
"No, it's not. You just wrote you name outside so if your mom and dad ever came here they'd know you were here too, even though your grandpa didn't want you to."
"I painted something on the road, and only after you figured out how we can hide it from Granddad," says Jet. "I don't really think that's brave."
"Just give it time," said Sarah. "I spent months just living in a shipping yard with my dad after the lurkers came. I was afraid all the time and never knew what to do, and after he… died, I thought my life was over," recalled Sarah with a heavy heart. "But I had Clementine, and she took care of me."
"And you took care of me when I needed it the most," added Clem as she moved in close to Sarah.
"We've both had to do a lot of things we never thought we could do," said Sarah. "I'm sure you can too."
"Maybe," spoke a melancholy Jet. "But that worries me too. You said we don't have to feel bad for killing the dead people because they're just monsters, okay. It was wrong to just leave Houston behind but there probably wasn't anything we could do, maybe. But if things get worse, what else will we have to do? What if we have to do something terrible?"
Jet's question threw a tense silence over the room, one that tied Clem's stomach into knots. The longer that uncomfortable quiet lingered in the air the more the girl's anxious mind twisted Jet's words until she was asking herself a slightly different question; what if she had to do something even worse than she already had just to stay alive.
"They're back!" Clementine hadn't even noticed the approaching vehicle until Jet had sprung out of his seat. She hurried after Jet while Sarah stopped to lock the Brave's door. Rushing back outside, Clem spotted Jet just ahead. He was watching Anthony's truck slowing to a stop near the curb. The engine cut off and out came Anthony, then Patty, and finally Sin. The man was shuffling slowly away from the vehicle, a bloodied and crumpled raincoat wrapped around him as he gazed at the asphalt with a blank expression.
"Granddad." Sin stopped for a moment and continued to stare at his feet, then suddenly looked up at Jet, as if he had just heard him. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, it's just… been a strange day," admitted the man as he rubbed the back of his head. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"Did you… learn anything from them?"
"Clementine taught me how to shoot a gun, and then how to clean it."
"Did she?" Clem found herself unsettled by the way Sin looked at her as Jet said that, as if he didn't approve of what he just heard.
"And we left some warnings on the gas station." Sin briefly eyed the messages sprawled across the walls before turning back to his grandson.
"And we played chess," added a sheepish Sarah.
"What about you?" Jet asked Sin. "What did you do?"
"You're old—well older man, got a crash course in hacking people into tiny pieces," reported Anthony with a smile as he approached the boy. "He was a little squeamish about it but—"
"Shut up Anthony," ordered Patty before approaching Jet. "We basically taught him all the fundamentals on how to get around walkers and how to kill them, along with a lot of tips for scavenging food, which we had to use today since there wasn't a whole lot to find."
"Does this mean you could get food from places with dead people now?" asked Jet.
"Yes, I'm fairly confident I could," said Sin, not sounding confident. "The means for avoiding attention from those… things, are actually very simple."
"Move quietly, and carry a big stick," said Anthony as he brandished his bloodied baseball bat.
"That and wear something covered in their guts so they don't smell you," added Patty.
"Then what's wrong?" asked Jet.
"Like I said, he's squeamish," said Anthony.
"They're not people anymore," Patty told Sin. "When they change, that's it, they're not that person after that."
"Or if they are people, they're people trying to eat you," said Anthony. "So they're asshole people and—"
"They aren't people!" declared Sin. "Those things defy almost everything we've learned about the natural world! I saw a severed head still gnashing its teeth after you knocked it clean off its own shoulders!"
"Yeah, my aim was a little off," lamented Anthony. "Was a little too close to the neck so it didn't squish the brain like it—."
"The brain, as if it somehow can function without the blood or oxygen the body provides!"
"We told you, that's the only way to kill them," reminded Patty.
"Just like you told me how they can't smell us if we're smeared in their innards," mocked Sin as he gestured to his raincoat. "Rotting corpses who still have working olfactory neurons somehow."
"Well they do," shrugged Anthony. "Unless it rains, then they—"
"Rain washes away smells!" barked Sin. "How well you can smell in the rain?" Silence followed that question. "So unless these… fucking things people turn into can't find us in the rain, then it makes even less sense to say smelling like them is what's keeping them away."
"They can." Everyone turned to Clem. "The walkers can smell, or find you somehow in the rain, it's happened to me before. My clothes were covered in the gross stuff that came out of them, then rain washed it off and all the walkers started attacking again."
"But they always come after fresh blood," noted Sarah. "Maybe they don't smell it, but they always come after it."
"Another mystery," scoffed Sin. "These things hunger for blood, but lose interest in it if it's not fresh."
"Man, what the hell is your problem?" asked an annoyed Anthony. "You wanted to know how we deal with these things and we told you."
"And yet none of you have the slightest idea how any of these particular tactics work," said Sin. "You just know that they do."
"Yeah, they do," repeated Anthony. "So what the hell does it matter if we know how they work?"
"If you don't know the how of something, then you're helpless when it fails you; that's why it matters."
"Oh, so if we don't find out why the magic dead people like the smell of their own shit, we're gonna end up helpless someday?" mocked Anthony. "Holy shit, we'd better get right on this gang!"
Sin groaned as he rubbed his forehead. He mumbled something inaudible to himself before opening his mouth to speak again. "What if there's some chemical in their rotten bodies that's responsible for signaling other corpses, and that's why they don't attack when you 'smell' like them?
"Then what if this chemical degrades over time or something in the air changes it and the corpses no longer recognize it. These bloody raincoats you put so much faith in would suddenly and without warning become useless, and the corpses would be able to find you again. And this would most likely happen while you're already out there using them, unaware anything about your camouflage had changed, because they always 'just worked', and you never thought that would ever change."
A deathly silence followed Sin's words. The man's hypothetical situation had cast doubt on everyone. Even Anthony's smug grin had vanished and the young man had become quiet. Clem often had a lingering fear the smell would stop working, but she never could think of a reason why; now she had one. Eventually, the gravity of what Sin said finally dawned on him as well and the man's stone-faced expression cracked.
"I… I apologize," he muttered. "It's just… I always heard about these things, I saw a few a couple of times, but seeing them today close up… there's no explanation for them, none, it baffles the mind, and trying to make sense out of is… maddening. They're…"
"Monsters," finished Clem.
"I was going to say impossible, but I suppose it really doesn't matter; they're here and that's it." Sin sighed, then eyed Anthony's camper. He exchanged glances with Patty and Anthony briefly before all three headed for the vehicle's door. The trio retrieved a cardboard box each from inside and then lay them out on the pavement.
"That's all you found?" Clem eyed the three barely half-full containers sitting before her and sighed in disappointment.
"I'm afraid that's it," reported a weary Patty. "We didn't find anything at the gas stations or stores, and even raiding what was left of people's pantries just turned up crap they didn't want to take with them when they left." Clem noticed a couple of cans of lima beans and grimaced. "After a few hours, we thought it best to cut our losses and head home."
Sin picked up one of the boxes and moved towards his RV before Patty grabbed his shoulder. "Hold up, we gotta split the food."
"I thought I already did," said Sin. "Three of us went out, I divided it into three boxes of food before we came back."
"Yeah, you'd think that would be fair," said Anthony. "But not her."
"I made sure to evenly distribute the types of food we found amongst the three of us," assured Sin. "If you want to check—"
"There's seven of us total," stated Patty. "Not three."
"Seven?"
"Omid eats too," reminded Sarah. "Not as much as us but he does."
"So I'm responsible for your baby now?" asked Sin.
"Granddad," said Jet, his tone making it clear he disapproved.
"I'd like to think you're as responsible for us and we're responsible for you and your kid," said Patty as she crossed her arms.
"I didn't ask you to be responsible for us; I asked for guidance so we could be responsible for ourselves," clarified Sin. "I never implied I wished to be responsible for you or your children or vice versa."
"My children?" repeated Patty. "Wow, that's a nice way to refer to the people who saved your lives."
Sin sighed and then set the box down. "How much?"
"Huh?"
"We will not be a burden on you," dictated Sin. "How much would it take to repay our various debts to you?"
"It's not about that, it's—"
"You just reminded me of how those children saved our lives; clearly you feel we owe you for everything you've done. I understand." Sin knelt down and grabbed a couple of cans from his box and then placed them in the box closest to Patty.
"What are you doing?"
"You can take half of our share of the food I collect until such time you feel we've repaid our debt to you," insisted Sin as he set another couple of cans in the box.
"We don't—would you stop it!" Patty grabbed Sin's wrists as he tried to drop a couple of bags of oddly shaped pasta into the box.
"We didn't save you because we wanted something from you," said Clem.
"But saving us has placed a burden on your limited resources and you feel a desire to be compensated," observed Sin. "At the very least, we do owe you the food you gave us after we met."
"Don't forget the fish," said Anthony. "The fish were my doing."
"We just wanted the food split up fairly," Patty told Sin.
"Fairly by your terms," added Anthony.
"Shut up," barked Patty.
"I thought this was fair," said Sin. "The food is split between the three who went out, then those people may divide it however they like amongst the people they are responsible for."
"I think that's fair," said Anthony.
"No one is asking you!" barked Patty.
"Why not?" asked Sin. "Does his opinion not count?"
"Not as long as she and her two buddies all agree," noted Anthony as he looked over at Clem and Sarah. "The three of them gang up to shout me down anytime I suggest something they don't like."
"That's not true," argued Clem.
"We don't shout at you," added Sarah.
"I meant figuratively," said Anthony. "When have either of you ever sided with me over her on anything?"
"Patty didn't want you to come with us when we met, Clem and I did," reminded Sarah, a trace of irritation creeping into her voice as she spoke.
"And I listened to them," said Patty. "Because despite what you may think Anthony, we decide things as a group."
"Do you?" asked Sin. "Does that mean Jet and I have a voice in how the food is distributed?"
"I vote that they do," blurted out Anthony.
"Would you just…" Patty groaned then looked at Clem.
"I… I don't know." Patty looked past Clem to Sarah, who could only shrug at the woman.
"Look, how about this?" Patty returned the cans Sin moved to his box. "Since you're still getting adjusted to all this, and you don't have anything to eat beyond what we gave you a few days ago, we'll just do three-way splits for now. And once we get into what feels like a comfortable routine, then we can hash out all these details then, sound good?"
"I have no objection to that." Sin looked at Clem and Sarah. Neither girl had a response, and Anthony just seemed to roll his eyes. Sin picked up the box and headed back towards his RV. "I do not wish to be ungrateful," said Sin as she stopped in front of his door. "But gratitude is not the same thing as obligation. I will gladly repay whatever you feel I owe to you, but saving our lives does not mean they belong to you."
Sin stepped into the RV and out of sight. Jet looked over at the vehicle, then turned back to Patty, Clem, and Sarah. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Don't sweat it," said Patty as she forced a smirk onto her face. "Just go enjoy a good meal. Or at least as good a meal as we could find today."
Jet smiled at the woman, then ran off to his RV.
"So you said three-way splits, so that means—"
"Just take your fucking box Anthony," grumbled Patty. "It's not worth arguing with you over a few extra cans of shit I don't even want to eat."
"Works for me." Anthony placed his box back in his camper, leaving just the one left.
"Grab that would ya guys?" asked Patty as she headed for the Brave.
"Let me unlock the door," said Sarah as she ran ahead of Patty.
Clem picked up the box, thinking it felt lighter than she was expecting. Walking back to the Brave, she couldn't help doing a tally of the small selection of cans, jars, and dried goods inside. Briefly adding it all up in her head, Clem calculated everything inside this box probably wouldn't last them for more than a few days; less if they couldn't eat fish.
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