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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 2 years

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A Moment's Surprise--Chapter 5

Whether it’s called an accident or the fates of the universe, you and Calum find yourselves taking on the next level of your relationship: parenthood.

Reader (Gender Neutral) X Calum. Multi-chapter Series.

Series Note: Across this series, pregnancy is discussed thoroughly. While I have made this series specifically a reader insert and have done my best to avoid coding for cis women, I am taking this moment to acknowledge that this content may not be suitable for every reader. I want to acknowledge even if I’ve been careful some things (like uteri) are still mentioned and if that causes you discomfort please DO NOT read this. You may keep scrolling (as there is a read more) / skip this as necessary.

Chapter Warning: Smut/Sexual Content Referenced but not explicitly described.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 5

The plush white sheets have swallowed you. When you blink up to the high vaulted ceilings and the sun shines in from glass walls, you realize the sheets are pulled up near your chin and they’re tucked in on one side of you. The mattress at first felt good as you sunk into it, but you’re realizing now that you didn’t tuck a pillow between your knees. “Well, that’s going to suck,” you whisper.

“Oh, I love hearing that first thing in the morning,” Calum exhales in your ear.

“Suck you off, yes if you ask. But I was referring to my back,” you laugh and take a moment to push up and turn to your other side. Calum’s face greets you with a sleepy smile.

“I’ve been told a time or two I’ve got some magical fingers.”

You snicker, knowing the time or two has been you. “I wonder who would say a thing like that.”

“But seriously, what’s going on with your back?”

“I usually sleep with an extra pillow between my knees for extra support,” you inform.

Calum’s nod is thwarted by the pillow his own head is on. “Got it, won’t forget tonight, okay? Anything else you need? We can go out to get it if need be.”

“A kiss,” you return with a grin. “I hear those are domestic grown.”

He can’t help the ridiculous laugh that escapes him. But he scoots in a little closer. “I heard they’re grown here too.” He presses a kiss to your lips as well. As Calum pulls back from the kiss, he reaches behind him and unearths a pillow from the mound that was the bed when you two finally fell into it last night.

“Spread ‘em, love,” he teases. “We’re not leaving this bed for a while, alright?”

“You are utterly ridiculous, you know.” You peel away the layers of the sheets and Calum slips the pillow between your knees, before covering the two of you back up in the sheets.

“But I’m your utter ridiculousness," he counters.

“You are.” In the silence, gazing at the stubble of Calum’s cheek, your mind wanders back to his arrival. “What did Joy say to you the other day? When you got home?”

“Something I already know,” he returns, threading his fingers through yours over the comforter. “And that sounds like a hundred times worse than I intended, sorry. I think she still wants me to do things a certain way, you know. Because she’s my mum. And I understand her perspective. Just doesn’t mean I’m going to do it like she wants me too. I want to do things when they feel right. And it’s not just me it would affect either, so there’s more things to juggle than it can appear.”

You nod. “Parents never really stop being your parents.”

“And to think, we’re next,” Calum laughs.

“Whoa, buddy, who would’ve thought?” You want it to come out like a joke. You want to laugh and move on, think about baby names or possibly breakfast. But even you hear the shake in your voice. You hear how much truth resides in the statement.

“Hey, I’m going to be there. And Mum is too. And Dad said he’s going to fly out too. Not sure when. But aye, be ready,” Calum teases the last sentence with a decent Scottish accent impression before he continues in his normal voice, “And your uncle is coming next week. And your mom’s flying in at the end of the year.”

“You know you’re dating a worrier, right? Just want to put that into perspective for you,” you tease.

Calum traces your hairline before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I’m going to marry said worrier too.” The confession doesn’t shock Calum like he thought it might. He wondered what he’d feel with those words crossing his lips. He imagined he might panic. But instead there is only a calm falling over Calum. “Besides, I didn’t get two years with you without realizing that you worry about the future and what comes next. I want you to know that I’m going to be right there next to you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

The two of you hadn’t previously discussed life ahead in concrete details. It was things you’d both like to have with each other. But now with a baby on the way, you weren’t completely shocked as some things started to feel like they had to be more clear and concise between you two. But you’re still not quite sure your ears are hearing Calum’s words fully. “You want to marry me?”

“Absolutely I do. And I swear that will be a lot more planned,” Calum grins. “And you’ll know when I’m asking for real because I’ll have a ring. I worry that having a kid and trying to think about a wedding is like having three full time jobs. One of those is going to get severely underserviced. And I’d rather not stress you out more or have that added to my stress either. Selfish I know.”

You shake your head. Your fingers move from his elbow up to his bicep. “No, not selfish. I wouldn’t have the capacity for a wedding right now either.”

“So you want to marry me too, huh?” It falls out breathlessly from him, but Calum doesn’t care.

“Yes, I do want to marry you.”

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear.” The two of you share a soft kiss before a short silence fills the space between you. It’s nice to have a small moment of peace. To just enjoy each other’s company before the rumbles of bellies becomes too incessant to ignore.

________________________

The sink runs from your left and you watch as Calum slips the plate into the drying rack. His attention is fully trained on the sink and dishes in front of him. The question bubbles on your lips, if he wants help, but he’s already said no the last two times. You feel awkward asking a third time. So you’ve resorted to a shameless lusting at the sight of the sleeves rolled up his forearms and the bracelet dangling from his slender wrist. You gifted it to him on your first anniversary together. Now, Calum hardly ever takes it off.

“I can feel you staring,” Calum calls out from the kitchen.

“Sue me,” you return. In your huffed retort, you catch the whiff of onions from the dish you and Calum cooked off your breath. “Do you have any gum?”

“If you check my backpack, I think so. Either in the very front pocket or in the very back.”

You push up from the sofa and find Calum’s backpack in one of the bar seats at the counter. Where Calum’s bag was black, you had a matching one in olive green. His had a tag with Hood and yours had your last name stitched into the front of it. The bag was a gift from Calum after you noted liking his and how many components and pockets. It made a solid travel bag and when you only had to go for a weekend or so, you liked the simplicity of only having one bag instead of a bag and a suitcase. There was no lugging something out of airplane overhead bins, or dragging something behind you as you made tight connections. You could just grab it and go.

You check the front pocket like instructed and find it empty. Strange to you, because Calum almost always kept a pack of cigarettes there. You look up as your hands continue to rummage through the empty pocket. Was he trying to quit again? It really hadn’t been a topic of discussion between the two of you about Calum’s smoking since he’d left for the tour. But you wonder, much like with the drinking, if Calum was trying to ease any temptations early on in the pregnancy rather than later. Your fear is that if you do ask too much about it is that whatever progress Calum had made, he’d slipped.

Not that slipping was a bad thing, but you know Calum can be the hardest on himself out of anyone else. You take the mental note, but don’t speak on it for his sake. If he wanted to talk more about it, he would eventually. But gum--gum is your objective currently. You look back down at the bag and go to the biggest compartment. You find his laptop tucked into the sleeve and in the mesh pocket you spot the green package of gum. As you go to grab the packet, you notice something purple too in the bag. It’s thick.

Curiosity gets the best of you and you give the object a tug. It’s pliable in your grasp and it crinkles a little. “What are you reading now? Another Ashton recommendation?” you ask with a small tease and pull the book from the depths of the bag.

“Oh, uh,” Calum starts, watching you pull out the GED prep book from his bag. “It’s not really a book for pleasure.”

You read the title and look up to Calum.

He gazes back at you, hands still holding the sponge against the last plate. It’s not like he needed your permission. But it was something he wanted to do. Now that he was going to have a kid, Calum didn’t want them thinking education was completely worthless due to him dropping out. It also worried him. He hadn’t been in school for almost a decade. Let alone he hadn’t had an ounce of schooling in America. Well before the practice exam he took, he knew the American social studies and civics information was absolutely going to be the most difficult for him. Even with all the logic and reason Calum had, he still didn’t want to tell people about it. What if he failed the test? What if he never passed it?

“Yeah, I-Well, I guess you know now,” Calum offers with a half hearted chuckle.

You put the book back into the bag. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t see it. I’m sorry. I should’ve just stuck to finding gum.”

“It’s not that serious, love. No harm, no foul.”

“Cal, really, I am sorry.”

You say it so softly. Even as Calum scrubs the invisible stains, he knows you don’t mean harm. “It’s silly, really.”

“No, it’s not silly.” You walk to the side of the sink that he’s standing and rest one hand on his lower back. He stops his work on the plate and lets it fall back into the soapy water.

“The English and Science make perfect sense. But I swear to Christ, American History is going to be the death of me. And like, it’s only money to retake the exam for me, for others not really. Which makes no sense. Why are you charging that much for one exam? And it’s so fucking stupid really.” Calum huffs and turns away from the sink to grab the kitchen towel to dry his hands. It's just a test, but somehow the thought sits on Calum’s chest and tightens to the point he’s not sure he’s getting a good breath.

You follow behind him. “Baby, do you even want to talk about this? We don’t have to. We can take a dip in the pool. Watch a movie. Literally whatever you want,” you plead to his back.

Calum’s shoulders fall. “What if I fail? What if I do all this and it doesn’t work out?”

With cautious steps, you slip in front of him and take his hands. They’re still just a hair damp but you don’t care. “I know I might not have a say in this literally at all. But I promise you it’s all going to work out.”

It would be easy to say that you’re only promising that because you’ve got a degree from higher education. It would be easy to say that school’s just been something natural for you. But Calum knows even if it might feel good to say those things, they thoughts are coming from a place of fear and of jealousy. “I just don’t want to fail,” he admits.

“I won’t let you.”

It’s four words. But you say them with so much conviction that he almost believes you. “Pinky promise?”

“If you let me, I pinky promise I’m not going to let you fail.” You bring your pinky around his and lift it to your lips for a kiss.

“It took me longer sometimes to get things back in school. I never hated it. I just got frustrated with it at times.”

“Can I ask why now? You’ve been more successful than I’ll ever see even with my degree. What makes it different now?”

“Pumpkin,” Calum states, gesturing to your stomach. “They make everything different.” The conversation is soft. Like neither one of you wants to put too much volume behind the words. The words are not heavy. They just feel fragile. This conversation is delicate.

“And you’re positive that you want to do this? You’re on the road right now and we’re still preparing for the baby.”

He knows it’s a lot going on. But there will always be a million things going on in life. And maybe it was less about worrying about the timing of things for Calum. He just didn’t want to feel like a hypocrite to his own child. He wants his child and any future children to see him and know that their pops walked the walk and isn’t just saying things because they sound good or are the right thing to say. Instead, he wants his child to know that everything he believes in he put the work in for it. He put action behind it. Calum wants his child to do the same. Words are just the surface. Action is the substance.

All of these words and thoughts feel like bees in Calum’s mouth—a jumbled hum and thick around his tongue but Calum’s determined to get it out and see this through. “I know there’s a million different things going on right now. But when we’re on the bus, I study and at the venues too before soundcheck. Days off are trickier because I do want to get out and sight see. But there’s time. In airports, when we’re flying,” he says.

There’s a moment’s pause as your mouth turns up on one side, the thoughts pulling slowly at your lips. “Maybe once we get through the beginning of this quarter at work, I can shoulder more baby prep stuff with Joy to give you just a little bit of extra time to study too. I found a doula that I’ll start working with later this upcoming week and she’ll be a huge help too.”

“Well, I don’t want you to do it all yourself. I’m already going to be gone for so much of this.”

You shake your head and wrap your arms around his torso. “No, I don’t mind cutting you out. I just mean I think we’re heading into a bit of a waiting period and with Joy and my doula there’s probably going to be a little less either one of us will have to worry about like planning wise. A lot will probably just be on me anyways like physically. I am sort of the host in a way. Should anything outside of that come up, it’ll always be a decision between us.”

“There’s still the baby shower and baby names,” Calum counters. “And I still want to be there even for the things that seem like I can’t directly help with, you know. I’m still here, if not physically all the time.”

“And you will get all sorts of bump updates and if Chickadee kicks my spleen and bladder I’ll tell you all that too,” you reassure.

“You mean when they kick your spleen and bladder.”

“Smartass,” you snort.

“Yeah, well too bad for you now. You’re stuck.”

“Some might say I’m right where I want to be. I won’t tell you who those some are, however.”

Calum grins, “Some might say I already know.”

“What if we took today to do some stuff, like venue browsing and then tomorrow we debate baby names? Still get your hands into the mix and then if you want time later to study, there’s still that option too.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m like 90% sure I got confirmation about the September show. As in, my manager did in fact email me, I just have not checked it thoroughly.”

Playfully you tap on Calum’s ass in the close hug. “Let’s check on that first and then look for venues. And then start a rough guest list. Like super rough so I can order invites and get addresses.”

“We won’t need them for another few months.”

“Still the sooner we get even a really rough estimate, the easier it’ll be just to have the stuff now and mail them out later than it would be to rush it all at the last minute.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

The two of you don’t move from the embrace. The scent of your body wash invades Calum’s nostrils. He’s tried to remember exactly how it smells now that he’s been gone but nothing quite does it or you justice. Why memory is such a faulty mechanism Calum’s never understood and he hates that even for the people he loves the most he will still carry incomplete pictures. Somewhere between guilt and recognition Calum tries to find peace, though much like his memory even he is faulty too. He wants that perfection but he will never have it.

You rest your head on his shoulder, arms tightening around his waist. The shy and embarrassed look on Calum’s face as you pulled out the book greets your closed eyes. “I’m sorry again,” you whisper.

Calum doesn’t know what you’re apologizing for--if it’s about the book, if it’s about the responsibility thing--, so Calum stays silent for a moment. He could tell you there’s nothing to apologize for. He could accept the apology. He could say nothing. But none of them feel appropriate. None of them hold the real weight of how thankful he is that you want to make this work for him. None of those options allow him to express gratitude that you’re willing to go above and beyond to accommodate him. “Can I just say thank you instead?” he asks.

“Calum, if you haven’t noticed in the span of twenty minutes I feel like I’ve committed several crimes against my future husband. I don’t think you should be thanking me.”

“No, like, things happen. I just--I appreciate you being understanding and working with me.”

“It’s how I say I love you,” you whisper.

“Well, in case I haven’t said it yet today, I love you too."

Tagging: @carma-fanficaddict @one-sweet-gubler @sunflowercalum @wonderlandiswhereitsatyo @markaylafruitcup @fandomfoodiedancer @wiiildflowerrr @icelily13 @busstop

#calum hood #calum hood smut #calum hood imagine #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #dad!calum #h writes #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #5 seconds of summer sut #calum hood x reader insert #calum 5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imagine #tw: pregnancy

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lovehotelreservation · 3 years

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Formulaic

Summary: There was a process to every solution.

And while Cid was aware of one particular solution he so dearly wished to attain, the process was simply too formidable to even attempt:

To confess his feelings to Maria, the Warrior of Light.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: WoL!OC/Cid

EVERY TIME I SEE CID I GET WHIPLASH THAT HE’S ONLY 34 HEWWO ??? MANS LOOKS LIKE HE’S GOT WERTHER’S ORIGINAL KISSES NOT LA CROIX MAKEOUT SESSIONS!!!

ANYWAY HFLKAFHAKL THANK YOU TO MY DEAREST COMMISSIONER FOR THIS OPPORTUNITY--ESP SINCE I PROGRESSED FURTHER ON THE OMEGA SERIES BECAUSE OF THIS!!!

---------------- Cid regretted ever fixing that damn kettle.

While doing so finally got the whinging pursed lips of Nero to finally hush up so he could hone his focus upon Garlond Ironworks’ current endeavor of seeking out Omega, the repair of the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster only served to give his lifelong rival all the opportunity to cozy up to the very person that Cid wanted him to stay the furthest away from.

Or attempt to at least.

A personality utterly kind and demure, eyes grey like rain clouds on a cozy morning, soft and silken locks of gold that cascaded to the middle of her back, a mind so brilliant and witty.

Eorzea’s Warrior of Light, but his own precious weakness.

She was Maria and oh how his heart yearned for her.

All while his eyes bore holes into the ground beneath which Nero stood every time he approached her with a mischievous glint in his eyes and an arrogant smirk on his face.

While Cid was more than overjoyed to see Maria fix herself a cup of tea during the lulls between endeavors in the Datascape, whenever she went to pour herself a drink, Nero was sure to be trailing after her, going on about superior blends in Garlemald and how he was more than ready to show her the breadth of his refined palate.

His intentions were clear.

And though Cid was ever prepared to step in as need be to keep Nero from pestering her further, the crux of the underlying issue in face of all this remained present in place:

His own feelings for Maria.

If the situation called for it, he could easily give a fully articulated lecture on the Allagans while inebriated to the point he was face planted on the floor in a drunken and naked slump right in the middle of Sapphire Avenue during peak Starlight shopping season.

But to confess how he genuinely felt about the woman who captivated him so dearly, who inspired him to go beyond any boundary?

The thought of risking the friendship that he treasured with her like nothing else was enough to push him to drink.

After all, with how often that the world relied on her strength to help defend it, he was protective of her--even lamenting that time he jokingly declared his need for her mainly due to her usefulness while he was guiding her through the tumultuous depths of The Praetorium.

Yet with the aftermath of that infamous night in Ul’dah and her subsequent escape to Ishgard, it was then that he began to realize that his fondness for her went beyond mere allies, mere friends.

This was made apparent the moment they were properly reunited after her far too close encounter with the Vundu at the Sea of Clouds, having successfully escaped pursuit by the Bismarck.

What with the way he could not hold himself back from taking her into his arms, hugging her close as all tension within his body was swiftly relieved as he took her in.

Her presence, her scent, her adorably surprised stammers as he embraced her right in front of Hauchefant and Emmanellain.

Along with Wedge and Biggs, with the former letting out a startled “Chief--!” while the other released the hearty chuckle of “Aye boss, demonstration of affection’s handled a whole lot differently in Ishgard, you know!”

For all his intentions to never let her go from the moment he feared the worst upon her disappearance, he was ever quick to relinquish her, a faint dust of pink spreading across his cheeks.

Cid was thankful that she didn’t seem to catch onto Biggs’s cheeky remark, looking so gorgeously flustered more so from his sudden embrace, despite her attempts to look composed in light of their reunion.

And it was from then on that he happily took his place within her journey, whether physically together during their attempts to thwart the return of Alexander, or when they were apart and remained joined together by way of letter or linkpearl.

To hear her say or see his name in her handwriting was a joy that could not ever be replicated by anything else.

As a pursuer of knowledge, he had to abide by what was factual.

There was no denying of his longing for Maria.

Not while he had Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie chiming in to ask if he had been talking to her whenever they handed her letters to him with knowing smiles on their faces.

And now, with Maria dedicating her time and effort to assist him and the rest of Garlond Ironworks with Omega’s ongoing trials, he could feel his heart welling with his increasingly overwhelming desire to express how he felt.

It was just only more irritating that Nero had stoked the flames by his pompous ways, of which left plenty on Cid’s mind, especially with the completion of the first gambit of battles under Omega’s watch and the return to Rhalgr’s Reach for some needed rest and recuperation.

Though, relaxation was in the furthest corner of his mind, whether by the mystery of Omega’s intentions or his current predicament of his feelings towards Maria.

With the hour late, rather than try to force himself back to sleep within the sleeping quarters set aside for Garlond Ironworks, he thought a walk around the now quiet compound would serve him better instead.

A change between sleeping clothes to a light shirt and a pair of pants--more suitable for the arid Ala Mhigan weather.

There was a small grin on his face as he emerged from the sleeping area.

Already he could hear Maria’s voice of exasperated curiosity with the inquiry of “How are you not evaporating?” whenever she saw his usual day to day attire.

Yet the voice that was in his head was heard by his very ears as he entered the common area that led out to the rest of Western Rhalgr’s Reach.

“Cid?”

Seated at one of the communal tables was none other than Maria, her expression curious and mug in her hands steaming, all while the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster presided by her on the tabletop.

The gods may toy but sometimes their mischief was simply too much.

His heart aflutter and his grin widening, Cid approached where Maria was sitting. “Well now, someone’s up late.”

The corners of her mouth quirked into a small smile as she proceeded to take a sip. “I see it as being up early.”

But though her tone was jovial and her expression relaxed, there was a distant look in her eye that signified a preoccupation.

He knew that look.

“I see--though, a warrior like yourself ought to get her rest, no?” Pulling out the chair beside her, he proceeded to take a seat, all while his grey eyes gazed towards her with concern. “Tell me, what keeps you up on this good night, Maria?”

While it was often joked that Cid was married to the pursuit of knowledge, he liked to think that his devotion to his studies made him especially perceptive of properly assessing emotion.

For surely, who else happily devoted one’s efforts to knowing so much of Maria such as he?

It was then that she set her mug down on the table.

Just before she turned towards him, her lips forming into a pout.

A pout he so dearly wished to kiss.

Huffing, she remarked as her arms folded over her chest, “Are we speaking about the general burden of being the go-to person for everyone’s dilemma, or that Nero is getting under my skin again? Take your pick.”

No words in modern and/or Allagan vernacular could fully describe the relief that washed over Cid’s body.

Still, always wishing for her to be at peace, he responded in turn with a sympathetic grin as he chuckled, “Ahh, one of those pesky reasons to stay up. What has our comrade in reluctant arms done this time?”

Maria turned her attention towards her mug on the table.

Her favorite one of the Garlond Ironworks’s collection, which Cid always made sure to have on hand whenever she was working alongside them.

Though many thoughts were swirling in her mind at this very moment--especially with Cid sitting right beside at an otherwise romantic hour--she continued as disdain intertwined itself with each word she spoke, “Earlier, Nero insisted that I try his cup of tea, and right when I did, he started gloating about an indirect kiss.”

If the thought of Maria’s voice energized his soul to go on a walk at such a late time, the mere utterance of Nero thinking himself to be so charming he could think to flirt in such a way made the inklings of a migraine begin to form within Cid’s head.

With her body visibly cringing at the recollection, the late hour had her lamenting out loud, “Is every brilliant mind from Galemand as big of a pompous know-it-all like him?”

“Well I like to think of myself as a humble servant to the majesty of study,” Cid teased with a shrug.

Setting her cheek against her palm while her elbow set upon the table, she remarked with a shake of her head, “You’re the exception.”

Cid had to wonder if he just gulped down a mug of tea himself with the rush of heat that suddenly surged through his chest. He let out another laugh, richer, deeper. “I take it that you’re not as keen to receive Nero’s odd attempts at courting?”

Maria’s eyes closed as she groaned at the thought, “I’d rather kiss the floor of the Gold Saucer during the summer season.”

“Then, would you prefer a kiss from elsewhere…?”

And then her eyelids fluttered open.

The lightheartedness in Cid’s tone had subsided into one of sincerity, as matched by the look in his eyes while he peered directly towards her.

Though unsure of how to feel or proceed, everything within her body encouraged her to step forward towards what she had yearned for so long.

And so, ever shyly but with her eyes gazing right into his, she murmured, “...If it must come from elsewhere, it can only come from one person.”

His breath caught in his throat. “‘One person…?’”

Her face grew warm from embarrassment. “I think you can figure it out, humble servant to the majesty of study.

Cid couldn’t resist from gasping with delight. “Gods Maria--”

His hands swiftly cupped her cheeks and their mouths met for a long awaited kiss, the warmth of the tea on her lips making them both melt further into their connection.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, bringing the two of them closer.

It was yearning now fulfilled, a flood of long withheld affection bursting forth, a craving for one another looking to be satisfied, to be changed from midnight fantasy to joyful fruition.

Kisses once shy and careful turned earnest and heated, tongues stumbling against one another as hands groped with need.

Were it not knowing her penchant for reservation, he would have ravaged her right then and there at the commons table.

Instead, he opted to lift her up into a carry, her arms and legs hugging around his shoulders and waist as he hurriedly brought her back to his quarters, his walk and her tea forgotten.

Surely, this had to be a dream in some way, no?

But as her back fell upon his mattress, as their hands continued to undress and feel each other as physical confirmation that what was occurring was very much real, the joys of the present couldn’t have been more sweet.

And how Cid savored her moans like that of an addictive confection.

Even without trying to be mindful of others at this late hour, Maria stifled her moans out of shyness, all while her back arched into warmth of Cid’s lips as they kissed over her dribbling core, the bristles of his facial hair scratching against her quivering as he eagerly lapped his tongue along her slit with long and indulgent strokes.

Though, she couldn’t quite be as quiet when she was eventually seated on his lap, her face buried into his shoulder as she rode his cock, all while one of his big sturdy hands held onto her hip while the other fondled her ass, guiding her up and down the length of his thick dick at a brisk pace.

This provided an ample opportunity to plant his lips along the crook of her neck, gentle suckles leaving red marks in their wake.

While he knew that Maria would do everything in her power to understandably cover up, the thought of Nero thinking twice to pursue her while seeing the marks on her neck was satisfying.

But nowhere near as satisfying as feeling the muffled whimpers of his name from her lips against his skin, the hot and slippery confines of her slick walls squeezing around his cock, up until they reached their orgasms with her core clamping onto his dick and his seed flooding inside her in a lascivious, scorching burst.

Much like as they began, they ended with their lips on one another’s yet again as they fell back onto his mattress, joined together now by their arms embracing one another, fingers intertwining, his lips against her temple, her head nestling upon the sturdiness of his chest.

Though they would have much to fully confide and earnestly convey once their bodies were properly rested, both Cid and Maria were relieved, their hearts feeling warm.

Far warmer than any brewed cup of tea.

#Cid Garlond #wol x cid #wol x npc #Final Fantasy XIV #FFXIV #Fic #super freaknasty writing

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imagineclaireandjamie · 4 years

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Imagine a still-angry Bree went to Craig na dun straight after Claire told her everything, to check out her mother's story, fell through the stones by mistake and met Jamie first.

The High Road and the Low Road - Part One

Brianna needed to get out of the house and just… away. She couldn’t stand to look at her mother just then and when she’d turned to Roger she’d been disappointed by what she found there. She’d thought they understood one another, thought he’d be on her side – the reasonable side.

But there had been something in his face as he looked at Claire Randall. If not outright belief in the ridiculous story she’d concocted to cover up an affair, then he’d at least been looking at her mother like he wanted to believe her.

And that was the last thing Brianna wanted right then.

It was Roger’s car. She’d seen him drop the keys in a bowl on the counter when they’d arrived. She looked at the gauge and saw there was a little less than half a tank left. She’d be good for a while. Not that she knew where she was going to go. It just had to be away – and preferably somewhere she could scream where no one would call the police.

Taking Roger’s car would slow them down if they tried to follow her.

Not if. When.

She didn’t mean to make it easy for them to find her.

As soon as she reached the main road, she headed in a direction that would take her away from town and began repeating aloud, “Left side of the road, left side of the road.”

The need to focus on fighting her American instincts and keep from drifting to the other lane actually helped her to calm down. A little.

She slammed on the brakes when she saw the sign, wincing when a horn blared behind her and another car flew past.

But then she was along and the rage returned. Craigh na dun. It was absurd that anyone could believe what her mother had said. It was absurd that the very thought of seeing the place was twisting her stomach into knots.

Gritting her teeth, Brianna put the car back in gear and sped in the direction of the signs. She would see these stones for herself if only to quell that feeling in her stomach, to be able to return to her mother and Roger and give them another telling off.

It was falling dark as Brianna reached the bottom of the hill and she could just make out the moon peeking between the low tree branches and the standing stones. The bravado of the drive shrank at the eerie sight.

But there was a stubborn streak that kept her feet moving toward the stones.

Her ears began to ring and her head to spin as she reached the center of the circle and touched the largest stone.

Pain. In her hand and arm and head. The buzzing in her ears became a scream and it was only as she felt her throat ache she realized she was the one who was screaming.

Her last thought before passing out was that her mother’s description of it all had fallen woefully short.

*********************************************

She wanted to throw up from fear as much as the nausea in her belly and the ringing headache that threatened to send her back under as soon as she tried to sit up.

Brianna scrambled backward, away from the stone, to the edge of the circle. The moon still shone in the sky and the stars seemed brighter too.

A few deep breaths helped to steady her enough to get to her feet. She brushed away grass and dirt that clung to the corduroy of her skirt.

Turning on her heel, she carefully made her way down the side of the hill in the direction where she’d left the car. With every step she scolded herself for being ridiculous and gullible enough to have let her mother’s tales affect her in such a way. With every step the buzzing and nausea faded and it was easier to tell herself that she had imagined the whole thing.

She’d taken too many steps. She should have reached Roger’s car by now or at least the solidity of the paved road.

Brianna turned around, peering into the darkness. Maybe she’d gotten herself turned around and had come down the wrong side of the hill. Making a quarter turn and referencing the gentle incline of the hill, she did her best to circle the hilltop.

It only made her feel more lost. She would have to wait until it grew lighter to complete her investigation of the hillside. In the meantime, she was getting cold and any chance of a blanket or additional protection from the elements was in the impossible-to-locate-in-the-dark car. (Why did Roger have to own a brown car? Why couldn’t it have been white and reflective?)

She couldn’t just lie down in the open. Looking around, she saw a faint light in the distance and made her way toward it. It didn’t appear to be moving, so not a car. It was dim, muted, so maybe a house with its curtains closed. But she didn’t think there were any houses this close to Craigh na Dun. She hadn’t noticed any as she passed to get there, anyway, but she was hardly an expert on the area and who lived there or where. She just needed someone who could loan her a flashlight or who had a telephone she could use (worrying her mother and Roger a little was one thing but she couldn’t let them go the whole night wondering where she’d gone).

Drawing nearer, Brianna was confused. It wasn’t a house – it would barely qualify as a shack. There was no door – well, no door left but old fashioned hinges clung to the frame to show there had been a door at one time. The roof appeared to have partially caved in but on the opposite side from where a short chimney stuck out with a faint trail of smoke rising from it.

Someone must be inside if a fire was lit but was it safe to casually announce her presence?

“Hello?” she called softly, approaching slowly now. “Anybody home? I uh… I’ve gotten myself a bit lost and can’t find the car in the dark – accidentally locked my flash – my torch inside. Do you have one you might… let me… borrow?”

There had been no sound, no sign of movement as she reached the door and decided to poke her head inside.

A low fire burned in a hearth that looked like it might collapse in on itself at any moment.

A figure was curled on its side on the dirt floor in front of the hearth. It was a boy – probably only a few years younger than herself. Maybe this was some play fort or campsite for him.

Brianna inched closer to the sleeping boy. “Hey… you,” she hissed but he didn’t stir. She gently nudged him with the toe of her boot.

Startled awake and confused, the boy rolled toward her with a threatening cry and a dagger in his hand, apparently ready to stab her.

“Whoa!” Brianna exclaimed, jumping back. “I don’t want trouble,” she promised. “Just looking for a little help is all.”

The boy calmed and relaxed as he woke further and realized he wasn’t actually being attacked.

“Ye scared the piss right out of me,” he told her, returning the dagger to a safe and concealed place in his belt.

“Who are you?” Brianna asked, stepping forward as the boy got to his feet.

“Ian Murray, ma’am,” he said, smiling and inclining his head toward her. “And what should I call you?”

“Brianna, but you can call me Bree.”

*********************************************

Claire hadn’t gone to bed and so Roger hadn’t either (though, he had dozed off and on in his chair by the fire). She spend most of the night staring out the window, watching for any sign of Brianna’s return.

Around five, the light finally beginning to show signs of returning, Roger rose from the chair and stretched, back cracking as he yawned. He went to the kitchen to make tea and toast, returning with a simple tray to try and get Claire to eat something.

“She couldna have gotten far on thwart was left in that tank,” he explained. Brianna didn’t know how quickly the needle could drop from half a tank to empty. “It’s likely she ran out of petrol, pulled over and spent the night in the back. She’ll have to walk a ways to a phone or wait till someone comes along as can give her a ride.” He offered Claire a steaming cup.

She took it, forcing a smile and nod of thanks before blowing on it but neglecting to take a sip.

“I want to believe you, Roger, but I’m afraid Bree is very much her father’s daughter… both of them. That display of temper was all Jamie… the running away afterward…”

“That ye think she learned from Frank?” Roger suggested.

With a sigh and another nod, Claire admitted, “Unfortunately, yes. And the last time we had a fight and he stormed off into the night, he was killed in a car accident.”

Roger felt his own teacup tremble in his hands at the thought. He set it down carefully as he apologized to Claire. “Christ, I hadna thought – I’m so sorry. If I’d realized – I should ha’ called someone to help and we could ha’ been searching for her through the night.”

Claire shook her head. “No, I’m sure she’s fine, like you said. Going after her might have only made matters worse anyhow. Frasers need to wear out their tempers a bit before you stand a chance of getting through to them.” At last she lifted her cup and took a sip of tea, closing her eyes as she swallowed and visibly willed herself to relax.

“Well, if she doesna return by lunch and hasna phoned, I’ll see if I can borrow Fiona’s car and you and I can look for her,” Roger promised. “Like I said, she couldna ha’ gone too far.”

As Claire smiled her thanks again, the telephone rang. Claire moved to get it before recalling it wasn’t her house and deferring to Roger.

He moved quickly and, expecting to hear Brianna on the other end, he answered, “Speak of the devil.”

“Roger?” Fiona’s voice replied.

Roger covered the receiver long enough to whisper to Claire, “Wrong devil.”

“Aye, I’m here,” he said louder to Fiona. “Sorry, it’s just… early.”

“Aye, tis and I wouldna have called so early – I’m a bit relieved ye answered at all. I was afraid… but ye’re there.”

“Aye, why would a not be?”

“Oh… well… Ye mayna ken but – ye see, my gran was part of a… a group. They’re… caretakers, ye might say. And since she passed, I took her place in the group.”

“Caretakers of what?”

“The standing circle at Craigh na Dun,” Fiona explained.

Roger felt himself growing colder, thought he must be paler from the step Claire took towards him.

“We take it in turns to visit them and see any rubbish is cleared up, that they’ve no been defaced and the like,” Fiona went on at a nervous clip.

Everything around Roger seemed to be slowing, narrowing to a point as his gaze fixed on Claire.

“Anyhow, I had a call this morning from… another member of the group. They said yer car had been found abandoned near the stones. I worried something might have happened to ye, but–”

“Brianna,” Roger managed to murmur.

“Brianna Randall?” Fiona asked.

“Brianna borrowed my car last night,” he explained. “She didna come home.”

“Roger, what’s happened?” Claire asked, forcefully.

#;mod lenny #new multi parter #the high road and the low road AU #CANON DIVERGENCE #featuring: bree #featuring: roger #featuring: fiona #featuring: young ian

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Fear Street Part 3: 1666 Ending Explained

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This article contains Fear Street Part Three: 1666 spoilers.

It never could be as simple as reuniting an ancient skeleton’s hand with its wrist, right? That became obvious last week when the Fear Street trilogy’s ostensible heroine Deena Johnson (Kiana Madeira) attempted to break the curse of Sarah Fier by attaching all missing appendages in the alleged witch’s grave… only to be warped to Shadyside’s early days in 1666.

Now in Fear Street Part Three: 1666, we’ve learned the full unholy breadth of Shadyside’s curse, as well as their sister township Sunnyvale’s good fortune—and it’s dark. Involving a perversion of all that is good(e), the curse that has taken so many beloved characters over the centuries turned out to be more twisted than perhaps anyone expected… but not for Sarah Fier, a victim of superstition and misogynistic zealotry. And in the end, Sarah got the last blood-curdling laugh. Here’s how.

Goode Men, Wicked Slaves

For all those who became suspicious last week of the recurring Goode family, your paranoia has been vindicated: that cop really is the Devil. Or at least he’s in service of the Dark One.

By traveling to 1666, Deena was able to walk around in Sarah Fier’s shoes and get a taste firsthand of what it’s like to be wrongfully accused of witchcraft by a Puritanical community (even if she inaccurately later describes them to be Pilgrims). As it turns out, Sarah was not a witch; she was merely the young woman who’s secret love for Hannah Miller (Olivia Scott Welch) caused a spurned suitor named Solomon Goode (Ashley Zukerman) to take umbrage. And as it so happens, Solomon was the one actually dabbling in the dark arts….

Aye, it was Solomon Goode who spilled his blood on Satan’s stone, beginning the process of offering “one name” and soul for demonic corruption in turn for good fortune for the Family Goode. When Sarah rejects his offer to join his unholy bargain with Black Phillip—and more vexingly takes offense over his severing her hand—Goode accuses Sarah for the black magic that’s bewitched Shadyside: the curse which caused a murderous minister to blind children!

Sarah hangs, but not before offering a curse of her own: She will get back at Goode one day and reverse his damnable curse. In the meantime—and at a cost of more than 300 years of functional blood sacrifices—Goode and his family profit from their deal with Old Nick. From father to son, the mainline of the Goode family tree teaches the dark ways to each successive generation, who every decade or so offers a new name and a new soul. The person selected for damnation then goes on a killing spree, spilling blood that the Devil apparently feeds on. Beelzebub in turn grants the Goode family and their Sunnyvale town ongoing prosperity. Hence why by 1994, Nick Goode (also Zukerman) is a corrupt police sheriff and his brother Matthew Goode is the mayor of Sunnyvale.

Meanwhile, Shadyside persists in squalor until….

Magic Blood?

The most satisfying twist of Fear Street Part Three is that halfway through, it becomes Fear Street: 1994 Part 2! To be honest the accents in the 1666 portion of the film were a little dicey, as was the, uh, lack of Puritanism in a film set amongst Puritans. So best to go back to the era of flannel and overalls!

When Deena returns to the ‘90s, she realizes that Sheriff Goode has offered the soul of her girlfriend Sam Fraser (also Welch) to the Devil so she’d kill Deena and keep the secrets of Sarah Fier’s shallow grave buried. And since they have Sam locked up at Ziggy’s house, that means all the Goode family’s damned minions are soon going to be after them. But our heroes come up with a pretty nifty plan.

Thanks to how they saw Shadyside’s collection of nightmares pursue Sam in Fear Street Part 1, Deena and her brother Josh (Benjamin Flores Jr.) deduce that the ghouls will be strictly after Deena’s blood—which low-key makes me wonder how the monsters have such genetic precision to distinguish Deena’s DNA from that of her brother’s. In any event, they team up with adult Ziggy (Gillian Jacobs) and Martin (Darrell Britt-Gibson) by offering the movie-stealing line of the night:

Josh: Wanna help us kill Sheriff Goode?

Martin: Let me get my coat.

The plan for getting it done is also initially pretty solid. They sneak into the Shadyside mall after hours—which just so happens to be built on the site of the Camp Nightwing massacre, which in turn is above where the Goode family’s Satan’s stone is buried beneath the earth—and have Deena cut her hand, dripping blood into a bucket. Then by combining that blood with green paint, they’re able to create cursed blood trails throughout the mall, with each trail leading into a different department store. When four of Deena’s pursuant boogeymen show up, our Scooby gang locks the monsters into their department stores and waits for Sheriff Goode to arrive and inspect the remains of his handiwork. Instead of mangled bodies, he finds his teenage crush Ziggy, now ready to dump blood on his head like Carrie references never went out of style.

It’s an elaborate plan which was built on the idea of unleashing all the ghouls intended to kill Deena on their own master. However, it might’ve just been simpler to shoot him. Oh well.

This final flourish of course goes horribly wrong but at least we get the fun sequence where the hapless heroes figure out they can delay the monsters by spraying each in Deena’s green blood, allowing for proxy fights between pseudo-Jason Voorhees and pseudo-Ghostface.

All Goode Things Come to an End

The actual resolution to this centuries-long terror turns out to be pretty simple. Deena follows Goode beneath the mall and to the Satan’s stone, as well as the literal unholy beating heart of the Goode family’s power. While she fails at stabbing the much bigger evil copper, she at least succeeds at running a knife through his power’s beating heart. It’s apparently as easy as that to undo the curse. It also allows the vengeful spirit of Sarah Fier to return from the dead and finally stab a Goode boy in the eye, sending him to Hell and Shadyside’s curse with him.

The plot’s mechanics are simple, but the implications are much more interesting. Because who else follows Nick and Deena toward the mouth of Hell but Sam, still possessed and now conveniently free of her restraints. She also attempts to thwart Deena and nearly kills her, yet Deena is able to make simple eye contact with her one great love and break through, shattering Satan’s grip.

It’s intriguing since, technically, we’ve seen Goode’s curse divide lovers before, with Tommy Slater (McCabe Slye) in Fear Street Part Two: 1978 not even hesitating to swing his axe into girlfriend Cindy’s heart. But then Deena and Sam’s love is strongly hinted at as being of a greater emotional purity. After all, Sam is clearly a descendant of Hannah Miller, the young woman whom Sarah Fier loved and saved from the noose by insisting that she alone was the witch of Shadyside, even bewitching poor Hannah into impure thoughts.

Are Deena and Sam the reincarnations of Sarah and Hannah? It’s possible, if even on a spiritual level since Sarah doesn’t appear to have any direct descendants. In any case, unlike so many slasher movies released between the 1970s and ‘90s, a lesbian romance is prominently featured at the center of this story, and is even the one redemptive light in Shadyside’s darkness.

Movies

The Netflix Fear Street Part 2: 1978 Easter Egg You Might Not Have Spotted

By Rosie Fletcher

Movies

Fear Street Part Two: 1978 Breaks Friday the 13th’s Darkest Rule

By David Crow

It also makes a striking juxtaposition next to Nick Goode’s dead body. This man might have been the current beneficiary of his ancestor’s bargain, but he represents something grimmer: the predatory nature of a society’s affluent feeding off the suffering and annual tragedies of their community’s underclasses. Sunnyvale flourished as a home for the wealthy while Shadyside wallowed in blood and trauma.

Kind of cuts deep the longer you think about it.

So… Who Took the Spell Book?

Of course this wouldn’t be an old school horror movie if it didn’t set up a sequel. Fear Street Part Three definitely offers resolution for its current narrative: Nick Goode is dead and exposed in the press as the Sunnyvale serial killer; Josh, meanwhile, may yet have his first girlfriend; and Deena and Sam are together, honoring Sarah Fier, if no one else will.

But beneath the reopened Shadyside Mall, we glimpse the book of black magic that Solomon Goode first used to make his pact, and a pair of hands belonging to an unseen face snatch it. Who stole the book and what are they up to?

Well, it’s worth noting that the Goode family has grown quite a bit in the 300-plus years since Solomon Goode accused Sarah Fier of witchery. Nick Goode appears to be the eldest son in the direct line. He’s the one taught the spells onscreen, and the boy who reads out Thomas Slater’s name—ironically in a bid to wrestle him away from Ziggy. However, just because Nick Goode is the one who damned Tommy and Ryan Torres in the last two Fear Street movies, it does not mean he was working alone.

Despite what Mayor Goode told the press about his brother, he almost certainly knew about his father and forefathers’ good work, as would the rest of the extended family. And here’s the thing…it will be so much harder next time for Deena (or, say, a new generation of millennial Shadysiders in the 2000s) to fight city hall. There’s also the likelihood that there’s more than one curse in that book of spells.

The Fear Street trilogy is over. The Fear Street shared universe may have only just begun.

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noneatnonedotcom · 4 years

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The Enemy Above

Onboard the VCS Wicker Man a young huntsman sat, beside him, the crew of the ship hurried about their jobs. The previous captain, having suffered a wound in a recent skirmish with atlas, was missing leaving jaune in charge of the bridge and the team of huntresses down below.

Team ABRY or ambry as they were known, had been formed in battle. The white fang had assaulted the dust stores used for the ships in Vale. Only a timely intervention by blake (their resident secret faunas who wasn’t so secret to jaune) had seen the scheme thwarted. And only the assistance of yang and ruby had let him actually pull off his plan to stop them.

After that, he’d claimed blake as a fellow hunter and ozpin had shown up to back his claim (a good thing too as a faunas outside of menagerie was unheard of and would have resulted in her getting jailed alongside her former comrades, it likely would have been death for her and they both knew it) the only cost for the assist was that their new team become permanent. They’d done more missions in their time as huntsmen-in-training of vale than most adults and with the war between atlas and vale heating up had been stationed on a frigate to hopefully stay out of trouble. The betrayal of team CVFY and the revelation of velvet to be a faunas had quickly put the kibosh on that.

Now having had the ship repaired they were returning to vale proper to get their new captain to work in concert with jaune.

“Sir Arc,” came a voice to his side “we’re picking up something strange on the radar”

He looked over at the crewman “what kind of something?”

“It looks like another ship”

Jaune frowned, he wasn’t sure they could handle another fight “have there been any reports around this route before?”

“No sir no reports”

Jaune frowned “none at all?”

An older crewman came over to look “ah, the kids just picked up a radar reflection, see there? The other ship is copying our exact speed and turning” the older woman looked to jaune “nothing to worry about Sir Arc”

Jaune frowned more, he could feel it in his gut something wasn’t right. And after the last few times, he wasn’t willing to risk it just being a feeling. He touched a button and called down to his team “ruby, yang, blake, report to the bridge immediately. Weapons with you. And pick up my armor as well, would you?”

It was yang’s voice that came over the line “feeling fancy captain? You want the cape with it?”

“I’m not a captain yang, and yeah I got the feeling I’m gonna have to make an impression here” he sighed as she signed off “helmsman alter our course a little, bring us close to that peak into cloud bank”

“Aye sir” came the voice and jaune went to the ready room, trying desperately to suppress the feeling of dread he felt

Onboard the AS Anguilla, a young Weiss Schnee stalked her prey. She was young the youngest specialist in the Atlan naval core but she was the best, second only to perhaps her older sister winter.

Some whispered of buying her station at the start of the war but she had shown through her victories that they were simply idle chatter of the lesser classes. She was the best of the best. And that was why she had to question the point of sending her after this Jaune Arc.

Yes, he was just as young as her and still in a command position but the valeian savages didn’t have their own robust command structure. He likely had no real tactical training and no further support. If there was any advantage to the lance doctrine of vale it was that it was utterly chaotic and the brutes seemed to thrive on that.

His ship was a standard ship of the primitive people, a frigate class. Though she noticed the above standard set of three five-inch guns of a strange make on the deck of the ship. It was a gravity dust forged hull, with hard light dust forged armor plating, it was faster than her own cruiser but her own weapons were something to behold.

Nine eight-inch-guns, and ten smaller 5-inch guns of her own. Her hull was also made of gravity dust forged steel and her armor was a true hard light shield an advancement that had seen her ship through combat action after combat action. Her heavy cruiser was also equipped with a heavy MAC cannon. Something that was more than enough to see her through taking vale itself. For what ship or station could hope to survive a ball of molten plasma the size of a small ship fired at it?

Yes, this would be a simple mission and she would go home to her sister with just another feather in her cap.

“Okay so let’s assume you’re not going insane,” said blake sitting on a chair as ruby and yang helped their leader into his armor “why the cloud bank, all they have to do is wait for us to break out of it when we run they can just go above it. At least for a short while”

“And if it’s as big as you say,” said ruby grunting to latch a final strap “even out coil guns aren’t gonna do much”

“We have a couple of tungsten rounds left from our fight with CFVY,” said yang

“So… we’ll be able to hurt them a little before we blow up?”

“We can’t outrun them,” said jaune “we’re faster but the range they have would mean we’re gonna be full of holes before we can even get a radio signal out”

“We still don’t know they’re there,” said blake “there are no reports of anything being wrong around here”

“Exactly,” said jaune latching his cape onto his armor “we’ve got no reports, none! When was the last time you had a huntsman not complain about lack of combat? Or even Grimm?”

Blake’s eyes widened “oh shit, and you’re saying it has to be a big ship because-”

“ a small ship wouldn’t be able to destroy a cruiser before they could radio out for help,” said ruby

“And a ship without reach wouldn’t be able to stop the smaller ones,” said jaune nodding his head

Yang blew a strand of hair out of her face “this is why I prefer fighting on the ground, less thinking involved”

Jaune laughed “that’s typically because I’m too busy screaming to come up with a plan”

Ruby smiled “but you always look out for us”

Blake nodded “it might still be nothing,” she said closing her book “but I’m more than willing to trust your judgment”

Yang cracked her knuckles “so what’s the plan?”

“We go into the cloud bank, they’ll have t follow us because they’re trying to convince us they’re a radar reflection. We jam the radar once we’re in”

“We’ll be blind then,” said blake

“But we still have that weather device thing installed, we’ll be able to see them based on cloud displacement,” said jaune with a smirk

“And they’re big enough that we’ll actually pick up on it unlike us who will look like an eddy in the wind if they’re even carrying meteorological equipment” blake finished for him

“They should be,” said ruby “a ship that big would be a shame to lose it to something as simple as a summer storm”

“WE’VE LOST RADAR” came the shout of her crew

Weiss cursed “clever bastard, had us figured from the start, well you can’t hide for” she froze he wouldn’t be hiding, he was a smart enough commander to know she was chasing him “ALL HANDS BRACE FOR IMPACT, SHIELDS UP! HELMSMAN GET US OUT OF THIS CLOUD BANK!” she shouted orders at a rapid rate barely getting her ship’s shields up in time to block five of the six rounds. The first somehow tearing through her hull like tissue paper.

“FIND HIM!” she shouted as her crew scrambled to get their other systems working “DAMAGE REPORT!”

“HULL BREACH ON LEVEL FOUR. CIRCUITRY WAS HIT BUT AUXILIARY SYSTEMS ARE FINE. HE MISSED OUR WEAPONS AND ENGINES BY A FEW INCHES WE WERE LUCKY MA’AM” came the voice of penny hooked into their intercoms

“HOW LONG TILL WE’RE COMBAT READY?” asked Weiss shouting to be heard over the alarms

“WEAPONS ARE ONLINE, FUEL FOR SHIELDS IS LOW. WE’VE LOST THE ABILITY FOR A DRAWN OUT ENGAGEMENT MA’AM. I RECOMMEND RETREAT HE’S BEATEN US”

“NOT YET HE HASN’T!” shouted Weiss “HOW MANY EDDIES DO WE SEE?”

“WHAT?” asked a crewman

“HOW MANY!”

“SIX”

“FIRE ON ALL OF THEM!”

Jaune cursed as dust rounds flew past his ship exploding and tossing them about. She didn’t know where they were but she was just going to fire on every eddy. And eventually, she’d hit them, what was her game? She wouldn’t panic unless! “Full astern!” he shouted as the ship moved back rapidly not a second too soon as in the exact place he was before a massive light passed through the open-air scenting the air with ozone

“OH FUCK!” shouted yang summing up everyone’s feelings on the matter

“WHAT WAS THAT?!” yelled blake covering her ears

“JAUNE!” shouted ruby clinging too him

“Open fire and move us out of here, I want continuous fire! Not a second for them to get that ready. Use out light ammo we’re not getting through that shield!” he did his best to keep his voice level. Right now he needed to get distance. He just had to make it to nightfall but to do that he needed to prevent that weapon from firing and he was guessing that something like that required a lot of power. Maybe enough that they had to drop their shields to use it. If not…

Well, fuck it shooting it made them all feel better at least.

The gunbattle lasted hours as flashes lit up the clouds. The wicker man could fire and move but all it would take is one hit and they were toast more to the point the enemy ship had exited the clouds earlier and now the only reason he knew where the damn thing was was that it wanted him to shoot at it so it could shoot back, meanwhile unknown to the vale ship. The fuel for the shields was running low. The stockpile of hard light dust was not infinite and that initial shot had been plenty lucky but the constant firing gave her own crew a chance to catch them as the angle of impact gave them away.

The sounds of battle faded with the setting of the sun as The Anguilla surveyed the cloud bank below it.

“We’re out of hard light dust ma’am” came the words of Penny “I would recommend retreat”

“We run and he’ll gun us down,” said Weiss “the second we give away our position he’ll fire and now we don’t have the shields to protect us” she cursed her own temper. She just had to be the best.

Now her crew’s blood was on her hands

“Our only hope,” she said raising her voice “ is to find them before they find us, and destroy them. I’m ordering complete silence”

She sat there, they sat there. For hours. Eight in total of complete silence. And in the first, she’d realized that jaune Arc had to be doing the same. It would be the one who blinked first that would lose.

The tension was the worst part of it. The constant fear.

It was at the end of the eighth hour that she heard it

“MY BODY IS A CAGE OF FLAMES” came a voice in the darkness she sat stunned as the crew began to bring their guns about

“THE BURNING YET VERDANT GIANT!” what was he doing?

“RETRIBUTION, A SHRINE THAT PRESIDES OVER HUMAN AFFAIRS AND PURIFIES THEM” had he lost his mind? Was the pressure just too much for him?

“I AM THE ONE WHO DESTROYS!”

Weiss realised it too late “NO WAIT!”

Her men fired and the flash of her guns lit up an automated message buoy floating through the clouds

“THE WICKER MAN!” three sets of five-inch guns fired tungsten rounds from their electromagnetic barrels.

Of course. That’s why he was able to pierce her hull so easily once he got past the shield

They tore through her ship hitting the engines. The force of the explosion knocked her out.

Her last thoughts were “he’s a sorcerer. Able to pull the very thoughts from my head”

Jaune stood overlooking his med bay, really it was the brig but they’d had to refurbish it for the crew they’d dragged from The Anguilla.

“This all of them?” he asked Ruby as she walked up behind him

“Yeah, only these ten, standard crew was three hundred and twenty-two”

Jaune tried not to let the number get to him “it’ll be worst for her” he said looking at the captain “I know the feeling”

“You did pretty well I’d say”

Jaune shook his head “I’m not made for this Ruby. That entire battle those men looked to me and…” they both fell silent

“What if I had made the wrong choice?” he asked in the quiet of the room

“Then we’d adapt,” said Ruby “we’re not like Atlas, we trust you jaune but we’re not helpless without you. If you made a mistake we’d have called you on it. Just like I’m doing now”

He turned to look at her only to catch a non plused look from Ruby “you’re an idiot, jaune” she said in the stunned silence “you’re your own greatest critic and if we caught anyone talking about you the way you talk about yourself we’d kick their ass. You won today, against a ship you had no business winning against. They had you beat in firepower, tech, they had every advantage and a commander almost as good as you on top of it, and you pulled victory from the jaws of defeat. You saved us. Have some damn pride!”

He chuckled shaking his head “we’re taking a vacation the second we get back to vale”

“Oh can we visit patch?” asked ruby surprising jaune

“Yeah we really should check on the old man huh?” said yang appearing out of nowhere

“Already taking him to meet your father huh? Asked blake with a teasing tone

“I-i- no it’s not, well I wouldn’t mind... The thing is” ruby flushed red and tried to force a sentence out

“Eh captain here wants to give me or ruby a shot I wouldn’t mind,” said yang with a smirk. “or maybe you want us both, so greedy captain” a wink and Jaune let himself get caught up in the moment blushing and stammering.

When they got back to vale, he’d most likely get a bunch of medals or something. He’d be paraded around as a hero for all the little huntsmen in training and that would bring all sorts of troubles for his team and him but for now, he’d just bask in the comfort of yang ruby and blake all acting like they were flirting with him and pretend it might actually happen one day.

He had his team, that was all he needed

________________________________________________________________

so this was an experiment, please give my some feedback about it. but the general idea is that it’s based off the ideal huntsman system i speculated about a while back. it’s based off some space battles i watched way back when and i did my best with it.

if you can guess which battle in particular i’m mimicking let me know too but seriously let me know what you thought of the story

#RWBY #jaune arc #lancaster rwby #lancaster #rwby au #i was gonna have more Lancaster but never got the opportunity

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anoutlandishfanfic · 5 years

Text

Metamorphosis Ch. 22

The Premise: What if Claire had conceived on her wedding night with Jamie? How would this change the the plot points we all know and love?

Last chapter left a newly rescued Jamie from Wentworth, the lovebirds finally reunited. We pick up shortly after that. You can find more here or on AO3.

Mad props to @thefraserwitch for taking the absolute mess I dumped on you, accurately picked up on what I was trying to get at, and helped me refine it into the magic it is now. She’s a genius and a saint, y’all.

Some time later, Christmas Eve 1743.

We finally came to a rattling stop within the abbey’s inner courtyard and were immediately surrounded by helping hands. A stretcher materialized out of nowhere, toted by the monk who climbed aboard without any sort of official greeting, and everyone seemed to set about transferring Jamie onto it at once.

“Watch his hand,” I hastily urged, leaning forward and reaching out my own to ensure it was positioned stably across his chest as they moved him.

I struggled to my feet in the space just vacated, my spirit longing to bound after them, but my body having another idea entirely and I groaned internally as Dougal offered to help me up.

No. Go away, you fucking vulture.

Dougal had been there, hovering in the background, watching and waiting as we’d made our plans. I’d been wary when he’d volunteered to go to the abbey, sure he was doing everything he could to subvert our mission and would return without a sanctuary secured.

He hadn’t entirely thwarted our plans — for he had gotten the approval we needed — but he also ensured he would be within arm’s reach to snatch me up, should the men or I fail.

“Don’t touch me,” I growled as I moved towards the end of the wagon. Willie, whatever he’d been doing now complete, offered his assistance as well and I took it immediately, my feet finally touching solid ground as he lifted me out of the wagon bed.

Trailing after Jamie and his entourage, Willie stayed by my side and Dougal directly on my heels as we wound our way through a maze of stone corridors, one bending and turning into the next until we arrived at the room the brothers had prepared for us. It was small and sparsely furnished, but it would do.

“Father Anselm, this is Misses Fraser,” Dougal coolly introduced me to an elderly priest with a kind expression. “He’s agreed to you shelter until… we can find a more permanent solution.”

He’d covered it nicely, but I knew what he’d meant.

Until I failed.

But, I wouldn’t fail.

I would piece together Jamie’s hand and bring him back to health… back me, back to us.

“Thank you, Father,” I smiled, my gratitude genuine as I ignored Dougal’s veiled threats. “We are most grateful.”

“Think nothing of it,” his returned smile made me want to weep, the almost parental gaze tearing down the facades I’d held in place for far too long as he assured me, “We shall talk later.”

I nodded, suddenly remembering the supplies I’d requested, blurting, “I’m going to need—“

“Your husband’s uncle has given us your instructions, my child,” he cut me off and patted my hand, warming it between his own.

“You’ll find everything you need on the table there.”

A deep sigh left my lips before I could stop it as I squeezed his hand, meaning what I said with every fiber of my being as I repeated, “Thank you.”

He stepped away at this, revealing Dougal, who had been waiting in the weeds for a perfect time to pounce.

“Claire, I must speak with ye,” he begged, this time making no effort to hide his motives.

I side-stepped around him with a huff and tried to continue towards my destination, but he caught hold of my elbow, keeping me in my place.

“If I don’t set that hand, he’ll be crippled for life,” I seethed, leveling him with a look that should have incapacitated him on the spot.

Instead, his blue eyes turned ice cold and a sickening smile tugged at his lips as his voice dropped, snidely commenting, “That long?”

I was just about ready to slap him in that smug face of his, but Jamie’s voice gave me the exit I needed.

“Claire?”

My heart lurched as I instantly turned my attention to him, dismissing Dougal coldly and succinctly as I hurried to my husband’s side, “If you’ll excuse us.”

Snagging a low stool from along the wall, I deposited it beside the bed and eased myself down onto it. His head turned on the pillow, his brow furrowed and eyes screwed up tight in agony as he rasped, “Claire…”

My left hand reached for his — his whole and dominant one — taking hold of him, assuring, “I’m right here, luv.”

The other hand gravitated to his face, pulled by the overwhelming need to take him into my arms. I cupped his cheek with my palm, my thumb tenderly stroking his chilled skin as he struggled to open his eyes.

“I’ve got you, Jamie,” I promised, silently vowing to never let him go, ever again.

His blue eyes found mine for the first time, clouded with pain and shrouded with an inner turmoil that cut me to my very core. He frowned as he studied me, searching for something in my face that he couldn’t quite find.

“Claire,” Jamie murmured again.

I bent my head, kissing him gently but urgently and I felt a good deal of tension leave his body in a shuddering sigh. My eyes slid shut as I pressed my brow to his, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed beside him, to fall into mind numbing slumber and wake to find this had all been a terrible dream.

But it hadn’t been a dream.

I’d very nearly lost him forever.

“You’re safe,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears that threatened to fall.

Jamie let go of my hand and his good arm slipped around my neck, pulling my head to his. I twisted, shifting onto the bed beside him as my body tried to bend that way. The bulk of me made things cumbersome and I struggled to be as close to my husband as I wanted to be. I began to tremble, shaking from head to toe as we clung to each other, the events of the past twenty-four hours suddenly hitting me with the force of a freight train.

“You’re safe,” I repeated, as much to remind myself as it was to reassure him.

So many things could have gone wrong.

Should have gone wrong.

A gaggle of Highland warriors and their herd of cows should not have been able to break into a fortified British prison, recover a highly guarded inmate, and escape again without losing a single man.

It shouldn’t have worked.

But it had.

And Jamie was safe, here in my arms.

“Oh God, Jamie,” I hiccuped, unable to hold back my tears any longer.

I felt him nod against me, his breath catching as he pushed me away ever so slightly, his chin dipping as he stared at what was left of my waist.

“The bairns?”

I half laughed, half sobbed as I moved his hand against me, guiding it to the place where our children were currently objecting to my bent position. They were busy, thriving within me despite all I’d been through on the road. Relief washed over his face as they demonstrated well-being, dancing and rejoicing at their father’s touch.

But, soon, the muscles of his jaw began to tighten as he seemed to process a great many things and his head dropped back down onto the pillow… almost in defeat.

My heart lurched as I murmured, “What is it, luv?”

His left hand drifted over to his right forearm — just above the carnage — as his gaze fixated on a distant spot on the wall, unable to look at me.

“Will it mend?”

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

A knock on the door sounded before I could elaborate, Murtaugh’s inquiring a nighean? announcing his presence.

“Come in,” I called reluctantly, hastily wiping my cheeks as Murtagh stuck his head in the door.

“Is there anythin’ I can be fetchin’ for ye?”

Jamie’s head turned on the pillow in response to his godfather’s question and, with an effort, I stood again, forcing a smile as I gathered my resolve.

I wanted nothing more than to send Murtagh off for a doctor, to whisk Jamie off to the nearest hospital where a team of surgeons could repair his hand and I could simply be his wife… allowed to be fearful, to sit in a chair and wait and pray.

But that option was not available to me.

Pull it together. Jamie needs you to have a clear head.

Taking one deep breath and then another, I asked, “Do you have a flask of whisky on you?”

“Aye, always,” a slow smile stretched across Murtagh’s face.

I lifted my chin, clenching my fists at my sides as I insisted, “Then let’s do this.”

I moved away from the bed, heading towards the wash basin that stood in the corner. I slowly cleaned my hands, washing away the grime as I my mind returned to the task at hand.

What a horrible pun, I flinched and shook my head, trying to rid myself of the connection.

“Sassenach?”

Jamie’s rasping voice snapped my head to the side, catching sight of him out of the corner of my eye. He was studying me intently, the gears of his mind working something over.

“Are you alright?”

The soap slipped out of my hand and into the basin with a splash, tears blurring my vision once more.

“Yes,” I answered a little too quickly, turning back to washing my hands and fishing the soap back out so he wouldn’t see my face.

Only Jamie would ask such a question.

His tender care of me was nothing new, but now —while he was incapacitated and in excruciating pain — it sucked the very air from my lungs, bending me over the basin as I gripped the sides.

“Claire?”

The concern in his voice rose, but I knew I had to keep it together, knowing that if I turned back to face him in this moment, I wouldn't be able to.

And so, I dried my hands absently as I lied, “I’m fine.”

Murtagh returned just then and extinguished any further discussion over how I was feeling. I set him to work, directing him as to where I needed things while I sterilized my hands the few instruments I had in the whisky, leaving him to do the heavy lifting in relative silence.

I collected the stack of clean cloths from the table and crossed the room, placing them beside the bucket of fresh water as I tried to settle myself to my work. Standing at the table Murtagh had placed next to the bed, I began arraigning things so that they’d be within easy reach, struggling to put up a calm front before I faced Jamie again. I could hear Murtagh helping Jamie to drink the whisky he’d procured and let him care for his godson for a good many moments as I took the time to deeply inhale and exhale, to harden my resolve and commit to having a clear, objective mindset.

Finally turning around, I found Jamie’s eyes firmly shut again, caught up in his pain. Murtagh had moved over to the other side of the bed, giving me room to work, and I stiffly positioned myself on my work stool. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was better than being on my feet and bending over him.

I checked his pulse, finding it steady beneath my fingers and noticing that his breathing had begun to even out as the whisky took on its second use as an analgesic.

“Sorcha?”

My heart crashed through the floorboards beneath my feet as his lips slowly formed the syllables of my Gaelic name and the sound of it simultaneously tore down the wall I’d hastily built to protect myself, flaying my heart wide open before him— even as it bolstered and sustained me, giving me the wherewithal to do what I needed to do… to operate on my own husband.

My hands stilled as I returned my attention to him, my lips forming a wobbly smile as I met his gaze. I saw the vestiges of pain still remaining in the corners of his consciousness, but the magical elixir of alcohol told him he no longer need care about it and he bought that lie hook, line, and sinker.

“Right here, luv,” I murmured, dipping my head.

“I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You shouldna… you should be… I’m so sorry, mo nighean donn.”

“Jamie,” his name tumbled from my lips as I pressed my cheek to his, crooning in his ear, but he continued.

“You should be a’ Lallybroch broodin’... makin’ yer nest jes the way you like it… no’ slavin’ to mend what canna be mended.”

“Your hand will heal,” I lifted my head in order to look him right in the eyes. He started to disagree, but I stopped him, emphatically repeating myself, “Your hand will heal… and I can’t build my nest without you.”

Infection was my main concern, mostly in his pinky, but I was confident the bones would heal with time. He would likely experience stiffness in the joints and could possibly lose some degree of range of motion as well, but I would do everything within my power to make sure he stood the best chance of a full and total recovery.

He squeezed my hand as his eyes slid shut with a sigh, his questions now answered and his mind at relative ease. I squeezed back, patting his hand gently as my spirit offered up a prayer that my words would prove true.

...

I’d treated horrific injuries in the war, many more unfathomable than the task before me… but none had been my husband.

The wounded soldier had always been a stranger.

Sure, I’d gotten to know many as they recuperated, but they were unknown souls as they lay broken before me on the operating table. But now, for better or for worse, both the soldier and the surgery were completely mine.

I knew every inch of my husband’s body… I could map out his every line, every curve with my eyes closed.

But could I operate on him?

Could I set aside the swirling maelstrom of self-doubt and fear of failing and perform a surgery that would place him in more pain than he was already in, even though I knew it would lessen his pain in the future? Could I overcome the suffocating grief at seeing Jamie like this and overwhelming rage I felt towards the sadistic monster who’d inflicted the wounds in order for me to heal them?

Did I really have a choice?

No.

I slid my eyes shut as I pressed my palms against the table, forcing myself to swallow my emotions, to bury them deep within me. I took a deep breath… and another… and then one more.

My head stopped spinning and clarity was restored to me bit by bit as I began to go about the surgery in my mind. I knew that it would be a long, nerve wracking job and that I’d need to be focused, to be completely in tune with the workings of Jamie’s body.

I was halfway across the room before I even realized I was moving, returning to Jamie out of pure instinct and a blind need to feel his pulse thrumming beneath my fingertips. Sinking down beside him, I remembered something he’d done on our wedding night…

He’d held my hand, even taken me into his arms when sharing our hearts was painful. He’d said that it would be easier if we were touching and it had always proven to be true.

Why would it not be now?

I gently positioned Jamie’s right arm the way I needed it, but the jostling was enough to rouse him from the drunken slumber he’d settled into, his face contorting in pain.

Stopping this and twisting to pick up the measured amount of laudanum, I offered it to him.

“Here, this will help.”

Jamie took the cup and downed its contents gladly, only protesting once he’d swallowed it in one gulp. He screwed up his face in disgust, his jaw dropping and his tongue sticking out as he complained, “A dhia, Sassenach… tha’s foul.”

“It’s strong,” I half apologized, half explained, “but it does the trick.”

He nodded, taking this in stride as he handed me back the cup, holding my hand once his was empty once more. His grip was surprisingly tight and I paused to study his face, finding stark fear under the layers of alcohol and physical pain.

“It’ll be alright,” I assured him, trying to make myself believe it as well.

“Oh, aye, mo nighean donn,” his chin tilted up to look at me as he settled himself against the pillows. “Tis no’ the pain… but what I’ll find once it’s gone, aye?”

I watched him struggle for a moment and then could bear it no longer. Dipping my head, I kissed him long and hard, only coming up for air when I finally felt him relax beneath me.

I pressed my brow against his, whispering, “Find me.”

“I’ll be right here with you, Jamie… at your side when you wake and along with you in your dreams.”

A deep, heavy sigh escaped him and I could tell the laudanum was beginning to take effect. His gaze was distant as he struggled to keep his eyes open, fighting to stay alert instead of letting the drug’s numbing tide take him under.

“I’ve got you, Jamie,” I murmured, my thumb stroking his cheek.

“You’re safe.”

I kissed him again and the last vestiges of tension left his body as he finally drifted off, the lines of pain disappearing from his face, leaving him very much like the last morning I’d spent with him… completely at peace.

“I’ll fetch a few more lamps for ye, lass,” Murtagh murmured, quietly taking his leave.

I sat up after a moment, taking a deep breath and setting my sights on Jamie’s right hand.

“Bone of my bone, mmm?” I intoned wryly, speaking to him even though he couldn’t — wouldn’t — respond.

But... if there was a small chance… even a remote possibility that hearing my voice would keep his demons at bay while he was unconscious, I’d eagerly read him the entire Encyclopedia Britannica without hesitation.

Checking his pulse briefly and finding it still strong, I heaved myself back up and moved away to clean my hands again. It was well worth going about the sanitization process an extra time to be able to touch Jamie, to reassure him as he went under, but I mentally chastised myself for not moving the necessary supplies closer.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bar of carbolic soap or a team of qualified surgeons… but, here we are,” I sighed. “Although, come to think of it, I don’t believe you’d protest much about being stuck with me and a bottle of strong whisky under any normal circumstances…”

Shaking my head at the thought, I let out a decided snort.

“And just what exactly is normal for us, James Fraser?”

Traipsing around the Highlands in every sort of weather? Evading the grasp of the latest in a string of people bent on killing one or both of us?

No, Jamie and I never had anything resembling normal our almost six months of marriage…

I peeked over my shoulder at him, needing to be reassured that he really was here with me, and found exactly what I’d expected… he hadn’t moved so much as a fraction of an inch. Jamie’s chest rose and fell at steady, slow increments, effectively qualming the ridiculous notion that he’d stopped breathing while my back was turned.

Tucking my lower lip firmly between my teeth, I gnawed at it as I resumed my work, going about the meticulous process of getting my hands as clean as I possibly could.

Murtagh returned with the extra lamps in hand as I was rinsing my hands in the whisky for a third time. He set them down, then drifted back to my side, studying me intently as he inquired, “What else can I do, a nighean?”

I paused and shifted my attention back to our patient. We’d removed what was left of Jamie’s clothing long ago, giving our patient a quick once over to get most of the grime off of him, but there was still far more dirt in and around his more minor wounds than I was comfortable with.

“The gashes on his chest… could you wash them again? Rinse them with the whisky?”

Murtagh looked relieved to be of use as he nodded and I gave him a weary smile in return. We worked together but separately, settling into a comfortable silence as we gave our full attention to our respective tasks, caring for the one that our hearts both loved.

With the hand finally clean, I could now begin to reassemble what was left of Jamie’s pinky finger. The very tip of it had been left behind in whatever hell-hole he’d inhabited and the bones that remained were splintered almost beyond repair… but with hours of meticulous attention, I was able to get it to the place where it stood a chance of healing properly.

This having been accomplished, I moved on to his ring finger. He had impressive compound fractures in both his middle and proximal phalanx and it took considerable force to draw the ends of the bones back through the skin, eliciting concern from my ragtag assistant.

“What the hell are ye doin’?!”

Murtagh was opposite me in an instant, gaping at me from across the work table. I tried to ignore him, hoping he’d take the hint and go back to whatever it was that he was doing, but he remained. He hovered in my peripheral vision, arms tightly crossed and disapproval radiating from every ounce of him.

“Setting — his — fucking — finger,” I finally grunted in answer when I could.

Proximal phalanx now in place, I quickly glanced up at him and found a look of half astonished wonder and half complete disquiet at what he’d just witnessed. Murtagh had seen his fair share of violence and wounds it produced in his life, I was sure, but watching someone exert relatively brute force to heal another would be an occurrence of absolute rarity.

I returned my focus to completing my work, but the interruption made me realize just how much I’d lost awareness of anything outside the job I was doing. I noticed that ache of my stiff joints began to settle in as I finished off the final stitch, the fatigue burning my eyes as I carefully splinted the hand, surgery now complete. I felt myself begin to tremble as I bandaged Jamie’s hand, finalizing this first step in his recovery process.

The end of the roll slipped out of my grasp before I could stop it and Murtagh quickly ushered me to a chair along the wall, sturdier and more comfortable than the low stool I’d been occupying. He opened the window a tiny bit, letting in the cold, clean air and I took great gulps of it.

I tipped my head back, letting my eyes slide shut as I fought a sudden wave of dizzying nausea. My hands took great fistfuls of my makeshift apron as I filled my lungs with the night air, trying to rid my nose of the heavy scent of blood.

Jamie’s blood.

Much to my immediate relief, I found that an empty bucket was within arm’s reach and stuck my head into it just in time. I could hear Murtagh’s muttered grumblings as he hurried back to my side, but paid him no heed as everything I’d repressed in the last hours came rushing to the forefront. I began to tremble violently as every muscle in my body gave out, my chest heaving with the sobs I could no longer contain.

“Shh, a leannan,” he crooned and took me into his arms, setting aside the bucket and paying no heed to my complete and utter disarray.

“Ye’ve done it… tis over now.”

It’s over.

It’d taken everything within me and then some, but I had done it. I had successfully set, sutured, and stabilized every injured finger on Jamie’s hand… I had wielded every weapon within my arsenal and came out the other side victorious.

“I can finish yer bandagin’, a nighean,” he assured me, his voice kind but insistent. “My coverin’ will keep til morn… he willna be movin it about much, aye?”

The smile I found in his eyes gave me what I needed to keep my wits about me. I nodded wearily and watched as he — to my surprise — wrapped Jamie’s hand quite efficiently in the cloth bandage. It certainly wouldn’t hold if Jamie used the arm, but our patient wouldn’t be conscious for a good while yet and in no shape to do much more than breathe when he was.

No, as Murtagh so eloquently stated, it would keep until the morn.

My chest heaved as my head slowly cleared and I opened my eyes, blinking down at Murtagh — who was now kneeling at my feet — through my tears. There was something eating at him, words he wanted to say, but chose for the moment to keep to himself.

“Spit it out,” I grumbled, “or else it’s going to choke you.”

Kind concern lit his eyes and it was this that kept me from descending into abject panic as he gently urged, “Go to bed, lass.”

Still, the very suggestion had my heart rate skyrocketing and my mouth completely dry.

“I’m not leaving him,” I choked out.

“An’ ye think I will?” he snorted, one brow nearly reaching the ceiling.

I shook my head, unwilling to so much as budge from this chair.

“I’ll stay wi’ him through the night, a nighean,” he coaxed. “Ye said yerself he wouldna wake before morn and ye need to sleep.”

I didn’t think he would.

My dosage of the laudanum had been approximate, wanting him to be completely under for the procedure but not so much as to cause problems. I’d never worked with the substance before, the bottle remaining untouched in my medicine box until now, and therefore had no more than a general idea of when Jamie would wake. The combination of his hangover and pain from the wounds would no doubt keep him unconscious for a time after that and I could only hope that he’d sleep away what was left of the dark night.

I chewed on my bottom lip as I struggled between not wanting to leave my husbands side ever again for so much as a minute and the overwhelming desire to crawl into an actual bed and sleep until the next millennia… and slumber’s tow was winning.

I eyed him cautiously, testing, “You’ll send for me if there’s any change?”

“Without hesitation,” he promised.

“And not let Dougal so much as touch him?”

“Oh, aye,” Murtagh’s voice dropped to a near growl. “No one save Father Anselm himself will step through that door until you do.”

My gaze shifted to where Jamie’s prostrate form lay on the bed, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was still alive.

“Go,” Murtagh squeezed my hand, bringing my attention back to my husband’s godfather.

“I’ll see him through.”

A weary smile tugged at the corners of my mouth and, taking this as a sign of committal, Murtagh helped me to my feet. I swayed slightly, my head spinning, and his grip on me tightened, supporting me fully should I need it.

Oh God, did I ever.

Jamie had said to me once that he could bear pain himself, but he couldn’t bear mine… that it would take more strength than he had.

He was right, it did take strength.

I only hoped that each of us had enough.

Instead of heading towards the door, I turned to the wash basin, longing to rid myself of the last remnants of Jamie’s blood from my hands. Murtagh made small noises of protestation, but eventually saw the logic in this and acquiesced.

The soft refrains of the Gloria drifted through the crack at the bottom of the chamber’s door and my hands stilled as I dried them off, my head tipping to one side.

“What time is it?”

Murtagh looked towards the door too, pondering, “Long past midnight, to be sure.”

“Then it’s Christmas,” I murmured in reverent awe.

“Aye,” his voice lowered as well, “so it is.”

Murtagh knew where I was headed I even before I took a step and smoothly led me back to Jamie’s side without so much as a grumble, helping me to sit down on the edge of the bed. I took hold of Jamie’s right hand, pulling it into my lap, and clung to it.

“Happy Christmas,” I murmured to him, picking back up the pattern of speaking my thoughts out loud… hoping he could hear me, that my words would keep his demons at bay for even a short while.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #Metamorphosis AU #chapter 22

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jack-andthestalk · 5 years

Text

Our Son, Arc II, Normal, Chapter 8.

Guys once again thanks so much for your comments and love for this fic, it always amazes me how supportive you all. @balfeheughlywed knows I was a royal pain this week, she asks questions that make me think and it really helps. I also may have asked her and @ladyviolethummingbird to write this chapter for me because I had myself tied up in hoops trying to move the story forward. I suppose what I want to come across is although Jamie made a stupid move in not getting legal advice, he didn't do it maliciously. He didn't consult with Claire because he thought she wasn't capable of helping him make a decision. He just isn't rehearsed at relationships or decision making, nor is Claire. This is a harsh lesson, but he is trying to find a way forward without losing her.

Our days were focused on keeping things normal for Willie’s sake. But the inevitability of Jamie’s departure hung over us like a dead weight. I wasn’t capable of sharing my feelings, too much resentment and hurt bottled up but most of all heartbreak at the thoughts of losing him. To protect him and me, I couldn’t let it show. Jamie’s parents already had tried multiple attempts to thwart him leaving, ranging from selling everything lock stock and barrel to throwing all their savings into a hotshot barrister that would lead us into endless legal fees and no happy ending guaranteed.

I couldn’t live with them not having their home, their retirement. The Frasers were good people, who had supported Willie and me since I came into their lives. I wanted their happiness safe just as much as Jamie. It was this common bond that allowed me to forgive Jamie or at least to understand why he had to follow through, I knew he loved us, and he loved his parents. It shouldn’t be a matter of choosing, I could rebuild in Boston, they could not.

So here we were hours before Jamie’s departure, I needed to say goodbye to him, just wanting solitude, him and me. Regret over turning from him the past few weeks, as I minded the hurt in his eyes every time I avoided his gaze, his touch or his words. It wasn’t that I didn’t want them; it just was more painful to be close to him knowing it was fleeting.

I had some time in Scotland after Jamie left, watching Willie worry and pine over Jamie’s move; I had promised him we could stay until the end of his term. It would soften the blow of missing his Da, having all his family around him. Jamie came home early, packed a few things only enough for a long weekend, I had raised my eyebrows but said nothing. Jamie was firmly gripping denial, he couldn’t see himself there long-term. Convinced that he would manage to pull off something that he may get the Dunsany’s to release him without repercussions.

In a way, I needed him to go so I could get on with losing him. Grieve for what could have been so I could start to move on, anything would be better than trying to coexist, acting like strangers when it couldn’t have been further from the truth. But tonight would just be about goodbye.

_______________

“I cooked” my hand gestured vaguely to the stove, “ I don’t know if you feel like something or if you have maybe other things to do…” babbled words and sweaty palms, it would take me a few moments to settle, to strive for normalcy.

Jamie stood arms hanging loosely at his sides, the taken aback expression my invitation had elicited, only lasted a moment before it was replaced with eagerness.

“I would love to eat with ye Sassenach.” Holding my gaze, he continued, “just normal aye?”

“just normal”. I promised.

He crossed the kitchen then purposefully, taking a bottle of wine from the fridge and uncorking it. Pouring two glasses and placing them on the kitchen table, “Do ye need any help?”

“Nope, just plating up…it’s Simple really…nothing fancy.” I was talking too fast, my hands brushing nervously down my thighs. Normal I repeated to myself trying to quiet my mind.

I sensed Jamie’s warm breath on my back, hesitating for a moment before he gently enveloped my shoulder with his hand, kneading it once and allowing it to rest. I stood stock still, conscious that it been a while since we touched like this.

“Anything ye cook is braw Sassenach.” He said softly. I thought he would move away, just an assuring gesture, but his body stilled behind me, and I felt his hand hovering over my shoulder for a minute before he made a decision lowered his arm, wrapping it around my stomach, wordlessly.

“Thank ye.” He whispered quietly. I placed my hand on his and squeezed it once before I turned to him. I rested my hands on the counter, hips tilting towards him but not close enough to touch.

“Have you everything packed?” I quirked an eye upwards, knowing full well he had packed maybe three things, “I am hoping I won’t need much”,

“Jamie,” I said in a frustrated breath, “I really think you need to accept that you could be there for some time…”

He shook his head firmly, “If I canna get something on them, I have a contingency…” His voice went quiet and I could see he wanted to tell me. I knew he was going to attempt to convince me for the millionth time that he would dig himself out of this mess, we had one night, and I didn’t want it filled with unfeasible promises.

“Look”, I said firmly, “if we are going to do this ‘normal’ thing, then let's not talk about England or tomorrow. I gestured towards the table, “I am going to feed you, it’s just you and me now, no promises, no planning, just us.” He stepped toward me and tried to smile. Jamie’s smile had always been remarkable, the kind that makes you weak and happy all at once, a game changer. This smile, however, was not like that. It was tighter,

strained. He did not want to concede this could be our last night together as some form of a couple, but he would accept it because it was all we had.

_________________

Dinner was simple in every way, we stuck to every day, Willie, his school, Lamb, Jenny, Jamie’s parents. We didn’t mention Brian’s grey pallor, Ellen’s face constantly etched in worry or the enlisted solicitors that had come through Lallybroch like a revolving door. It was pleasant, complete make-believe but we smiled, drank and ate, while occasionally meeting each other’s eye with a glint of something only between us.

When we had finished, Jamie pushed himself back in his chair, eyeing me carefully.

“Is it something ye wanted?” I raised one eyebrow, and he tilted his head towards Willie’s bedroom, “bairns”, he explained. Jamie’s body was relaxed as he swang casually on the back legs of his chair, this wasn’t meant to start an argument, it was worded with curiosity light, flirtatious, first date kind of stuff.

When I faltered to answer immediately, he didn’t rush me just allowed his eyes to linger on my face while toying with his bottom lip.

Eventually, I sighed, smiling at him over the rim of my glass. “bit late for this conversation, isn’t it?”

Jamie placed his glass down and straightened his chair.

“I meant before if Willie hadn’t happened, was it something ye planned on?”

“Oh, I see.”

"Well I was young--er, hadn’t really had a mother myself—it wasn’t something that was foremost in my mind – but no I didn’t see it in my future until Willie happened."

Jamie nodded and ran his finger around the rim of his glass, “I reckoned as much.”

My eyebrows shot up, “You did?”

“Aye well, its just ye were so driven at yer career when I first met ye, being a doctor was so important and ye were fierce independent…I remember thinking it would take a lot to settle ye.”

“Settle me?” I crooked one skeptical eyebrow at him, but my real struggle was stopping the smirk threatening to shadow my face as I fought the idea that Jamie had considered trying to settle me.

“Ye werena like other lassies Claire…I could tell ye dinna need the picket fence and a house full of bairns…or even a man, yer a free spirit…I suppose” his eyes skimmed over me for a minute and he drew in a long breath, something unsaid ran between and he exhaled shifting on his seat to rest his ankle over his knee. Jamie’s eyes grew dark, and my heart sped up at the effect I was apparently having on him.

“Well” while I attempted to change the subject, Jamie just continued to stare brazenly at me, tilting his wine glass to and fro. My stomach was coiling in on itself, and I felt like crawling across the table to run my tongue over his lips.

“ya, ken ye never once rang me when ye got back to Boston?”

“What?” I asked narrowing my eyes at him. He smiled confidently at me and leaned across the table. “Ye went back to Boston, and ye dinna pick up yer phone and ring me once” his index finger pointed to the ceiling illustrating the number of times I didn’t call. “I only heard from ye, after ye found out ye were pregnant.”

My chin dipped into the neck of my sweater as my mind raced trying to remember.

“Jamie – I don’t think” irritation started to creep into my tone. What was he playing at dragging this up now?

“It’s the truth” he replied plainly. He tilted his wine glass pointedly at me. “Ye know –“ he scraped a hand down his face, “if it wasna for Willie, I am not sure I wouldha heard from you again Claire.” His tone was light, still teasing but there was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite place, uncertainty perhaps.

“That’s not true”, I shook my head and took a sip for my glass, trying to hide my features.

“Oh aye it is, I said all sorts to ye that night in the cottage, I didn’t hold back, ye said ye would call as soon as ye got home. Ye never did.”

I needed to tell him how much I wanted to, but the reality of returning to Boston was like a bucket of cold water, suddenly the thing that seemed very real while in Scotland now made me feel abashed, we had known each other for such a short time yet Jamie was right we didn’t hold back the night in the cottage and then I had worried he would see me as less, too brazen, too easy. So I chickened out and didn’t ring him. Now facing his inquisitive smirk, I found I couldn’t say any of that.

Instead I settled for “I meant to call”, weakly whispering it into my sweater collar.

Jamie rolled his eyes laughing, ““ye meant to call, did ye?”—his voice went up a pitch—“what happened, ye forgot?”

I gave him a withering look, “I didn’t forget”, he took a long pull on his wine glass and settled it down on the table.

Lacking any real excuse I could share with him I threw the questions back on him, “Why are you going over all this now?” I pointed my wine glass towards him accusingly. “Nostalgia can be dangerous Fraser”.

Jamie’s tongue darted out and he wet his lips nervously, he lifted his glass and lowered it without drinking. He leaned across the table abruptly, face determined. “Something ye said in the barn the night of the engagement party”, my hand trembled as I reached for my wine glass, I tried to feign nonchalance “What was that?” my tone was casual, but my heart was drumming a loud beat in my ear. I sunk my lips into the wine glass to hide the colour rising up my cheeks while I waited for him to answer.

“Ye said, ye felt like an obligation.”

Oh god, a devious lump started forming in my throat, and I begged myself not to surrender to it.

Jamie took my silence for what it was, acceptance, so he continued.

“It struck a chord with me ye see, registered, I suppose.” He shrugged his shoulders casually. “I always felt like ye were obliged to maintain a relationship with me, and had Willie not happened ye might not have contacted me again.”

“Why would you think that Jamie? It’s so far from the truth.”

“Claire,” he said exasperatedly, “ye ken as much as I do what happened the night Willie was conceived?”

I sat back slightly in my seat not sure where he was taking this, “I cajoled ye up there.”

“I went willingly” I corrected.

“Fine,” he said sighing, “but ye ken, as well as I, do that all the times I bedded ye that night, only once did I control myself long enough to think of precaution.”

I rolled my eyes “Jamie it wasn’t ‘bedding’, half the time we didn’t even make it to the bed!”

Jamie gave me an impatient glare, “fine” he replied haughtily “sex, all the times we had sex, only once did I use protection. My head rolled back “this is why you are in this mess Jamie” I waved my hands vaguely around the cottage,” you take on too much responsibility – my tone dipped coyly –“ I never asked you to use precautions the many other times we had sex ….I thought it would be ok.” Now I was positively scarlet at my own naivety, an almost qualified doctor, what the fuck had I been thinking? A little voice in my head whispered quietly, you wanted him pretty bad too.

“Aye but Claire I canna tell ye how out of character that was of me.” My eyebrows shot up to my hairline, “are you suggesting that it was characteristic of me…” I started to argue, he waved his hand dismissively. “It’s no that, what I mean to say is, even then I wonder if I was trying to anchor myself to ye.” My head lurched back in surprise. “Jamie, are you saying you consciously tried to get me pregnant?”

He rucked his hand through his hair agitatedly “no, not consciously anyway” Jamie stood suddenly, opening his mouth and closing it again dumbstruck. His head fell back, and he looked at a spot on the ceiling.

“Jamie Fraser will you tell me what the hell you are on about!” I said firmly.

He lowered his head and met my eye, “Claire I dinna wish to compare ye to other women because there is no comparison, but it would be lying if I said that when it comes to preventing bairns, I am if anything overcautious.” He crooked one auburn eyebrow, “with others –his cheeks blazed red – it would put the fear of God in me to tie myself to someone by having a bairn with them.”

He sat down again and began toying with his wine glass, his voice dropped low and husky, his eyes stayed fixed on the glass, “yet that night with you, I dinna care if I was bound to you forever, I think I didn’t stop to use protection because it dinna frighten me what a future with you might hold.”

He shook his head shamefully, “I never stopped to think of what you might want.” His head shot up, and he looked me straight in the eye, “So Claire if anyone is the obligation here, its no you – he exhaled loudly – it's me.”

“I was always too guilty or shamed to tell ye, he said softly, but I would feel more so if ye were under the impression ye were of any obligation to me Claire.”

He half snorted under his breath, “Christ even when ye rang to tell me ye were pregnant, half of me was giddy at the thoughts of you carrying my child, the other half was scared shitless ye would hate me for it.”

#outlander fanfic #ourson #thankyou

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cathygeha · 4 years

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REVIEW

The Good Kill by Kurt Brindley

A Killian Lebon Novel #1

Do the ends justify the means? Is killing every the right thing to do? Who deserves death? Should death be simple? Is torture ever okay? And, is a person who takes justice into his or her own hands with the intent of killing someone evil ever in the right? Just a few of the questions I asked myself as I read this book.

The book begins with the brutal execution of a man who had no remorse and was as evil as they come. The “Killer” was a man who used his skill-set to to remove evil sex traffickers from the earth...and he really does an excellent job of it. Some of the scenes are graphic and violent and some might not be willing to read such but within the context of this story it does make sense.

Killian Lebon is a man who has served his country for two decades and when he is injured on a mission and can no longer serve he finds a way to feel useful and serve the world though some might question the way he moves forward with his life. His story is told in flashbacks (a few of them) that mention his service, his last mission and why he does what he does.

This book has many characters in the beginning and flipped back and forth between past and present as well as between threads of the story. The threads are eventually brought together and tied up in the end but it took me a bit of time to see what all of the threads had to do with one another.

In addition to the vigilante justice aspect of the book there are women to save, Russians to thwart and the beginning of a potential romance that may or may not bloom into something more if/when the series continues. I am hoping Killian will eventually find peace and a safe place to land.

Did I enjoy this book? Yes

Would I read more by this author? Yes

What might I recommend? Perhaps some editing to reduce the page count to make the story a bit tighter/move more quickly.

Thank you to NetGalley and Books Go Social for the ARC – This is my honest review

4 Stars

BLURB

A former Navy SEAL turned vigilante hitman already in the crosshairs of corrupt Russian agents finds himself in even deeper trouble after rescuing a sex trafficking victim against her will just as she is about to be delivered into the hands of an unscrupulous corporate mogul, an impetuous and dangerous man who will not be denied his purchase. . .

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

During the battle to liberate Mosul from the brutal grip of the Islamic State, Killian Lebon, a war-weary Navy SEAL Senior Chief, sustains life-threatening injuries from an explosion during a rescue operation that goes horribly wrong.

Forced into early retirement from a vocation that for almost twenty years had been his sole purpose for being – that of a fearless warrior in defense of his country – Killian’s life quickly spirals downward to the deepest depths of hopelessness and despair due to the traumatic after-effects of his injuries and the overwhelming guilt he feels from the tragic consequences of his failed final mission.

Left without the will to continue on within such a dark and indifferent world, Killian attempts what he expects will be his last and ultimate mission. But RJ, a woman he had loved once long ago, saves him from his void of despair and, in her effort to console him, reveals two long-held, painful secrets, secrets that inspire within him a dark new purpose for living.

However, it isn’t long before this new lethal life mission of his places him and those he cares for straight within the deadly crosshairs of corrupt Russian agents and unscrupulous corporate moguls and forces him on a desperate and harrowing journey of rescue and revenge, one that takes him from the lush rolling hills of his Southern Pennsylvania farm, down to the mean streets of Baltimore and the steamy bayous of New Orleans, and then back once again to the windswept desert of Iraq where all his troubles first began… and where his most anticipated act of vigilante justice is destined to be executed.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ THE GOOD KILL Storyline Checklist Battle weary Navy SEAL ✓ Fearless, kickass women ✓ Corrupt corporate moguls ✓ Conniving Russian agents ✓ Ruthless ISIS terrorists ✓ Cold-hearted pimps ✓ Low-life sex traffickers ✓ Evil henchmen ✓ Traitorous scum ✓ Dark Web hackers ✓ Cool cars ✓ Luxurious yachts ✓ High-speed chases ✓ Heartless violence ✓ Brutal redemption ✓ Love ✓ Romance ✓ Kittens __

AUTHOR BIO

A husband and father of three, Kurt Brindley is also a retired sailor who lives in Southern Pennsylvania in a house on top of a windy and rolling hill. He traveled much of the world while serving in the navy and, aye, he's got some stories to tell... Kurt served twenty years and four days in the navy and "retired" as a Senior Chief Petty Officer. He has an undergraduate degree in English from the University of Maryland and a graduate degree in Human Relations from the University of Oklahoma. In 1998, he took a hiatus from his regular duties as a navy telecommunications specialist to attend the U. S. military's Defense Equal Opportunity Management Institute. The institute is little known to most but is internationally renowned to those in the human relations field. Upon graduation, Kurt was certified as a Navy Equal Opportunity Adviser and assigned the responsibilities of providing diversity management training and equal opportunity consultation and assistance to navy personnel throughout the navy's Western Pacific area of operations. Much of this work focused on awareness and outreach seminars in an effort to mitigate the harassment and abuse that resulted from the confusion and resentment surrounding the military's Don't Ask Don't Tell policy. Kurt's assignment as an EOA was one of the most challenging, and rewarding, assignments of his navy career, and it served as the impetus behind much of his early writing, including his novel THE SEA TRIALS OF AN UNFORTUNATE SAILOR and his short story "Leave." With the navy six years in his wake and a promising business career charted before him, Kurt was diagnosed with Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia in Blast Crisis, triggered by the rare Philadelphia Chromosome abnormality, in November of 2009. Blessed by a matched, unrelated donor, he received a bone marrow transplant in April of 2010. Unfortunately, as a nasty side-effect of the transplant, he was diagnosed with an aggressively fatal lung disease in November of the same year. Kurt wasn't given much chance to survive the lung disease -- but he did. It is from this grace-filled experience that he gratefully recounts the lessons he learned about life and how to go about living it in his newly released book HOW NOT TO DIE: In 13 Easy Steps. When not telling stories, reading, or attending to his young, wily, and rather large Plott Hounds Zeno & Aurelius, he often wanders down to the bottom of his hill to walk along the countryside's many rushing creeks and silent still ponds. He likes it there down by the water...

WEBSITE: http://kurtbrindley.com

#Kurt Brindley #Killian Lebon 1 #Thriller #Action #Vigilante Justice #Sex Trafficking #ex-navy seal #NetGalley #Books Go Social

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gellavonhamster · 5 years

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on coffee, nightmares, and reasons to live

gen || Hector | Captain Widdershins || post-canon

ao3 link || originally posted in Russian

Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not.

– Donna Tartt, The Secret History

I saw an old soldier abandon his watch,

I saw an old sailor abandon his ship –

“To hell with your war,

What on earth is it for?”

That’s what the old soldier and old sailor said.

They looked each other in the eye,

Coming back from death, they cried:

“To hell with your war,

What on earth is it for?”

That’s what the old soldier and old sailor said.

– Olga Arefyeva & Kovcheg, На хрена нам война (Why the Hell Do We Need War?)

“I admire them,” Hector confessed, pointing at the birds with a motion of his head. A murder of crows flew over their heads with agitated croaking as he and Jacques Snicket were sitting on the grass behind Hector’s old house in the Village of Fowl Devotees. Hector was thirteen, which meant that Jacques was, consequently, a little older, and he couldn’t help wondering: did he really live here already when he was this age? Something wasn’t adding up here but it didn’t matter, because a gentle summer wind was blowing and the sunset skies were the colour of ripe persimmon and he didn’t want to ruin this moment of peace, so rare for the volunteers who have dedicated their lives to maintaining it.

“Yes, they’re amazing creatures. Wise,” Jacques agreed. The wind licked his hair, ruffling it in a funny manner. “You know, they say when crows find one of their kind dead, they give it a sort of a funeral. Fly in circles over it, and mourn.”

“I’ve heard something about this,” Hector ran the tips of his fingers over the grass, “but it’s not just crows I’m talking about. I mean any birds. I spend my days tinkering with these air balloons and baskets and burners while they can just… up and fly. Can you imagine it? I’d give a lot to have such freedom.”

“I see,” Jacques replied. He turned to Hector and looked at him closely. It was as if the crows started cawing louder, but it might have just seemed so.

Hector felt a fit of unease.

“Why didn’t you stand up for me when I was arrested?” asked Jacques. Suddenly he was forty-seven, which meant that Hector was, consequently, forty-five. “You did recognize me. You have known me since our very childhood. Why did you let them burn me?”

“They didn’t burn you,” Hector objected nervously, backing away. “They didn’t burn you!” he repeated louder, smelling smoke. The jacket the eldest Snicket was wearing – more precisely, its left sleeve – was burning, but its owner didn’t seem to notice.

“Right, they didn’t manage to. Olaf and Esme murdered me. That changes everything, doesn’t it?”

His skin was turning black and coming off and Hector watched, watched, watched frozen in horror and shame and couldn’t avert his gaze.

“Why did you let them sentence me? Why did you let them kill me? Why did you let them put the Baudelaires in prison? Why did you let them burn the Baudelaires at the stake?”

“But the Baudelaires weren’t burned!” Hector wanted to cry, but the words stuck in his throat. That was how he woke up – hoarse and suffocating and trying to cough out his answer to the corpse. The answer that was nothing but a senseless excuse because the Baudelaires might not have been burned, but Hector really did let the villagers of VFD put them in prison and sentence them to death. Because he might have been there in time in his self-sustained mobile home and would have taken them with him if he hadn’t been thwarted, but he really did not say a word when he had an opportunity. That was what mattered.

There was a cup of water on the nightstand. Sitting up on the bed, Hector grabbed the cup, made a couple gulps, coughed again, and, having put the cup back, took his head in his hands. The dawn was breaking; somewhere far off, a dog was barking. The clock read a quarter after five.

It wasn’t the first time he dreamed of Jacques. In fact, if Hector saw any nightmares, Jacques was a regular there. Sometimes he was simply there to remind him that his death is, in a way, Hectors’s fault; sometimes, like tonight, he dragged in the Baudelaires; sometimes he just remained speechless while the flames devoured him. Waking up each time, Hector remembered that creature – phenomenon? – that attacked them back then, after the mobile home collided with the Queequeg, and prayed for it to be what he sees in his dreams next time. But it never visited his nightmares because there was no fear in them, only the endless feeling of guilt and shame, and the stale crusts of the unsaid words he kept on trying to cough out even after waking up.

He spent some ten minutes sitting in bed and struggling to calm down. Hector knew that he wouldn’t manage to fall asleep anymore – after the nightmares, he never could – so he decided to go down to the kitchen for an early breakfast. Later he could chop up the filling for tacos, or whip the tomato sprouts into shape. Keep his hands busy to distract himself, at least remotely. He got dressed in the twilight and left his bedroom, softly closing the door after himself.

The bedroom opposite to his was Quigley’s. Its door was ajar, which meant that all three Quagmires slept there that night. Isadora and Duncan had their own bedrooms (hers was to the left from Quigley’s, and his was opposite to his sister’s room) but every night the triplets invariably went to sleep in one of the three rooms all together. No one discussed that, and no one frowned upon that. Perhaps in some other, normal home adults would have disapproved of teenagers of different gender, albeit relatives, sleeping in the same bed, but their house could be called normal with great reserve only, even though lately, after the Quagmires with the help of Fernald and Fiona had stolen their inheritance from the bank, after some minor repairs, throwing out the rotten carpets, and fitting the broken window in the corridor with glass, it could well, in Hector’s humble opinion, be called decent.

He peeped into the room. The brothers huddled together on a narrow bed, having yielded their sister a hammock that hung over it. Quigley, of course, slept the closest to the door. Such was the rule: the owner of the room took the place that was the nearest to the entrance and left the door half open, to hear any suspicious sound and wake the others up in time. This time too, even though Hector did his best not to make a sound, Quigley’s eyes flew open.

“Sleep,” Hector whispered and smiled: all clear, false alarm, no strangers in the house, just their own people. The boy gave him a faint smile and drifted off again. A half-read book rested on his stomach – something about the Terra Nova expedition. Still smiling, Hector came down to the first floor – home to the kitchen, the dining room, and a box of a room which once had possibly belonged to the help but presently to Captain Widdershins, who claimed that this place, a step away from being a broom closet, reminded him of submarine cabins (in truth, he slept there first and foremost because he had a hard time climbing the stairs, but he didn’t like to discuss that). Fiona and Fernald slept in the attic, using folding screens to divide it into two rooms, but now the attic was empty: both were to return only today.

Hector entered the kitchen and gave a start – Widdershins was seated at the table, sipping something from a cup. On seeing Hector come in, or rather hearing him in the first place, the retired captain got embarrassed and promptly took something off the table. Hector frowned.

“Good morning,” he said warily.

“Morning!” Widdershins responded, eyeing him just as warily.

“You up at such an unearthly hour?”

“Aye! Insomnia! And some damned dog keeps barking. Decided to have a coffee.”

“Doesn’t smell like coffee for some reason.”

“Still heating the water,” Widdershins explained with uncertainty. None of the stove burners was ignited.

Hector went round the table. The side that Widdershins was seated at had a cutlery drawer. The tablecloth over it stuck out expressively. Hector lifted the tablecloth a little – Widdershins didn’t say a word – and took out a broached bottle of whiskey.

“Where did you take it?” asked Hector, putting the bottle into the cupboard. “I don’t remember you leaving the house lately.”

“I may be disabled but I’m not a cot case, after all!” Widdershins replied with dignity. “Went out while you were at the market. Bought with my own money! Fixed the neighbours’ meat grinder. They paid me. Aye! Fair and square!”

“You sort of promised not to drink anymore. What’s fair about that?”

“Ha! Promised! I haven’t promised you anything, Hector! Why do you care?”

“As for me, feel free to drink yourself to death,” Hector shrugged his shoulders. He did care, and he didn’t want Widdershins to actually drink himself to death, but the fact remained that he wasn’t happy and had no intention to hide it. “It is your children that you promised it to. Perhaps I should just let your stepson smash this bottle on your head when he comes back.”

Widdershins threw back his head, finished his drink that definitely wasn’t coffee, and slammed his cup on the table.

“Perhaps you should,” he replied, defiant.

Hector filled the teapot with water and put it on the stove to boil. Some actual coffee really wouldn’t hurt.

“You’re not the only one struggling, you know,” he said, not turning around. “Just some food for thought.”

He reached out for the coffee grinder.

“Give me!” Widdershins ordered ashamedly. “I’ll do it!”

He proceeded to grind coffee as ferociously as if each bean was his personal enemy, while Hector quietly put the cup that smelled of whiskey into the sink and replaced it with two clean ones. They spent some time silent, the coffee grinder creaking with age and exertion. The dog outside calmed down, but now they could hear a train passing somewhere far off.

“I’m not at my place here!” Widdershins finally blurted out. It was not as if he was talking to Hector – more like to the coffee grinder. “I’m used to the sea! To the submarine! Always on my way! And now I’m trapped on shore! With my leg missing and my back aching! Weak and sickly! And even if I get stronger, even if I unlearn to view myself as inferior,” he slapped his leg that turned into a wooden peg right under his knee, “I still won’t be able to return to the sea! Because that beast is there! Because now my guts fill up with cold when I think of the sea I love so much! Why couldn’t it kill me straight away? What’s the use of me now?”

“Your stepdaughter needs you. So does your stepson, even,” Hector pointed out.

“I failed them!”

“They’ve forgiven you.”

That last point Hector was not completely sure about, but both Fiona – especially Fiona – and Fernald mostly dealt by their stepfather as if everything has always been fine between them. Some scandals occurred, like the evening the captain finally decided to tell his stepchildren what was in the sugar bowl, but for the most part, there was peace, though with no particular affection.

Widdershins shook his head.

“I’m not worthy of them!”

“Well, then make yourself worthy,” Hector retorted, took the coffee grinder from him, and spooned the coffee into the cups. “If there’s any reason for you to have survived, then that is it. Hitting the bottle is not.”

With the way Widdershins often acted, it was impossible not to be rude to him. Hector really enjoyed being rude. There were times when he used to think he had completely forgotten how it was done.

“I see this creature in my dreams nearly every night,” Widdershins murmured after Hector poured boiling water into the cups and took a bowl of crackers out of the cupboard.

“I don’t,” Hector said calmly, and shivered under the understanding gaze of his old comrade. He couldn’t recall telling anyone about his nightmares but it was quite possible that they were easy to figure out. Quite possible that there was a sign saying coward hanging perpetually above his head, only he didn’t notice it himself.

Widdershins sighed.

“If all of us stayed alive, then it really was for a reason,” he said solemnly. “If I am needed, then you are needed all the more! Aye! Because you take care of the triplets! And of the household! And you cook us food! And you could build a new aircraft! And we could help our children,” that wasn’t the first time either of them called the Quagmires, Fernald, and Fiona their children, although the Quagmires weren’t Hector’s children, and Fernald and Fiona technically weren’t Widdershins’ children, “stop the VFD! So that it would become what it should have been, or cease to exist at all! Aye! For Jacques! And Monty! And Josephine! And Kit! And our old chap Lemony, be he alive or dead! How’s that for a reason to live?”

Hector felt a lump growing in his throat.

“What a speech. You’re drunk at the crack of dawn, Widdershins.”

“But I’m right, face it!”

“Yes,” Hector admitted. It was very important for that to be true. Such truth one could live with. “You’re right.”

Then they had coffee with crackers, and for a little while, the world was actually quiet.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #hector #captain widdershins #snicketverse #gella talks snicketverse #my fic #existential conversations at 5 am: the fic #also that russian song about the soldier and the sailor ends with them both dying but in the present context it's irrelevant

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theguineapig3 · 6 years

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Tales Whump Week Day 1: Wounds

“Silent Treatment”

Tales of Symphonia Words: 1786 Characters: Kratos Aurion, Dirk, Lloyd Irving (mentioned)

Kratos didn't know which hurt worse- the wounds he sustained in his fight with Lloyd, or the suffocating silence he endured as Lloyd’s real father patched him up.

“You don't have to do this. As an angel, my body will heal quickly, even without treatment.”

Kratos’ words had been spoken almost as a plea when Dirk appeared with a first aid kit. Lloyd and his companions had left to confront Mithos, and Kratos’ attempt to leave and recover somewhere solitary was thwarted by his inability to stand without pain. It shot through his abdomen like receiving a punch, and he’d doubled over onto the table. The next thing he knew, he had been carried upstairs and laid out on Lloyd’s bed. Dirk was shuffling through his medical supplies, the smell of medicinal herbs filling the room and clouding Kratos’ thoughts. Dirk was saying something about internal hemorrhage and types of poultices that could help with the bruising. The scientific name Arnica unalaschensis was thrown around, and if Kratos’ thoughts hadn't been so muddled, he might have been able to identify exactly what the plant was. But with the pain, the thick haze of herbal smells, and the burning humiliation of being in such a vulnerable position, it was all he could do just to protest.

Dirk considered Kratos’ words for only a moment before he shook his head.

“Aye, that mebbe true, but Dwarven Vow 2 says ne’er abandon someain in need. Sae you’re stuck here wi’ me until yer wounds are healed.”

And for an entire week, that was it.

Besides a few single words here and there as instructions, Dirk didn't say a thing. At the beginning, Kratos didn't feel like making conversation, so he didn't mind the silence. But as the week continued, it became clear that Dirk wasn't staying quiet out of respect toward his patient. Kratos tried to catch his eyes, but Dirk was avoiding eye contact, and when their eyes did meet, the look Dirk gave him held none of the friendliness he usually expressed in his oft-quoted Dwarven Vows. It felt more along the lines of a lesser-known vow- 29, beware the anger of a patient man. Kratos didn't know Dirk well enough to assess his usual patience levels, but anyone could see right now that the Dwarf was angry.

Kratos could only think of one reason for that anger.

Lloyd.

But what was it about Lloyd? Was Dirk angry about Kratos’ initial betrayal of Lloyd and his friends? About his connection with Cruxis and the Desians? About his lies and secrecy to prevent his son from learning the truth about their relationship?

Or… was Dirk afraid of losing Lloyd now that his birth-father was in the picture?

The thought was chilling, and Kratos didn't want to dwell on it. But left with no other human interaction, the thought ran through his mind over and over until eventually he couldn't take it anymore.

“Dirk, I know you don't want to talk to me, but there’s something I need to say.”

No longer bedridden at that point, Kratos came downstairs for meals, usually eating in silence at the same table where he knew Lloyd had grown up eating. That day’s dinner was waiting for him as usual, and Dirk was at the hearth cleaning up the soiled dishes. At the sound of Kratos’ voice, he turned and looked up.

“Eat yer supper first. Ye donnae want yer food tae get cold.”

“I don't mind. This is important.”

Still holding a plate in one hand and a sponge in the other, Dirk stopped scrubbing to consider the statement. After a moment’s pause, he sighed and returned the plate to the pot of sudsy water. “Alrecht, what dae ye want?”

Kratos took a deep breath and plunged forward. “I can tell that you're angry with me. I don't begrudge you that; you have plenty of perfectly justified reasons to feel that way. If it's because of my involvement with Cruxis- with the Desians- I understand. If it’s for my betrayal of Lloyd and his friends, I understand. If it’s for my absence most of Lloyd’s life, I understand that too. But I want you to understand, I'm not here to take your job. You are Lloyd’s father. You have been for the past fourteen years and you always will be. I don't intend to come between you and Lloyd. He already has a father, and a good one at that. He doesn't need me.” Kratos stopped to catch his breath, lowering his gaze to the floor. “Once I’m fully healed, I'm going to leave you and Lloyd to live your lives without my interference. So if the thought of losing Lloyd is what’s troubling you, I want you to know that he’s yours. You have nothing to be angry about.”

There was a pause. Kratos felt his nervousness pricking against his skin, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. He had to force his head back up when Dirk spoke again, and immediately regretted it once he saw the fierceness in the Dwarf’s glare.

“Nothin’ tae be angry about? Nothin’?! This is exactly why I’m sae angry with ye! Ye donnae get it at all!”

“Wha-?”

Dirk approached Kratos, pointing an accusatory finger up at him. “I know I've nae been a perfect father tae him, but I believe Lloyd has grown intae a fine lad and I'm proud ay him. What is it about him that bothers ye sae much? Dae ye ‘hink he’s nae smart enough? That he’s tae reckless? Is he tae much of a goody-two-shoes fer yer likin’?”

Kratos took a step back, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about? I adore Lloyd-”

“Then why are ye sae keen tae be rid ay him?”

The words cut like a knife. “Rid of him?” Kratos repeated. “I don't understand.”

Dirk stared for another tense moment before turning away and releasing a long sigh, his shoulders relaxing as if he were breathing out his anger and frustration.

“Ye… keep abandonin’ him. Ye left him behind, ye betrayed him, ye appeared only tae gie cryptic clues an’ then disappear again like it ne’er happened… ye were ready tae up an’ die on him. An’ now that he’s forgiven ye for all that ye’ve dain tae him, ye’re jist gonnae leave him?”

Kratos’ mouth hung open as he processed Dirk’s accusations. Lloyd had evidently told his dad more about his journey than Kratos realized. None of what Dirk had said was false, at least in terms of what had happened. But…

“Giving up my life was the only way to ensure that Lloyd’s group could make a pact with Origin,” Kratos explained. “I was trying to protect Lloyd, to aid him in his quest to create the kind of world he’s striving for. He’s worked so hard. He deserves that. I'm proud of him.”

“Bit nae proud enough tae stay with him?”

Once again, the room filled with tense silence. In contrast to the past few days of little to no eye contact from Dirk, Kratos now found himself under the full force of the Dwarf’s stare. It was scathing enough, but what really got to him was the realization that this had been the source of Dirk’s behavior the whole time. He hadn't been worried that Kratos would take Lloyd away from him- in fact, the opposite was true. Dirk wanted Kratos to be part of Lloyd’s life.

The fact that he had assumed otherwise sent a pang of guilt through Kratos’ chest.

“Dirk, I… I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry fer what?” Dirk asked, and Kratos realized he should have clarified.

“I'm sorry for… for thinking so poorly of you as to imagine you were jealous. You brought me into your home, took care of me even though I can heal on my own, fed me even though I don’t need to eat… I knew you were angry, but instead of asking you what was wrong, I let my wild fantasies take over.”

“I’m sorry tae. I let my anger an’ frustration gie th’ better ay me, an’ I treated ye poorly. I should hae been honest frae th’ start, scolded ye properly once ye were awake enough tae understand.” Dirk looked away. “I ken that Lloyd is a strong lad. I donnae want tae gie in th’ way ay his quest to save th’ worlds. I’m nae a fighter, I can’t gang wi’ him an’ his group. Stayin’ here an’ supportin’ him at my forge is the best thing I can dae fer him. Bit I’ve grown sae used tae his presence around th’ house these past fourteen years, I wake up every mornin’ an’ th’ realization that I willnae see his smilin’ face o’ hear his voice makes me want tae turn back o’er an’ gang back tae sleep. I miss him, an’ it’s like an awful weight on my chest ‘at makes it hard tae breathe, hard tae move, hard tae dae anythin’. Ev’ry time he comes home, I hope an’ pray ‘at he’s back fer good. It’s a selfish, unrealistic fantasy, an’ I would ne’er say it out loud tae him. Bit you…”

Kratos took a step forward to close the gap between them. “...I had the chance to be with him,” he finished, “and I didn’t. I squandered opportunities that Lloyd’s real father would’ve done anything to have. It’s no wonder he’s so angry with me.”

There was a pause, and Dirk finally allowed himself to look at Kratos again. “Ye’re nae less his ‘real father’ than I am. Dwarven Vow 162,” he began, “th’ best time tae plant a tree was twenty years ago; th’ second-best time is now.”

He didn’t need to interpret the proverb for Kratos’ to understand what he was getting at. With a smile, Kratos turned back toward the table and took a seat in front of his plate. Dirk sat across from him, motioning toward the food.

“I told ye earlier, supper’ll get cold if ye donnae eat it now.”

Kratos looked down at the meal- a simple plate of potatoes and minced meat. He’d made it clear to Dirk early on that he didn't need the food, yet Dirk had cooked proper meals for him every day despite the animosity between them. Maybe it was because of his adherence to the Dwarven vows, or maybe it was because he missed cooking for Lloyd, or… maybe…

“You know,” Kratos began as he picked up his fork, “earlier I said that my angel abilities help me heal quickly, but these wounds seem particularly severe. I may not be fully healed for a while- until Lloyd gets back at the very least.”

For the first time that evening, Dirk cracked a smile.

“That’s tae bad. I guess ye’ll be stuck here ‘till then, huh?”

“I guess I will.”

#taleswhumpweek #tales of symphonia #my fanfiction #theguineapig3

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sfgooglebooks · 5 years

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Tapestry: To Kiss in the Shadows by Lynn Kurland, pages 16-19, 20, 21-22

Jason of Artane rode through the barbican, cursing his father, his next older brother, and the weather, the last of which had been foul for the past pair of fortnights and was fair now only after he'd suffered out in it for a month. The early morning sunlight streamed down fiercely, as if it sought to pound good cheer into him with its rays. He stifled a hearty sneeze in his sleeve and wondered why he'd ever agreed to humor his father by following his brother from one end of the island to the other.

It had been a miserable journey from Artane, he had been sent on a useless errand to distract him from his true purpose, and he was certain he'd caught a healthy case of the ague the night before from having to sleep in a drafty stable instead of the nice warm inn he'd selected. He supposed he had only himself to blame for the latter. If he'd kept his cloak pulled together and his lips clamped shut, he wouldn't have been recognized. Instead, he'd given his name when asked and let his cloak fall away from the blood-red ruby in the hilt of his sword. The usual reaction had occurred.

Men had crossed themselves.

Women had screamed and fainted.

Jason had sighed in disgust, downed the tankard of ale he'd managed to obtain, flipped a coin to a speechless patron in return for the rough bread and hunk of cheese he had filched from him on his way out the door, then sough out the most comfortable part of a hayloft for his bed. Such, he'd supposed, was the lot of a man who had squired for the lord of Blackmour.

That lord would have found the tale vastly amusing.

Jason found the kink in his neck and his rapidly stuffing nose anything but.

He sneezed again as he road into the bailey unchallenged. Guardsmen who would have demanded any other man's name merely gaped at him and weakly waved him past. Jason knew he should have been amused. After all, 'twas seldom that a man of a score and five had such a fiercesome reputation without having done much to deserve it.

It wasn't that he was a poor swordsman. Even he, modest though he considered himself to be, was well aware of his ability. One could not be the son of Robin of Artane and not have some small talent for swordplay granted him. But whatever mastery he had of his blade, he had paid for himself by time spent in the lists.

He also didn't mind that the souls about him suspected him of all manner of dark habits. He had been first page, then squire, then willing guest of Christopher of Blackmour for most of his life. Some of the mystery surrounding the man had been bound to have cloaked Jason as well. He knew the way of things, so idle gossip and charms spat out in haste when he passed didn't trouble him.

What did trouble him, though, was the fact that he'd finally found a purpose for which his soul burned, a cause so just and noble that it drove sleep from him at night, and here he was still unable to pursue it. Obstacle after obstacle had been placed in his path - lately and most notably the task of finding his brother and delivering a message from their father.

Jason scowled. It was his father's ploy, of course, to keep him from his course. But it would serve Robin naught. Jason was determined. Never mind that his course was one his father had forbidden him to pursue and one his former master had counseled him against.

But what else was he to do with himself? His eldest brother, Phillip, had estates aplenty and the burden of someday inheriting their father's title to harrow up his mind and try his soul. His other brother Kendrick burned like a flame, driving himself from conquest to conquest, as if he sought to force a dozen lifetimes into the one he would be allotted. Jason had no stomach for the tidiness of Phillip's life or the incessant roaming of Kendrick's. But he did have the stomach for a bit of crusading. A goodly bit. A bit that might take him out of England for years and give purpose to his life.

That it might also brighten up his reputation was nothing to sneeze at either.

But he sneezed just the same, all over a guardsman, who hastily backed away as if Jason had been spewing curses at him instead of the contents of his nose.

Jason scowled at the man and continued on his way towards the stables. At least his path there was clear - and likely only because his sire hadn't been able to find a way to thwart him so far from home. No doubt he would find more distractions awaiting him in France, should he by any chance find Kendrick, discharge his duty, then sail to the continent before he was too old to hoist a sword. But he would never have the chance to set foot on yonder shore if he didn't finish his business on the current shore, which was, of course, why he found himself chasing the king's court from London north, following his brother's erratic trail, and sleeping in haylofts with inadequate bedding.

The only positive thing to come from his journey so far was that he hadn't found the king at a monastery, as was often his custom. Jason knew he'd have trouble enough with the king's courtiers and whatever clergy he found himself surrounded by without scores of monks trying to exorcise the demons from him as well.

He dismounted in front of the stables and found a cringing stableboy at his side. He handed the lad his reins, knowing that no one would dare abuse his horse or pilfer his saddlebags. He would likely find them in the usual place - well away from any living soul.

Jason looked about him but found no sign of his brother in amongst the horseflesh. Perhaps Kendrick was romping out in the fields with some fair wench, crushing flowers and hearts beneath his heels with equal abandon.

The thought of flowers made his nose begin to twitch, so he decided to leave the fields for a later time and concentrate his search first on the castle itself.

Jason climbed the stairs and started down the passageway, looking for a likely door. He hadn't taken a handful of paces before he saw a woman standing outside a door with her head bowed. Her hand was pressed against the wood, as if she couldn't quite bring herself to push the door open. She wasn't a servant; that much he could see by her clothing. Then why did she wait without?

He approached, heralding the like with a mighty sneeze stifled in the crook of his elbow. He dragged his sleeve across his face, immediately relinquishing the idea of making any kind of agreeable impression. He looked at the woman but could not see her very well. The place where she stood was filled with the deepest shadows in the passageway.

"My lady?" he said politely.

She did not lift her bowed head to look at him. She was silent for a moment, then acknowledged him with a soft, "My lord."

"Do you require aid?"

"Aid?" she asked. "Nay, my lord, but I thank you for the offer."

"Do you require something inside there?" he whispered.

She did not look up, even at that. "I thought to fetch my stitchery, but I daresay there isn't a need for that now."

"No doubt your gear will keep," Jason agreed, fully intending to wish her good fortune, bid her farewell, and then continue on his search.

But two things stopped him.

One was that he'd heard his brother's name begin to be bandied about inside the room. And the second was the woman who stood before him, cloaked in shadows, listening to the drivel being spewed inside that room as if she needed to hear it. He stood not two paces from her but suddenly felt as if they two stood alone in the world. It was all he could do to breathe normally.

Who was this woman?

She stepped back from the door and pulled the hood of her cloak up around her face. And the moment was gone.

"I thank you for your kindness, my lord," she said. "I'm sure my things will be safe enough."

Jason had his doubts about that, but he also had no desire to enter the room to find out. He was also beginning to wonder if he might need to break his fast soon. Obviously, he was faint from hunger and from the sneezes that threatened to overwhelm him at every turn. He had no ties to the woman before him. There was no good reason to feel as though the last thing he should do was walk away from her. By the saints, he had no idea what she even looked like! He shook his head to clear it. The sanest thing he could do was turn tail and flee.

Aye, that was wise. But he could not leave her where she was, not with that talk that was going on inside that room.

"Might I es... ah- ahchoo-" he said with a mighty sneeze. He dragged his sleeve across his face and tried to regain his dignity. "Might I escort you to wherever you're going?" he said again. Perhaps the sunshine would burn his illness - and his sudden madness - from him before it overcame him completely.

"There is no need," the woman protested.

"My mother would be disappointed in me if I showed such a lack of courtesy," he said. "And who am I to disappoint her?"

"Very well," the woman said with a soft sigh. "But it won't be far. I'm only to go to the barbican gates."

#build up #male #mess #sick

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everythingisbetterwithpirates · 6 years

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Mind, Body & Soul: Dialogue Series II

Regarding: A Dirty Little Secret

Thunder echoed far away, resembling the chaos taking place on the other side of the world. Far enough that it did not come with a rumble. On a soft slope in the sandy beach, Margharette sat. Without weapons or a fancy suit. No monocle to help hide what hid in her dark blue eyes. Instead, she wore a comfortable white camisole. It matched her cotton shorts. Feet half-sank into the grains. To her left was a fuzzy coconut. It was decorated with a bright, pink umbrella and aided by a bendy straw.

What would have been a linear horizon slowly turned into a steamy, textured one. Lightning brought out the shapes hidden in the distance. And for a brief moment, the far away beats of thunder matched the rhythm of her heart. Margharette picked up her coconut, guiding the straw to her lips and watching the storms loom in the night sky.

{ Mind, Body and Soul will be expressed through three different beings.}

Rette was a fancy woman of fancy tastes. Her adoration towards all things beautiful and elegant extended beyond jewels and fabrics. Long, dark hair intricately braided behind the ears. It rose to the impossibly tight and well rounded bun at the top of her head. She was dressed in a sleek garment. Intricate embroidery which followed the movements and patterns of spiders and snakes outlined some features while shimmering, golden fabric did the rest. She drank from a saucered teacup that flared at the rim.

Mar was a physical duplicate of Rette, but she lacked the pretty dress. She lacked clothes in general. And her hair was not impeccably tied into a knot. It was loose. Slung carelessly over her freckled shoulders and back. Mar sat with her knees hugged closely to her chest. Directly across from discipline, sat relaxation. She drank from a coconut with a little pink umbrella sticking out from the side.

And then there was Gha. Only the woman’s silhouette persisted in this image. That and her typical business attire. It was a faceless being with a tight knot around it’s neck. No defining features beyond a head, a torso and functional limbs. Ashen, roughly textured skin made up her exposed extremities. There was no drink to be shared with the group. Only folded hands.

Even the empty seat across from Gha had been served with a pair of coffee cups. One was of regular size and the other a miniature version of it.

In the middle of a table was Frank the Cactus. His home was a simple, handcrafted ceramic pot. Pebbles and dirt secured him firmly in place. And as the group readied to converse, it tilted to the right.

Mar sucked from the straw before she placed the coconut on the table.

Mar: "Without our dreams, we would be stuck to the ground. You go higher. And higher... "

Mar paused, staring off into the unknown.

Mar: " ... but then you get too close to the sun."

Rette: "Is that where you burst into flames?"

Mar: "Something like that." Words were spoken with a knowing grin.

Gha: "Tell us-s-s anyway. Enjoy it. Do it. When things exp-p-plode."

Across Mar's shoulder, a transluscent plume of dark purple stroked. Soothingly so.

Mar: "Why linger in the abyss when we can gently glide across the skies? No. I want to do it. I will pursue this ardent adversary into whatever it leads to. Dark roads do not disturb me. Not living while I am alive does."

Gha's entire form shivers. It begins at the top, where two depressions on the raw and skin like texture of it's body seemed to be drawing the shape of a frown. A thick and tar-like substance oozed. Where it once created the illusion of a finely crafted business suit, it now rolled and ransacked with agitation, removing all regularity from the uniform. The would-be lines over the head deepened. A gaping maw was left behind, one that revealed nothing more than agitation in the form of black and purple needles.

Rette looked between Mar and Gha, bringing her flowery cup of tea to her lips for a long drink.Pretentious nostrils flared in preparation for battle between two stalwart sides of the same coin. For a moment, her attention drifted to the empty seat to her right. Just a cup next to another. One big. One small. Both deserving of more. She cleared her throat and turned towards the others.

Frank danced to the left without a sound.

Rette: "Very well. We shall discuss. let us begin with the obvious. Present dangers. Precautionary measures have been taken, but all it takes is one tiny error and it is over. It will spread all across this table. So much so that it becomes it."

Mar: "Oh, aye. We would cease to exist as is. But this picture is no longer just stormy skies. His plans bring a possibility that cannot be ignored. If he succeeds, it could be just like a scene from a play. Walking down the garden. Holding hands.”

Mar's gaze turned to Gha who was quietly brooding and staring into the empty seat across, to Mar's left.

Mar: "... Maybe someone crying or dying in the background. Nothing unnatural."

Gha's faceless face shuddered.

Rette: "His predatory nature will surely persist through the split. Strong on both sides, but only one would pose a high level of danger -- and it is not going to be the real him. Of course, it should be noted that I believe my words to be biased. My pants would catch on fire were I to sat your hopes are not relatable. Or contagious."

Rette nodded to Mar, taking a delicate sip from her teacup. Polished pinkie extended.

With a dislocated succession of faint 'pops' and 'cracks', Gha stood from it's seat. Though a pair of arms were discernible, it's legs slithered and dragged across the wooden floor as if they were one. Another round of ripples and needlish spikes traveled across the hazy suit.

Gha: "I. Will. S-s-s-show you. Your desires. This is one of it's many. P-possibilities."

Frank tilted to the right. It's thorny body was fantastically bendy.

Behind the empty seat, a scene began to appear. It was prompted by Gha's waving hand. Like a weathered painting, patterns and shapes flourished. A sizable portion of a ship's cabin replaced the empty darkness. Windows revealed both ocean and land in the distance. But before such escapes was a bloodstained bed. The expansion of the image revealed two bodies.

One was a grown human male. He was of shaggy blonde hair and a dark, tanned complexion. He lay face down, bleeding into the bed from the wound on the side of his head. One of his arms was wrapped around the second body. A much smaller one. That of an infant girl who looked to be no older than several months. The child's wound mirrored that of her father's.

Gha: "This could be him if his plan succeeds. And her. He did. Did not come alone. Or it. Could be us-s-s."

The scene continued to extend, revealing a gun on the floor. A dying lamp swung from the ceiling as turbulent waves began to come around.

Gha: "The inevitable conclusion of all life. Death."

Gha paced enthusiastically behind it's spot on the board. Mar and Rette steadily watched. One had a teacup, the other a coconut. Where Mar swayed her head, Rette drummed her fingers.

Gha: "Instead of them outliving us. We. Outlive them. Neither brings good tidings-s-s."

Margharette appeared on the scene, arriving to what would become her last day in paradise. Stricken with grief, she falls to her knees. The woman gasped for air, but her sobs went by silently. The picture was muted. One after the other, her cries went ignored.

Gha: "There. F-f-fallen. Every good thing once felt. Destroyed. Crushed by loss."

In the recreation of her pain, Margharette began to reach for the loaded weapon on the floor.

Frank swayed left.

Another tendril of Shadows coiled around Mar's shoulders, this time extending to her neck and bare chest. One were now two.

Meanwhile, Margharette's attempts to place the gun against her head were thwarted by a violent quake. Her grip faltered. The heavy piece fell to the ground with a thud as loud as hers. Unlike the others, this sound boomed across the space of those watching. Tightly, Margharette clutched her chest, blue eyes rising to the bodies of her loved ones. She choked. She groaned. But then nothing.

Gha: "And you couldn't even finish it yourself."

A few more twitches and Margharette's heart was finally done. Broken. Not enough strength to keep her going and away from death's door. Now, it became the key that unlocked it.

Mar: "I can be next in line."

Gha, who had been pacing a little more, froze on it's tracks. Though it's body was turned away from Mar, it's ghoulish head turned around. All the way around. The sound of bones breaking and colliding was as gruesome as that of unseen teeth gnawing and grinding.

Gha: "You. Just like. Me."

Rette took a last glance at the disappearing image, finding the clarity of it's details satisfactory. She then looked between Mar and Gha with a less severe expression, drinking quietly from her cup.

Mar's head swayed from side to side after giving Gha a confident nod.

Mar: "Our fate is shared. That was something made extremely clear after this catastrophe. The wheel spun and showed us the direction. Now we have it. That was the deal. Two more opportunities, if possible, for the third has already been taken advantage of."

Gha: "Options. There are others."

Slowly, Frank the Cactus tilted to the right again.

Rette: "None that entice all senses like he does. Even YOU will surrender." Unwavering authority composed said words.

Gha: "You defend this because you are infatuated. And because it will not be YOU that endures... "

Gha began to move closer to the table, body rapidly and gracelessly turning to match the direction of it's head.

Gha: " ... t-t-this."

Rette's flowery cup rose, used as a means to signal her agreement towards the creature at her left.

Mar: "We have been in the warm shores of paradise. Many never even see it. And while that may not be the final destination of this voyage, the risk is still worth it. Patience will be worth it. This is not the same Margharette from then. This is now. And if in the future, darkness should encase me, I am comforted by the fact that it will be YOU that stands alone. Radiance in a room of monsters. Means there will still be a chance... And I do like chances."

Mar's shaven coconut rose, mimicking Rette's previous cheering motion with her contrasting fancy cup.

Gha silently stared at the seat across even without eyes. Frail hands settled over it's own seat, but soon, Gha joined the others seated at the table.

Frank veered left, it's spine flexible but unbreakable.

Gha: "Useless. Your silence. Is not. Or is it... It is. Or... "

Rette: "Banter aside, this companionship has touched us all in one way or another. Most recently, I noted an irregularity during a session. These feelings of adoration... Of love -- they must be carefully woven into the cover story. Too many lies and the story is too weak to stand on it's own. Not enough, and we expose a weakness. One the enemy can and would exploit. Twice, because there are TWO people involved. The verbal foreplay routine when engaged in work will need to be reworked. Rephrased. Refreshed."

Mar: "This discussion has nothing to do with business."

Rette: "Everything can be business if you're gray enough."

Mar stared at Rette for a long and spiteful moment, but the feeling passed. Slid with ease. Like melted butter.

Mar: "Which is why I am making this call. What needs to be done will be done. That is what I trust you to do if it comes to such blows. Let the winds die now so that we may reach a conclusion and gaze into our future."

Rette nodded, throwing a tiny cube into her refilled cup. Gha only continued to glare ahead.

Rette: "Preparations for many possibilities have already begun. The Crabby Cabin will also be going through extensive renovations. This place will be a fortress. One where both him and her can seek refuge from what comes, given that there will finally be room for more than one person. What truly worries me is the vessel he leaves behind. With any luck, and maybe some bribes, it will be kept busy."

Gha shuddered, it's stable but fluid form vivid and animated.

Gha: "Miss-s-s. I will miss it. I. Yet. Do not know the satisfaction of making it..." The voice became even more distorted. Wisps of thick Shadows wrapped around it's head, moving in fast spinning circles.

Gha: "... Submit. In full. Without him being bound. By ch-ch-chains."

Frank tilted to the right.

Mar: "Confusing creature."

Gha: "Remind yourself. No matter how the next fall comes. You. And I. Will look the same."

Mar fell silent, turning to glance at the empty coffee cups to her right. With acceptance, she nodded.

Rette: "Then it is settled. The chance will be taken. This means that our grip on emotions, and by our I of course mean mine, will need to be better than flawless at all times. Especially when we consider what is happening deeper down the rabbit hole."

Behind Rette's ear, a Shadowy line curved and twisted. After snaking around the back of her neck, it disappeared beneath her golden garments.

Mar: "Be it by Chance or otherwise, our fates are here. Present. Some of the tails found down this road lead to heartbreak. Others to happiness. To peace. Peace that is violently forged elsewhere. Here? It is made complete by his presence. Fun. Joy. Love. Care. Affection. All siblings. All part of the same thread."

Gha: "Even I feel this. This that you speak of. To not pursue and protect this treasure would be criminal."

The three beings looked between each other and nodded. Mar and Rette rose their drinks and indulged. Gha sat still. And the empty seat remained empty.

Frank the Cactus moved again. Now it sat straight.

#ic story #mb&s #hsc #sorrynotawarstory

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errantknightess · 6 years

Text

A game for three

Chapter 1/3: Two nerds and a newbie

Pairing: Lavi/Allen/Kanda

Word count: 3,427

Summary: searching for his place at the new school, Allen joins a struggling karuta club -- and soon finds there’s much more for him to learn than just the cards and the game rules

[Read on AO3]

Allen roamed helplessly through the corridors, searching for anything at all to set him on the right track. His lousy sense of direction had thwarted him again. This school was huge, and the two weeks since he transferred hadn’t been nearly enough time to get used to it yet. How ironic, to get lost on his way to see the student advisor. Maybe he should ask him to draw him a map when he finally gets there; that’s one way he could definitely help him assimilate.

He wasn’t too sure which room Komui-sensei said he would be in. He wasn’t even sure he would be there at all. It was pretty late already, and the entire wing seemed dead. Allen strode briskly along the hall, peeking into each and every classroom he passed. All empty, not a soul in sight.

As he rounded the corner, the silence broke, punctured suddenly with a distant thumping sound. Intrigued, Allen decided to follow it; so far, it was the only sign of anyone’s presence. The thumping continued, growing louder the further he went along the corridor. Soon, Allen started to make out other sounds, faint voices and some sort of – singing? It was coming from the last door just next to the staircase, pretty clear now that he stood right in front of it. Puzzled, Allen slid the door open a crack and looked in.

Something whizzed past his head at a dangerous speed and smacked loudly against the window behind him.

“Sorry!” a voice inside the room called. “Can you get that?”

Allen turned around and picked up the deadly projectile. It was a card – fairly big and springy, with a few columns of hiragana printed in a simple font. He turned it in his fingers with interest, so preoccupied that he nearly tripped as he stepped into the classroom. Grasping at the doorframe, he steadied himself quickly and tried not to look too embarrassed under the taxing gaze of the two students watching him from the tatami mat set out on the floor.

“Thanks.” One of them, a guy with an eyepatch and red hair of a delinquent, reached out his hand with a smile. Allen gave him the card and watched that smile grow even wider as he inspected it.

“See, Yuu, I told you! You got it wrong! This is The spring has passed, not If I lay my head. That’s another penalty for you! You’re careless today.”

“Whatever,” the other one snorted, his long dark hair flying as he snapped his head around to glare at Allen. “Hey, you! Be useful and get that one as well.” He pointed at another card laying under a desk by the door, seemingly thrown there with the same force.

“Yuu!” the redhead hissed with a slight panic. “You can’t order people around like that!”

“Then what the hell am I the captain for?” Yuu rolled his eyes and once again fixed them expectantly on Allen. The redhead cringed.

“He’s not even in the club!”

“It’s fine,” Allen minced out politely and bent under the desk to retrieve the card. It looked similar to the first one, but with a different set of lines.

“What withers and falls away in this place is I myself,” he read out loud, his eyebrows rising higher with every word. He looked up from the card, shifting his eyes between them, from the red hair and piercings to the murderous scowl. “… Are you a poetry club?”

“Something like that,” the redhead laughed and leaned towards him, eye glinting with curiosity. “Hey, you’re that transfer student, right? From England? Have you ever heard about karuta?”

“A little bit,” Allen admitted, glancing at the tiles spread out between the two of them. “It’s a card game, isn’t it?”

“It’s a sport,” Yuu growled with emphasis. “For fuck’s sake, we’re a sport club.”

The redhead laughed nervously.

“I know, Yuu, I know.” He turned to Allen again, his smile apologetic. “He’s right, it’s a sport, in the same way go and shogi are, I guess. You can play for fun, too, but it takes some skill to do it at a competitive level. The rules are pretty simple, though! After all, even kids play it, you know. Once you memorize those hundred cards, it’s a breeze. In the end, it all boils down to how quickly you can match the poem being read with the correct ending – not that hard, eh? By the way, we haven’t introduced ourselves yet! You’re a first year, so you go first. What’s your name?”

“Uhh… Allen. Allen Walker,” Allen said, his head reeling a little from this rapid speech.

“Nice to meet you!” The redhead grabbed his hand and shook it with joint-twisting enthusiasm, plucking the card from his fingers while he was at it. “I’m Lavi Bookman, and this grumpy prettyboy here is Kanda Yuu, our esteemed club captain.”

“Shut up, moron.” Kanda turned away, glaring at them with the corner of his eye. “We both know you should be the damn captain.”

“And we both know you need it more, Mr. I-Have-No-Social-Skills-To-Speak-Of-In-My-College-Application.”

“College?” Allen looked at them with surprise. “So you’re third years?”

“He is.” Lavi pointed his thumb at Kanda and lowered his voice to a conspiratory whisper. “I should be. Got held back a grade cause I was travelling abroad last year. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Everyone knows,” Kanda growled. “Now stop clowning around and get back to the game already.”

“Aye, aye, captain!” Lavi saluted and scooted back to his spot, but his eye was still fixed on Allen. “Hey, just a thought. How good are you with reading?”

“I can read, thank you very much,” Allen replied, offended. “I wouldn’t be going to school here if I were illiterate.”

“Relax. I meant loud reading,” Lavi chuckled, waving his hand towards the clunky CD player at his side. “I’m sick of the recordings. Let’s see how you’ll do with these.” He reached over to a nearby box and procured another deck, which he promptly thrust into Allen’s hands.

“What do I do with them?” Allen shuffled through the cards, taking in the colourful pictures and the crisp lines of kana.

“Just read the poems out loud, slowly and clearly. You can stop when either of us takes a card, just finish the line so we know which one it is.” Lavi cracked his knuckles and turned to Kanda with a wide grin. “Come on, Yuu! Let’s show the kid how it’s done!”

Allen cleared his throat and started reading, his voice wobbling uncomfortably. He didn’t even get through the first line when Lavi and Kanda both slammed their hands on the mat and sent the cards flying across the floor.

“It’s mine.” Kanda got up and went to pick up the card that landed the furthest, casting Allen a patronizing look as he passed by. “Speak up, Beansprout, we can barely hear you.”

Allen looked back at him with annoyance and deliberately raised his voice a little too much with the next card. Once again, though, he was cut off by the both of them pounding on the mat just three syllables in.

“Nice one.” Lavi smiled as Kanda took the card off his field and put it to the side. “Your guard is sharp as always, I see.”

“You could put up yours more, too,” Kanda grumbled. “Don’t let me leave you behind, idiot. I know you can do better than this. Stop being lazy!”

“All right, all right,” Lavi laughed, poking at Kanda’s hand as he straightened his cards. “I’ll take the next one, if you insist.”

Allen watched them over his cards, only partly paying attention to what he was reading. There was something mesmerizing in them, in this air of fierce focus shooting sparks between them as they moved, bent low over the mat, faces hovering just inches apart. He barely had any work to do there at all, it went so fast. Their hands cut through his words with the speed and grace of a tiger, taking the cards out one by one until just three remained, all in front of Lavi.

“Thank you for the game.” Kanda bowed deeply, his long hair obscuring his face as he touched his forehead to the mat. Lavi followed suit, though it seemed more like he just banged his head on the floor in frustration.

“I can’t believe you beat me again! Three times in a row! Man, this isn’t my day.”

“It’s never your day,” Kanda shot back, tapping his cards flush into a neat pile.

“You’re just too good.” Lavi sat up with a sigh and turned to Allen, his sour face lighting up immediately. “Nice job on the reading, by the way! Not bad for a beginner at all, I’m surprised. You should work on keeping the rhythm though, your intonation was all over the place. But you have a pleasant voice, even if it cracks a lot, and you breathe with your belly, that’s good.”

“Uhh… Thanks,” Allen said slowly, not sure if he should be more flattered or embarrassed.

“See, this is why you should be the fucking captain.” Kanda measured Lavi with a long glance, waving his hand in frustration. “I can’t do any of this… people shit.”

“Aww, don’t sell yourself so short, Yuu! You’re great at other things!” Lavi wrapped his arms around him in a tight hug, rubbing his cheek on top of Kanda’s head. “You’ve got this awesome, intimidating presence, you know! And a strong sense of leadership! And a proper Japanese name, let’s not forget about that. You’re perfect for the job! If I was the captain, no one would ever take us seriously at the tournaments!”

“We don’t go to any tournaments.” Kanda rolled his eyes and swatted half-heartedly at Lavi’s bicep to shake him off. “We can barely keep it up here. You heard what the principal said. Find more people, or we’re out.”

“But now Allen is here, so we’re good, right?” Lavi let go of him, only to throw his arm around Allen’s shoulders instead. “You’re not in any clubs yet, are you? Help us out and join here, how about that?”

“And what will I have out of it?” Allen freed himself from the embrace and looked at them both with a frown.

“Participation points?” Lavi shrugged. “It will look good in your papers. Plus, you’ll get to hang out with two coolest guys in this school,” he added cheerfully, leaning into Kanda once again.

“I don’t know…” Allen scratched the back of his neck, hesitantly eyeing the discarded cards between them. Sure, it looked fun, but could he do that? And was it okay for him to burden his two senpais with his lack of experience? Club activities were for people to have a good time with their friends. The last thing he wanted was to get in the way.

“I’m not really sure this is my thing. Sorry. I need to go.” With a twitching smile, Allen heaved himself up, brushed his pants off and reached for his bag.

“Of course,” Kanda scoffed with a nasty smirk, not even looking at him. “Didn’t expect anything else. At least it’s good that you know when you’re too weak to handle something, Beansprout.”

“Weak?” Allen turned to him in a blink, gritting his teeth. True, he had a similar thought just a moment before – but he couldn’t stand hearing it in this tone, from this guy. “What does weakness have to do with this? It’s a memory game!”

“That just proves how little you know.” Kanda crossed his arms, finally meeting him with a burning gaze. “I’ve told you, it’s not a game. It’s a sport. You need training and technique. Reflex. Stamina. Precision. And clearly, you don’t have any of these.”

“Oh, you think so?” Allen took a step forward and dropped his bag back on the floor, fists clenching. “Challenge accepted. Bring it on, I can show you just how much I’ve got.”

“It’s pointless,” Kanda scoffed. “Waste of time. You don’t even know the poems.”

Allen held his glare, his stomach twisting. Too late to back out now.

“It’s the One Hundred Poets, right? That classical anthology. We’ve discussed them in the literature class recently. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Oi, Allen!” Lavi piped in, his eye wide and shooting between the two of them. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into? Yuu is a B class player. He’ll run you into the ground!”

“We’ll see about that.” Allen narrowed his eyes, still piercing Kanda with a furious look. Somewhere deep down, he realized he was on a straight course to disaster, but right then, he didn’t care. If he had to make a fool of himself, he’d rather do it trying than giving up.

“All right, then. Here’s a quick rundown of the rules for you, sprout.” Lavi scooted over to make room for him on the mat. “You get twenty five cards each. The first one to clear all of his is the winner. With me so far?”

Allen nodded, watching him shuffle the deck, cut it in half and in half again.

“Great.” Lavi pushed the two stacks towards them. “Here are your cards. Now, you put them in front of you and memorize the positions. Remember to pay attention to your opponent’s side as well, you’ll be taking his cards too.”

“Like hell he will,” Kanda snorted. “I’ll be damned if he can take even one in the whole match.”

“He might get lucky.” Lavi shrugged with a smirk. “You know sometimes it’s just guesswork and gamble as much as skills.”

Gamble. Allen lit up a bit, hopeful. That, he could do.

He placed his part of the deck in three rows in front of him, mirroring Kanda. The cards felt weird in is hands, thick and heavy and unfamiliar; still, he caught a glimpse of a few verses that rang a bell faintly – or so he thought. Allen glared at them with determination, doing his best to remember their positions and ignore the seething presence in front of him.

“Are you ready?” Lavi looked between them, impatiently fiddling with the reading deck at his side.

“Yes,” they replied in unison. Allen wiped his hands on his pants, anticipation tingling like steel needles on his dry tongue. Across from him, Kanda took a deep breath, his eyebrows knit together as he eyed the cards in front of him.

With a sigh, Lavi took the first card from his pile and brought it slowly to his eye. Allen barely managed to register the first word he read when Kanda already slapped a card out of his field with a force that sent it spinning to the other end of the room. Lavi leaned away just in time, clicking his tongue with reproach.

“Careful, Yuu! Wanna knock my other eye out?”

“Is that what happened to you?” Allen blurted before he could stop himself. Lavi just laughed, following Kanda with a fond gaze as he stood up to pick up the card.

“Nah, but I like telling people that just to mess with them. It’s fun to watch them get all shocked when they learn we’re actually best friends.”

“I can see that,” Allen muttered, just before Kanda returned to his place to hear it.

It went on much like he had seen in the match before. Kanda took the next card too, and the next two after that, lunging on them before Allen could even make a move. It got his blood boiling, his heart pumping faster, raising the pressure until he felt ready to burst. The frustration coursing in his veins made his head light, but his limbs felt lighter too – weightless. Matching Kanda’s swift movements, Allen started throwing himself at the cards with a newfound aggression. He was going in blindly, but it didn’t matter, just as long as he could be quicker than his opponent – just to get the card he was aiming at, just to swipe it right from under his fingers. His hand knocked into Kanda’s more times than he cared to count, always just a second too slow. Lavi’s voice, strong and oddly melodious, rose over the battlefield, a sharp contrast to their violent thuds and cries. Another card, and another – and then Allen finally got this chance. This one, he knew – he had read that line out himself not long ago.

He remembered.

And in a blink, he slammed his hand against the mat so hard it reverberated in his bones, hitting the card right in front of him and sweeping a couple others out along with it.

“Whoa, Allen!” Lavi cut himself off, staring at him with a proud grin. “Your first card! Congrats, man! It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Allen let out a heavy breath and squeezed the card tight in his fingers.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It does.”

It was not the turning point he was hoping for, though. This one small victory set him on fire, but it was merely a flickering flame compared to the roaring inferno he was faced with. A few more strikes, fast and forceful, and soon enough Kanda was giving him the obligatory bow of the winner, bent over his empty field with a neat stack of cards to his right.

“Don’t worry.” Lavi gave Allen a consoling pat on the shoulder. “You stood no chance against Yuu on your first try. Even I hardly ever get to win against him, and I’ve been playing for over ten years.”

“Wow, really?” Allen blinked at him in amazement and turned to Kanda, his frustration slowly dissipating into grudging respect. “Have you been playing that long, too?”

“More or less.” Kanda shrugged, looking right over his head at Lavi. “So, what do you think?”

“A little rough on the edges, that’s for sure.” Lavi tapped his chin with his finger, shuffling on the floor around Allen to look at him from all sides. “But you’re quick, and looks like you have a pretty good memory. You’d only seen those poems in lit class and when you were reading out loud for us earlier, right?”

“Right.” Allen nodded, fidgeting under their insistent stares. “I guess a few of them stuck.”

“That’s great.” Lavi beamed, turning to Kanda with a shine in his eye. “Maybe he doesn’t know much yet, but he makes up for it with a hell of a fighting spirit. Some practice, and who knows what will come out of it!”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself.” Kanda flicked him lightly in the forehead before piercing Allen with a steel gaze again. “All right, so maybe you’re not as completely useless as you seem. And hell, we can’t be picky right now, anyway. You sure you don’t want to join?”

Allen hesitated. He thought back to the thrill of the game, the tension coiling up in him, the adrenaline-driven focus that sharpened his senses; and most of all, to the warm wave of satisfaction flooding his chest as he gripped the card taken right from under his opponent’s nose.

It was fun.

“I think I can try,” he decided, looking up at them with a small smile. “If you will have me.”

“Woohoo!” Lavi yelled and grabbed both him and Kanda by the shoulders, pulling them in a painful, awkward group hug. “Welcome to the team! Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you”

“You take care of him,” Kanda growled. “I’m not babysitting a complete newbie.”

“But Yuu! Isn’t that your responsibility? You’re the captain!”

“Yeah, and as your captain, I’m telling you to do that.”

“That’s mean.” Lavi pouted, poking Kanda in the cheek with his finger. “I’ll train him to kick your ass for this, is that what you want?”

“I’m counting on you.” Kanda gave him a punch in the arm, probably a light one by his standards, but it still made Lavi wince.

Allen watched them struggle for a moment, sinking back into the silence of the empty room. It was new to him – people wanting him to join them, to be a part of a team. Was there really something he could help them with? Even if they just took him because they needed members, it would be wrong not to give it his best. He still wasn’t sure if it was really a good idea – but somewhere inside him, the spark had already been lit, and now it was glowing faintly in his chest, warm and pleasant.

#dgm #d. gray man #fanfiction #and now for something completely different lol

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cuddlesnowy · 7 years

Text

Sonic and Tails in Castle Eggman Zone - Act 5

In the final installment of this adventure, our heroes are trapped in a confrontation with Dr. Robotnik himself! Can they escape the castle in time, or must every good Zone end with a boss fight? Read the gripping finale after...you guessed it....the jump.

Act 5

Sure enough, moments after these words had left Sonic’s mouth; Dr. Robotnik strode into the room, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“That was just too easy! Everything’s gone egg-sactly to plan!”

Sonic began squirming uncomfortably within the guard’s grip.

“Alright, you can do what you want to us, but please don’t start with the egg puns!”

Robotnik winced a little, not wanting his moment in the spotlight interrupted.

“Puns or no puns, Sonic, you and your little fox friend are trapped and your fun ends here!” Sonic stopped struggling, instead going with the flow. He was very used to the doctor’s dramatic speeches.

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me. But what’s with the whole castle thing? Even for one of your traps, this is weird!”

A big grin appeared below Robotnik’s moustache, “So, it’s exposition you want? Well that’s just what you’re about to get!”

“Hang tight, Tails,” said Sonic under his breath “this next paragraph is gonna be a long one…”

Robotnik cleared his throat and begun,

“You see, I’m sick and tired of always having my plans thwarted and my bases destroyed, it starts to get a little costly having to re-scheme and rebuild all the time, you know. It was high time to up my defences, and what better defence than a castle? If it’s disguised and out of the way, no-one can bother me while I get on with my work, and on the offhand chance someone does stumble in, well, my dastardly decoys and traps will soon take care of that! And just like that, my plans are safe from any meddlesome freedom fighters like you two! Perhaps I should have kept that last part under wraps, but there’s nothing you can do to stop me now, for your little castle tour is over! GUARDS! TAKE THEM AWAY! ….Heh, I’ve always wanted to say that!”

“So much for trying to stall for time,” said an irritated Sonic, trying to break loose the bars of the cell he was now trapped inside. “At least it’s a better view than the dungeon, but still not my idea of comfort!” The cell door was guarded by another robot that didn’t seem to be keeping too close an eye on them, but still made any attempts to escape seem rather futile. Sonic and Tails had spent the last few minutes pulling at, spinning at and poking limbs through the jail bars and no new ideas had come to light. That was until Tails tapped Sonic on the shoulder. When the blue hedgehog turned, he saw his friend with a big smile on his face and brandishing a familiar sword.

“Tails, you’re on fire today!” cheered Sonic, once again impressed by the small fox’s resourcefulness. The blade slipped through the bars with ease, and within a few moments, Tails was able to slash at the lock, sending it clattering to the ground.

“Wuh-oh!” said Tails. The noise had alerted the guard who had turned to face them wielding a large lance.

“Leave this one to me!” Sonic called out, swinging the prison door aside. He speedily dodged all of the robot’s jabbing motions, and although its large shield made spinning into it a problem, a quick spin jump on the head soon put the knight out of commission.

“Just one more thing…” he added, taking Tails’ sword and lobbing it at a “hidden” camera in the corner, “Now Eggman can’t watch us break outta this joint!”

The two had made their way back into the main hall and without Robotnik anywhere in sight they felt free to take their time. Tails watched on as Sonic paced up and down, a puzzled expression on his face.

“There’s just one thing I don’t get. If Robotnik really does keep his evil plans here, then how come we haven’t found them yet? We saw every nook and cranny of those dungeons, and nadda!”

“Do you think we have time for one more look?” asked Tails, ascending above the ground and circling the room. But it didn’t take very long for Tails’ tails to stop spinning, and quicker than usual, Tails descended back down, exhausted. Considering they had originally entered for shelter, it was no surprise really that this night was beginning to take its toll. Tails recalled their introduction to the castle and how they weren’t able to get anything from the banquet, let alone have a moment’s rest. It wasn’t just him. When Tails looked at Sonic, he could see it in his friend’s eyes. For once, Sonic was tired out too.

“On second thought,” he decided “Maybe we should take it easy for a few minutes…”

Sonic agreed, and after checking the coast was clear, he lead the way to the sleeping quarters. It was why they came here after all, and even if the situation wasn’t safe enough to sneak in some shut eye, the least they could do was put their feet up for a minute while Robotnik’s guard was down. Tails pointed to a small, yet welcoming room. A lit torch filled it with a warm glow, revealing a large double bed. Sonic, who hadn’t had the pleasure of trying out one of the castle bedrooms yet, took first dibs and dived onto the mattress. It seemed cosy enough, bar a strange crinkling noise from under the pillow. Feeling this was off; he jumped back onto his feet and fished something out from underneath. He emerged holding a roll of blueprint paper, which he immediately unfurled and presented to Tails.

“Talk about an anticlimax! He builds an entire castle fortress, and then goes and hides his secret plans under his pillow! Ha!” While Sonic couldn’t help but be amused at this turn of events, it was clear what had to be done next. There was no more time for lounging about, just to keep hold of the plan and get out of there! If they could slip away and decipher the blueprints, they could beat Robotnik at his game and put a stop to his next evil scheme before it was even in motion.

With a single nod as their signal, Sonic and Tails sprinted out of the room and towards the entrance. Just before they reached their goal, the front doors slammed shut loudly.

“It’s no good, they’re locked!” cried Tails, pushing against them with all his might. It was clear that Robotnik wasn’t going to let them go that easily. Sonic grinned, all traces of tiredness now wiped from his face. The adrenaline of finding the plans was just the sort of energy he needed, and just the sort he liked.

“If Robotnik wants us to fight to the finish, it’s a fight he’s gonna get!” So far, Sonic had admittedly not been taking the adventure that seriously, but things had just got interesting. He turned to Tails and winked,

“Whaddya say? You up for an exciting quest?”

“Aye, Sir Hedgehog! Tis a most splendid adventure!”

“Okay, Tails, no more of that fancy talk!” insisted Sonic. Tails nodded, and the two set off again in the opposite direction.

If the front exit was blocked off, the next step was to head to the back. Sonic bolted down corridors, tearing through any badnik which would get in his way, and Tails followed closely behind, helping out where he could. It wasn’t long before they reached the back door and the two skidded to a halt in the courtyard. They stood and inspected their surroundings. It was good to be back on grass again, but there didn’t seem to be any way out of the castle grounds from here. Castle walls lined with colourful flags formed a circle around the large patch of land and the few archways leading out were barred off. Raised above them were long rows of seating which on closer inspection were filled with onlooking robots. It was as though they had walked in on some sort of arena. But before they could turn back, their view darkened as an enormous shadow lingered over their heads, followed by an almighty roar. Looking above, Sonic and Tails saw an enormous dragon shaped figure descending. Of course, like everything else they had encountered, it was a fake, the engineering work of Dr. Eggman, but it was still an impressive and powerful looking beast, and no doubt the castle’s final trap. But what was an adventure without a battle to finish it off?

“We’re going on a dragon hunt!” called Sonic.

“We’re not scared!” replied Tails, as the two faced towards the now landed dragon, ready for action.

No sooner than they had poised for attack, a stream of fire emitted from the dragon’s mouth, and Sonic and Tails were forced to dive in opposite directions to avoid getting hit. Sticking together during the fight was going to be tough work. As soon as the two could see each other again past the fire, they signalled each other with a serious nod and prepared for attack once more. Their synchronised spin jump was poorly timed however, as before they could make contact, the dragon took off again, leaving them to abruptly land, skidding to a halt along the ground to stop themselves overbalancing. Sonic frowned for a moment, before realising that he had flight on his side too.

“Hey Tails,” he called out to his buddy, “Use your tails to take out the wings! I’ll deal with the flames!” Tails whirled up his two tails like a helicopter rotor and flew upwards after the dragon. His tails were moving at such a speed that whenever they made contact with the wings there was a loud scraping noise as sparks flew.

“I think it’s working!” Tails squeaked, barely making his voice heard over the noise. If he kept at it, the wings would soon be weakened enough to keep the dragon earthbound. Sonic meanwhile, was concentrating on his own safety, dodging and weaving past flames, which he soon noticed were being fired from a flamethrower within the “creature’s” mouth. As he jumped and ran, he could see the ground around him getting scorched, singeing the once green grass. He did not want to get caught up in those flames! While he was trying to figure out the best way of taking the weapon out, there was an almighty crash as the dragon came hurtling down to the ground, its wings now tattered and smoking and its means of flight now gone. Sonic jolted out of the way just in time and spotted Tails making a safe descent by the back legs.

“I did it-WAAAAH!” Before Tails could finish his sentence, a large green tail had attempted to hit him from behind. Jumping over it like a skipping rope, he managed to avoid the hit, only he was now the one behind. The tail swung back for a frontal hit, and Tails, barely able to register the first attack yet, wasn’t so lucky this time. He clutched hold of the robotic tail as it made contact so as not to be knocked down by its force, only this made the situation worse. The tail kept on moving with Tails attached, and the fox was left clinging on to it helplessly, trying not to fall. This feat was made harder by the fact that the dragon’s tail was swinging about viciously, attempting to fling him off into the castle’s walls. It was like a particularly intense game of bucking bronco.

“Sooniic! Heelp!” he cried out, already feeling dizzy.

“Hang on, Tails!” replied Sonic.

“I am!”

Sonic knew he had to get to the other side to get to Tails, but there was still the problem of the flames. Now, if there was one thing Sonic was good at judging, it was speed, and he could tell this dragon was not built for speed. He jumped up on the steps for maximum manoeuvrability and began to head towards Tails. Unfortunately, he was spotted, and the dragon began turning too, spewing out flames as it moved, forcing Sonic to run laps around the colosseum.

“Sorry about this, Tails!” he called out, imagining how hard the addition of circular movements must be on his friend. Sonic was right, however, the dragon was no match for his speed, and no matter how much it moved, the fire breath never caught up with the speedy hedgehog. Instead, when Sonic looked back, he saw that the flames had instead been accidentally taking out the robot bystanders, several of which were now in ruin.

“Aaugh! My beautiful bots, battered and broken!” called out a familiar voice. Sonic stopped and looked down at the dragon. Dr. Robotnik had just revealed his location! Sonic threw himself off the raised stairs, curling himself into a ball as he did so, and aimed for a crash collision course with the dragon’s chest. As he rammed into his target, Sonic kept spinning until a plate of green, scaly metal came off, revealing a window underneath. Inside, a rather frantic looking Robotnik was at a control panel, its various buttons, switches and leavers controlling the beast’s functions. He was surrounded by monitors displaying a feed of the surroundings.

The sudden damage to his vehicle had taken him by surprise, and he momentarily lost track of the tail’s control, leaving it to fall limp and drop Tails. It didn’t take long for Robotnik to recover however, and soon he was in full control again, grinning menacingly at Sonic.

“I’ll get you yet, hedgehog!”

The flamethrower started back up again at full force. Only now the arena had seen a lot of damage, leaving there less room to manoeuvre. Sonic had an idea. This could be used to his advantage.

“How’s your football skills, Tails?”

This wasn’t exactly the sort of question Tails, who was still recovering from the dragon ride, wanted to hear. He held his head and shut his eyes tight for a moment in hopes of getting his bearings back quicker. Sonic was going to need his co-ordination skills to be top notch.

“You see that rock in front of you? Pass it to me!” Sonic was pointing to a piece of rubble that has crumbled off the stairs earlier. Tails gave the thumbs up, and kicked the rock towards Sonic. He wasn’t sure if he was just strong enough to take it or if Robotnik had simply cheaped out on the stone, but thankfully doing so didn’t injure Tails’ foot. It was Sonic’s turn now, and going in for a running kick, he sent the rock flying.

“GOOOAL!” Sonic cheered, throwing his hands up in the air. The rock, as intended, had jammed up the flamethrower, which was now unusable. Robotnik slammed his fists down on the console in frustration. Not only had he been made vulnerable, but now his primary means of attack had gone.

With Sonic and Tails back together and Robotnik almost powerless, it was time to finish this mecha dragon once and for all!

“Let’s do it, Sonic!” suggested Tails, confidentially. Now that the inner mechanisms were exposed, their synchronised spin jump wasn’t going to fail. The two leapt up for the final hits.

SMACK!

It worked. The mech began glowing red and smoking, vibrating heavily as it did so. There was no way it was in action anymore. Even above the sound of failing mechanics, Robotnik’s tantrum could be heard.

“I don’t believe it! I-I won’t! All of my traps! My castle! All for nothing! Why can’t I ever have nice things?!”

The source of the glowing became clear as the dragon went up in flames. Destroying a mech with fire attacks was going to have an explosive result. A moment later something burst out from inside. It was Robotnik in his egg-mobile, the dragon control panel still present.

“Too bad you’re too slow to prevent my impending escape! Mua ha ha ha!” The Egg-mobile rose upwards and began to leave the castle grounds. No matter how heated up their battles got, Robotnik always seemed to get away at the last minute. Tails began to run in hope of somehow catching up, but Sonic stopped him. Not only was their foe too far ahead, but the dragon fire was spreading rapidly. Soon the whole arena would be up in flames. It was simply too hazardous to stick around.

“We’ll just have to let Eggman one up us…as usual!” said Sonic, turning back indoors.

“Besides, we still have his plans!” piped in Tails in a sing song-y voice. As long as they could successfully escape the castle, all was not lost.

It wasn’t long before the two had made it back across the castle to the front entrance. Unfortunately, nothing had changed from before, and the front door was still sealed shut.

“What now?” asked Tails. Even without Robotnik’s presence, he’d still managed to make things difficult. Sonic shrugged. There had to be some other way out. The question was where? It was then Tails spotted something he’d missed before. Along the far side of the floor, a single, open drain exposing water ran across the floor.

“Follow me!” Tails took the lead as he followed the water from room to room until he finally got results - the castle drainage room, where the drain became wider and deeper. It lead to a small gap which when Tails looked closely; he could see the outdoors through.

“It’s the way out!” he decided, before turning to Sonic. Sonic wasn’t smiling. Some of that bravado which he had before was now lost. If there had to be just one exit left, why did it have to be via the castle moat?

It had been quite the underwater trek, and Tails airlifted Sonic out of the moat and towards land. The two were both soaking and dripping. Tails was feeling good. For such a strange adventure, he thought he had been particularly brave. As he stood on the grass and watched the sun rise, his excitement for all they had been through and achieved didn’t wane.

“What should we do now Sonic? Should we run back to my workshop and try to decode the blueprints? Maybe we could have a race back!”

Sonic gave a weak smile back, appreciative of Tails’ enthusiasm, but unable to give much in reply.

“Whoa there, lil’ buddy! It’s been a busy night. Whatever happened to hitting the hay?” Tails looked closer at this friend, wet and shivering from the cold. As the two made their way back into the woodlands, he couldn’t help but wonder; had Sonic actually been scared back there? Surely not! After all, he was the most noble (and the coolest) hero of the land!

Zone Clear

#art post #fanfic #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic and tails #tails #Miles Tails Prower #srb2 #sonic robo blast 2 #storybook #castle #dragon #Eggman #Robotnik #gecky #Thank you for reading!#Especially if you put up with all the cheesy serial stuff at the beginning of each post ;)

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celticnoise · 4 years

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CQN continues its enthralling and EXCLUSIVE extracts from Alex Gordon’s book, ‘That Season In Paradise’, which highlight the months that were the most momentous in Celtic’s proud history.

Today, cavalier full-back Tommy Gemmell takes centre stage as he talks us through his pulverising equalising goal against Inter Milan that put Jock Stein’s men on their way to triumph in the unforgettable European Cup Final on May 25 1967 in Lisbon.

TOMMY GEMMELL invited me to his comfortable abode in Dunblane while I was putting this book together. Quite by chance, one of the Sky sports channels was showing a thirty-minute feature of great European teams and the focus in this programme was on the Lisbon Lions.

My notepad was instantly discarded and, thanks to the generous hospitality of my host, replaced by an accommodating large glass of cold white wine. I knew from the offset this would be a tough book to write!

The legendary Celt and I settled down in front of his TV set to wonder at some of the magic for the umpteenth time over the past forty-nine years.

I sneaked a look at my big friend as his sixty-third minute shot flew high into the net for the equaliser. Gemmell smiled and said, ‘Aye, it wasn’t a bad wee goal, was it?’

‘I’m sure I detected a small tear in his eye as he added, ‘You know, I still get a tingle every time I see that goal. I’ll never tire of watching that moment.’

THE EQUALISER…Tommy Gemmell wallops a mighty right-foot drive past defender Armando Picchi on its way into the top corner of the Inter Milan net.

This is an extract of a chapter devoted to the player which appeared in the ‘Lisbon Lions: 40th Anniversary Celebration’ book. It was 2007 and he travelled back in time to recollect, ‘As we prepared for Lisbon, Big Jock took me aside and told me, “You’ll get the freedom of the left wing. That Italian Domenghini won’t chase back – he doesn’t know how to tackle. I know what his game is all about. He’ll want to do his tricks and flicks at the other end of the pitch. The hard work will be left to the guys behind him. You’re going to enjoy this game.”

‘Sure enough, Big Jock, as usual, was absolutely spot on. Domenghini was a seasoned and gifted Italian international and, yes, he was exceptionally dangerous going forward, but he didn’t want to know about defending. When I received the ball I never had to look over my shoulder. I knew he would simply be standing there, hands on hips, waiting for one of his colleagues to get the ball off me and feed it forward to him.

‘He was a bit precious, as they say in football. Porcelain, even. Around my part of the world we would have labelled him a lazy beggar! He may have possessed bundles of skill, but he would never have been in any Celtic team managed by Jock Stein, that’s for sure.

BY THE LEFT…Tommy Gemmell whips over an inviting cross from the wing.

FOILED…Bobby Murdoch sees Inter Milan keeper Giuliano Sarti pull off a brilliant save from his close-range header.

‘So, certain in the knowledge that I would be unhindered throughout the ninety minutes, I launched into as many assaults on the Inter Milan defence as was possible before complete and utter exhaustion would have set in.

‘In domestic games, it had become a bit of a habit for rival teams to mark me. I suppose I should take it as the extreme compliment, but it was a pain in the backside. It was difficult enough being a defender, so when you got the opportunity to get forward you wanted some freedom.

‘Once I got a bit of a reputation, though, I suddenly found these sorties being blocked. Wingers were being asked to defend first and attack only if they got the opportunity. That’s why I thoroughly enjoyed Lisbon. I could join the attack safe in the knowledge that Domenghini would not be tracking me and, basically, making a nuisance of himself.

‘If you watch that goal again, keep your eye on the Inter Milan No.6, Armando Picchi, who charges out from defence as Jim Craig passes the ball inside for me. Picchi, who was the Inter captain, comes at me at pace, but, for whatever reason, he hesitates and turns his back just as I am about to pull the trigger. I have to admit that if he had kept his momentum going then there would have been every chance he might have blocked my effort.

‘If he had come out with his foot up or to the side he might have made contact with my shot. Maybe he was thinking of his manhood, marriage prospects or whatever, but, thankfully, he had a swift change of mind and got out of the way.

‘As I recall, I was screaming at Cairney to put the ball in front of me. I was timing my run and I didn’t care one whit if Domenghini was with me or not. Nobody or nothing was going to get in my way. At last, Cairney put the pass in – perfectly weighted, may I say – and, well, the rest is history. Wonderful, wonderful history.

‘Just before I pulled the trigger, I noticed that Picchi was in their keeper’s line of vision and Sarti would not have got a great view of the shot until it was too late.

‘He still made a spectacular effort to keep it out, though. I’ll give him that. Actually, I thought then – and I still do now – that my shot was a goal all the way. It was destined to hit the net.

‘You instinctively know these things. I belted it right on the money. It was a sweet strike alright and, of course, I had been fortunate enough over the years to knock in a few from distance. Most of the times you know there is nothing the goalkeeper is going to do to keep it out.

GRIN AND BEAR IT….goal heroes Stevie Chalmers and Tommy Gemmell celebrate with a new friend.

‘I have to say, though, that Giuliano Sarti had looked unbeatable that day. He was immense throughout and sometimes you start to believe it is just not going to be your day. We hit him with everything, but he thwarted us time and time again. He patrolled his area with so much confidence and composure. He looked pompous and even a wee bit arrogant.

‘It took us until the sixty-third minute to get that goal and, yes, as legend has it, I did swear at the gaffer shortly afterwards. He was yelling from the touchline, “Keep it tight – we’ll get them in extra-time.”

‘I looked over and shouted back, “Fuck off, Boss, it’s 85 degrees out here and we’re going to finish it here and now.”

‘Thankfully, that’s what happened and Big Jock never once mentioned our little bout of touchline verbal’s afterwards! I said I thought Sarti was arrogant, but I had to take that back when I met him at a Lisbon Lions function in the Eighties.

‘He was flown over as a special guest for the evening and he turned out to be a charming individual and he had the good grace to concede that we deserved to win.

‘He told me, “Your victory was a triumph for sport.” It takes a big man to make such an admission and we all greatly appreciated it.

‘But, by God, did he make us work hard to achieve it.’

TOMORROW: The build-up to marvellous history.

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