“tits or ass” who am i to say that the sun is more beautiful than the moon? that the rain is more important than the sunshine? we must uplift both as treasures that enrich our lives, not as enemies to compete for our affections. but ass probably

Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Land of Thieves #ChapterOne

Western/ Red Dead Redemption AU / Slow Burn / childhood best friends to lovers 

Gif is not mine.

Read on AO3 (English Version) 

Ler no AO3  / “Terra de Ladrões” (Versão Português)

Chapter warnings: explicit language, explicit violence. 

Word count for this chapter:  4002K

Summary:  When you were a child, you swore that no matter how high the reward in your head, she could always count on you. Life as an outlaw in the west is not easy, but you believe that train robberies are still easier than asking a pretty girl to dance. Land of Thieves, also know as your love story with Wanda Maximoff in the Wild West.

Pt.1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3 || Pt.4 || Pt.5 || Pt.6 || Pt.7 || Pt.8 || Pt.9 || Pt.10 || Pt.11

You were covered in mud and blood when you entered the saloon. Curious and judgmental eyes turned to you, but you didn't stare back. Stretching your back, you felt your whole body ache; the recent beating was sure to leave marks. Walking over to the counter, you threw three gold coins onto the wood, muttering in a mumbled tone "bath" to the saloon keeper. He nodded slightly, showing you the way to the restrooms. As you washed up, you grumbled against the recent cuts, but you were happy to know that you hadn't been shot. Your body ached, but without bullet wounds, you would be better in no time. A pretty girl who worked in the saloon smiled at you when she took your muddy clothes to wash them, and you looked away blushing helplessly. She handed you new clothes before she left. When you finished your shower, you put on the white silk shirt, and beat-up jeans that were handed to you. The boots were not new, but they were comfortable. You also put on spurs, but they didn't give you suspenders, so you left the shirt loose against your body, enjoying the lightness. Attaching your holstered belt to your waist, you checked to be sure your Schofield revolver was clean and locked before you holstered it. You walked to the top floor of the saloon, ignoring the curious glances cast at you on the way. You hoped that no one would recognize you from the reward posters, but you weren't so sure about that, since your face was quite exposed without your hat, which must now be somewhere lost in the middle of New Elizabeth, or on some thief's head. Whistling softly, you walked to the saloon balcony, watching the town below. Valentine is a ranching town, small and not very crowded. Lots of pedestrians, you observe. You light a cigarette as you watch the citizens go about their mundane lives, many opportunities passing before your eyes. You let your gaze wander to the town bank, a few meters ahead on the right of the saloon. You notice that security is low. Making mental notes about everything you could observe from there, you put out your cigarette, returning to the lower part of the saloon, toward the counter. - A whiskey and a beef stew. - You grumble, handing the bartender some coins. He nods in agreement and in a few minutes you get your meal. While you are sitting at the farthest table in the room, you listen attentively to the conversation of two men at the poker table, who have caught your attention. - My cousin saw the carriages in Saint Denis. Four horses in each, and he said that the riders were armed to the teeth." - The skinny man commented excitedly, his friend didn't look so happy. - Those damned bankers are like pests of the soil. You saw what happened to that southern town, I think it was called White Gate. - commented the man with the mustache, his expression frowning. - After the oil ran out, everybody lost their jobs. Stark closed the mine and the citizens began to starve. Almost everyone moved to the neighboring towns. Stark. The name was not strange to you, but you could not tell exactly where you had heard it before. You finished your stew, deciding that Steve would want to know about both the bank and the possible rich men who were visiting the town. Finishing your whiskey in one gulp, you stood up, leaving the saloon just as you collected your freshly washed clothes from the same woman who had brought them. It was hot and humid outside. Knight, your Hungarian half-breed horse, grunted with delight when you stroked his mane. You smiled at him before you mounted. You rode south, figuring you would have no trouble finding the new camp site, and trying to remember Bucky's instructions about where exactly they were. It took some time, but you finally found the camp. You dismounted Knight as you entered the area between the trees, walking calmly to the largest tent. Steve Rogers was like a father to you. When your birth parents died of cholera, you ran away from the orphanage the government put you in, and started living on the streets. You were only seven years old, but you were smart enough to hide in one of the garbage carts when the nuns weren't looking, and you ran away because you couldn't stand being beaten by the older children and your own teachers. You ended up somewhere in West Elizabeth, and while trying to steal some food, you were chased by two officers. But just as they were about to catch up with you, someone knocked them out. You smiled when Steve held out a big piece of bread and water to you. From that moment on, you lived with him. The Avengers gang became your family. Steve took care of you, and trained you as an outlaw. You learned everything that was essential to survive in the Wild West, from hunting to murder. And as the years passed, other people joined the gang, and you accepted them all as your family. When Steve saw you, he smiled tenderly, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as he motioned for you to enter the tent. - So, kiddo, what did you find out in Valentine? - asked the man as you sat down in the opposite position, on a wooden chair. - They have a poorly protected bank. - You shrugged. - But you know how these small towns are, the risk is almost always not worth the gain. - That's too bad, we need money. Especially to buy medicine. You let out a low exclamation of agreement, you knew exactly how difficult the situation was. It had been a particularly difficult season for the gang. With Fury's death at the last service, and the move out of town to get away from the officers, you were still facing a wave of illness. Carol and Bruce had been feverish and bedridden for days, and Thor had been shot during an unsuccessful robbery. - I overheard an interesting conversation, though. - You say, and Steve looks at you curiously. - Some rich people are coming to Valentine in a few days. The name Stark was mentioned, have you ever heard of it? Steve's eyes widen in surprise and excitement. - Of course I have! - he exclaims. - Filthy rich folks there! Rich enough to lend us a little money without even noticing. - I think Stark is going to buy the oil mines at Heartlands. And he's staying in Valentine while he does the negotiations. - That's excellent. - Steve says, running his hand along his chin in a thoughtful expression. - If the deposit is made in Valentine, we will have the purchase money first hand. You nodded. - But even if the deposit is made here, the money is sure to be transferred to Saint Denis. - You retort, trying to think of all the details of the scam. - Which means that we have to steal the money the same day it is deposited, or we only stand a chance during the transfer. Steve stood up, walking around the tent with the same thoughtful expression on his face. - No, no. - He began to speak as if the alternatives were rapidly forming in his head. - The carriage will be extremely protected. In the gunfire, we can be very worried about not getting killed, which will give them a chance to escape to the city. And then we'll have no way to reach them there. You sighed, knowing that he was right. You frowned, trying to think of something, but Steve soon spoke again. - We need to do this while the money is in the bank. And we have to do it fast. - He says, and then walks to the edge of the hut, looking around the field. He whistles, attracting the attention of Peggy Carter, who is chopping wood, and when she raises her curious gaze to him, Steve beckons her to join him. - What is it, Rogers? - Peggy asks gently. You exchange a smile with her. - We've got a new hit. - He says, making room for Peggy to join you. - Is Bucky around? - He went out hunting a few minutes ago. The twins went with him. - Peggy says and you rest your face on your own hand, waiting for Steve to speak again. - Oh right. I'll explain the details to them later. - The blond man says, walking around the cabin to the table in the opposite corner, and he takes a pen and paper and begins to write down what you think of as a rough draft of the plan. - We will rob Valentine's bank then. - I thought that banks in small towns were not worth the risk. - Peggy commented with a slightly confused expression. - Ah, but we have a unique opportunity. - Steve remarked, bringing the doodle over to Peggy. - Howard Stark, big oil guy, is going to buy the Heartlands mines. The purchase money will be deposited in Valentine before being transferred to Saint Denis. I believe we will have about a few hours to rob the bank - Steve, are you sure this is a good idea? - Peggy assumed a worried posture. - We are short on snipers... - It's a great idea. - He interrupts, looking at Peggy seriously, but still maintaining a calm tone. - We need the money, Peggy. If this is planned correctly, we don't have to worry about the number of weapons. - I appreciate the confidence in my abilities, by the way. - You playfully push your shoulder lightly against Peggy, she smiles at you. - Of course I trust you, Y/N. - She answers, but her gaze is still worried. - We just need to be careful in this job. You spend the rest of the afternoon planning. It doesn't take long for Bucky to join you. He hands a deer carcass to Pietro, who carries it back to the supply hut. Steve repeats the plan, and you let your gaze drift quickly to Wanda, who smiles at you, and you feel something in your stomach drop. Blushing, you look away, turning your attention back to Steve. It is already night when you have finally finished working out the plan. Wanda and Pietro joined you at some point, and you had to mentally repeat to yourself to pay attention to Steve's words and not to the redheaded girl a few feet away. You didn't want your passion to cost your life or put everyone else in danger because you didn't absorb the plan correctly, but you were getting to this level of unfocused. You felt a light tug on your arm as you walked toward the fire, and found yourself smiling wryly as you faced Wanda already looking at you. - I got my first deer today. - She declared, looking up at you with bright eyes, a tone of pride and happiness in her voice. You raise your eyebrows in a pleased expression. - What? That's amazing, Wands. - You replied. - I told you that you would learn soon! I would have liked to have seen it. - We can hunt together. - She says, and you try not to show your nervousness at the thought of being alone with Wanda, but you don't disguise it very well, which makes Wanda confused, and she looks almost disappointed when she quickly adds - Pietro can come with us too. You blink a few times, believing her to be clarifying that she had no intention of spending time alone with you, and swallowing dryly, you nod in agreement. - Yes, yes. Sure, we should call him too. - You say taking a few steps back, hands in your pockets as you stare uncomfortably at the floor. Wanda bites her lower lip lightly, finding you extremely difficult to decipher. You spend a moment in silence, before she speaks again - We can go tomorrow afternoon if you have no business in town. You think about it for a moment, trying to remember if you had made any appointments, if any robbery opportunities had been signaled to you, but you can't think of anything. - No, it's fine. We can hunt tomorrow. - You say, trying not to be too embarrassed by the contented smile Wanda flashes at you. She was probably going to say it was marked, but Pietro interrupted the moment by extending a bowl of stew in front of her face. Wanda blinked a few times in confusion, but thanked her brother as soon as she grabbed the item. Pietro turned to you next, a relaxed posture as he took a sip of the beer he was holding. - What were you two talking about? - he asked, his tone curious. - It's rude to snoop, you know. - You teased, drawing a short laugh from Wanda, and Pietro rolled his eyes stubbornly, but smiled. - We're going hunting tomorrow. I'll show Y/N that I learned how to use the bow on some deer. - explained Wanda, looking at her brother. - Will you come with us? Pietro frowned, denying with his head. - Sorry, little sister. - He speaks seriously, but his eyes have a malice in them that you didn't know how to recognize. - I'd love to join you on your date, but I have an appointment. You and Wanda blush at the insinuation, but Pietro continues with a playful aura as he takes another sip of beer. Although embarrassed, you can't help but be happy to know that you would be spending some time alone with the girl. - Oh, all right. - Wanda says in what seems to be an attempt to sound disappointed, but her eyes sparkle slightly as she speaks. You don't notice, but Pietro smiles at the expression. - You're full of secrets lately. What kind of appointment? Pietro laughs, shrugging his shoulders. He walks toward you with a playful expression, and puts his arm around your shoulders, smiling at Wanda as he leans on you. - Your girlfriend taught me how to play poker and now I am famous, my presence is requested in Rhodes. I need to bet and win some money for this place. You choke slightly on the phrase and feel your face heat up, looking down at the floor. Wanda lets out a nervous laugh, and pushes her brother lightly, making him let go of you. - You mean lose money, don't you? - she teases. - Even Thor plays better than you, and he usually just flips the table. You laugh, risking a glance at Wanda, who has a reddened face and quickly exchanges a smile with you. Pietro rolls his eyes and walks past you, waving goodbye. Deciding that you should eat something, you nod to Wanda that you are going to the fire. She smiles and follows you silently

You didn't hunt very often. Although you were good at it, it was not your function in the camp. You were a gunslinger, and your jobs usually involved carriage robberies and trespassing, even the occasional robbery. You were always part of the team for the big scams. And then Wanda invited you to go deer hunting and you became an anxious mess. Stumbling out of your tent, you hurried to take a quick swim in the creek near the campground. It was important not to smell too strongly when you went out hunting, as the animals could more easily notice you. Coming out of the water with wet hair, you put on your clothes, leaving the suspenders hanging from your waist and a few buttons open on your shirt. You were feeling heated. You waited for Wanda at the campfire. She also bathed before meeting you, and she seemed slightly anxious when she found you. You smiled as you poured some coffee, and Wanda looked a little airy when she accepted the cup. You didn't understand why, but the sight of your relaxed appearance, your loose hair and your exposed collarbone was absolutely irresistible to her, making Wanda feel heated in places that were not appropriate. You joked that soon she would become the best hunter in the camp, and you were happy to make her smile. As you rode out of the camp, you smiled as you felt Wanda lightly tap her foot against yours, as you used to play with as children. Riding in silence for a few minutes, you enjoyed the gentle breeze until you came to a hunting spot. You descended from Knight slowly, stretching your body when you reached the ground. Wanda watched your shirt lift and reveal some skin, then she looked away quickly, her face red. You cast a curious look, thinking she was feeling heat. Grabbing your rifle stored on the horse, you watched Wanda take from Lily's saddle - her red sorrel - a longbow and some arrows. You walked in silence, heading for the shallow part of the creek beside you, where you could easily find deer. It was comfortable to be in Wanda's presence, even in silence. Neither of you had to say anything to know exactly what to do next, your body following her along the way as if you had done this many times before. One look and you knew when to wait, or when to be quiet. It didn't take long before you spotted the deer. There weren't many, and Wanda bent down in front of you to take aim. You watched her with admiration. She raised her bow, and you noticed the slight tremor in her hands and frowned. You came forward, also bent down, and stood beside her. - There's no need to be nervous, Wands. - You whispered softly. - It's just me. The trembling in their hands seemed to diminish, but it was still there. You moved closer, raising your hands to join Wanda's, helping her to keep a steady aim. - Take a deep breath. - You said against her ear, waiting for her to obey. - And then shoot. With her speech, Wanda let go. The arrow cut through the air with speed, hitting the animal straight in the head. A perfect shot. You smiled, and when you looked at Wanda, she was already looking at you. You were about to congratulate her on the shot, but Wanda hugged you by the neck, surprising you. You felt your face heat up and due to the shock, you didn't respond to the hug, your body seeming asleep for an instant. Wanda let you go quickly, her face flushed with apology. You were about to tell her it was okay, and maybe hug her back, then you heard an animalistic noise that attracted your full attention, a low growl that you knew all too well. Glad you had brought your rifle, you looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Wanda blinked curiously, but you didn't look at her again. Standing up, you held the rifle with both hands, your gaze roaming the surroundings. A moment later, the bushes a few feet away moved, and you watched the creature sneak through the undergrowth, only to run toward you the next second, preparing to jump. The sound of gunfire echoed for a few seconds after the shot. You let out the breath you were holding and watched the panther lying on the ground, just a few inches away from your feet. Wanda looked at you in shock, and you offered your hand to help her up. - Sorry for the scare. - You grumbled, walking towards the panther intent on retrieving the skin, which should be worth a few dozen dollars. - We always have to be careful not to become the prey during the hunt. - How did you hear it? - Wanda asked curiously. - Practice I guess. - You said, kneeling down beside the panther. - Every sound around us is important. - You explained - Pay attention now, for example. Besides my voice, what do you hear? Wanda seemed to think for a moment. - I can only hear water, I think. Maybe birds. - She confesses, you finish cutting the skin off the animal in front of you. - Oh, sorry. - You say quickly. - I forgot that I just drove all the animals away with the noise of the rifle. You laugh to yourself, and Wanda smiles at you tenderly. - Let's go after that deer. I'll teach you to hear the sounds another day. - You tell her as you stand up. Walking over to the dead deer, you observe Wanda kneeling beside the animal, drawing her own knife. - Bucky taught you how to skin? - you ask, watching the firm but still amateurish cut Wanda was giving the animal. - Yes, he told me to skin rabbits before he taught me to cut the deer during yesterday's hunt. - said the red-haired girl focused on the activity. You tried not to blush as you watched a drop of sweat trickle down your neck. - I learned to skin animals from him too. - You commented as you waited for Wanda to finish the task. - I was a little smaller, I think. - I guess it took long enough for us to learn how to hunt, didn't it? - Wanda joked, drawing a smile from you. It was true, hunting had been the last activity Steve and Bucky taught you. For some reason, teaching them to shoot was a higher priority than getting food from the wild. A moment later, Wanda finished, raising the deer leather in the air, showing off her work proudly. You laughed at her expression, signaling for her to step away from the animal. You handed her your rifle, and bent down, grabbing the carcass with both hands and throwing it over your shoulders to carry it to the horse. It was quite heavy, but you concentrated your breathing as Bucky had taught you, and managed to carry the animal to Wanda's sorrel. After placing the carcass on the back of the animal, you grunted when you saw the state of your shirt, completely covered in blood. - What's the matter? - Wanda asked curiously when she heard your sigh. - Pepper made me promise not to come covered in blood to the camp anymore. - You say, rolling up your sleeves. - She told me she would put me to sleep with the horses if I showed up like this again. Of course, she will probably just change my watch shifts, but it will still be a pain to hear the lecture. - You could have told me to carry the deer. - Wanda retorted, looking at you with a mixture of seriousness and guilt. You just smiled. - Don't be silly, I just need to clean up before I go back. - You said simply, and Wanda frowned in confusion. And then she choked in surprise, watching you pull your shirt over your head. You went around her body and towards the creek. It took Wanda a few seconds to snap out of her shock, then she turned her head toward the creek, her face flushed. You rubbed the fabric with your hands, watching the blood drip into the water. You put your shirt aside only to wet your own body, wiping any traces of blood from your skin. Completely oblivious to the shy mess Wanda had become as she watched you wash yourself. Finished cleaning yourself, you wrung out your shirt, getting as much water buildup out as possible. You put your clothes back on, feeling the damp fabric against your skin. Wanda stood in the same place you had left her, and you frowned when you saw her look quickly away from you, her face red. You suddenly felt very embarrassed, thinking that you must have crossed some boundary with her. Coughing awkwardly, you walked toward your own horse. You rode in silence back to the camp, you mentally going over the whole conversation trying to find what you had done wrong that made Wanda so quiet. You were surprised when you heard her singing softly. Smiling without looking at her, you slowed down the speed of Knight's gallop, trying to enjoy the moment to the fullest. Wanda continued to sing the whole way, and you tried to ignore the feeling of butterflies in your stomach

Vencuyanir Ch. 6 - The Departure

Summary: Elana runs out of time to protect Bean as they depart Arvala-7

Words: 6.2k

Warnings: References to canon-typical violence, hints of unresolved trauma, discussion of grief, worry about the safety/future of own children, anxiety/mental breakdown

Notes: Hello there :) big thanks to both @mndalorians and @teaofpeach for looking over the first and second draft respectively, I love you both so much and thank you for all your help!! 

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After a short period where Elana and Bean delved into their bond, simply feeling the other's presence after nothing but silence for so long, Bean started to become fussy. He wanted to move around, to make up for the days of lying still in the pram, and started to become a little bright bundle of energy that Elana sat down on the ground. She watched him like a hawk as he took off, stumbling and heading towards some rocks, picking them up, throwing them, running some. Repeat. 

Squeaking as some mudjumpers started to appear, he began to chase after them, giggling happily. He played for several hours, always under the watchful gaze of his caretaker, catching up on movement he had missed the last few days, brimming with energy.

Elana leant against a rock and simply rested, feeling completely at peace for the first time since the Mandalorian appeared in their lives.

Speak of the devil.

"He's all right?" the Mandalorian suddenly asked and she flinched, not having seen him coming. Automatically tensing up, her heart started to race, fear paralysing her limbs, and dug her nails into her palm, the sting sharp. She turned her head, and saw that his gaze was fixed on the child, his shoulders relaxed.

"Seems that way," she chose to reply carefully, barely hiding the tremble in her voice, "He worked up quite an appetite."

"Won't he choke on the mudjumper?"

"He has done it often enough. Also, I fed him a few hours ago, he is probably only playing with them."

The Mandalorian scoffed, shaking his head slightly. There was a silence between them, and in that moment, between the sun setting, casting long shadows that contrasted with the beautiful sky and the rugged mountain line, it was almost comfortable. It was a pity, Elana thought. The Mandalorian seemed like a decent person half the time. 

Decent enough for a bounty hunter, at least.

"We're going to Nevarro, right?" Elana asked, almost absentmindedly. He turned his helmet towards her, and gave a sharp nod without saying anything. "You'll get your reward, and they'll get Bean," she continued, not really looking at anything, "Do you know what will happen to me?"

It was a genuine question. Would she go with Bean? Would they even let her stay? Would she be stranded on Nevarro? Would the Mandalorian keep her? Elana felt a shiver run down her back at the last thought, and she barely resisted the urge to scoot away from him.

"I don't know," he said haltingly, "You're not the bounty."

She did not know how to respond to that, so she settled on watching Bean, exhaling slowly. He did the same, and again Elana got the feeling that he could actually be rather nice to be around if he was not a bounty hunter. But what did it matter? Her thoughts were running at hyper speed levels, and every possible scenario played out in her head. He could help them escape. That was unlikely though, since he had gone through all that trouble to secure them. The Mandalorian cleared his throat after a while, and straightened, taking a step away from her.

"The Crest will be finished soon," he said, "We will depart tomorrow."

"All right," she said, fighting to keep the emotion out of her voice. The sun was disappearing behind the rough mountain ranges, and dusk started to settle in.

"I'm glad Bean woke up," he then added in a low voice as he started to walk away, "I'm sorry about the Mudhorn."

Elana stared after him as he made his way to Kuiil, something like hope starting to bloom in her chest.

Bean. 

He used Bean's name. 

Not quarry, not it, not the baby.

Bean.

Maybe, just maybe... the Mandalorian was starting to become attached to them.

Elana picked Bean up, who did a great job at protesting, wanting to chase some more mudjumpers, and tilted him onto her chest. "We'll go to them, all right?" Elana murmured to him, bopping Bean once, a giggle escaping him at the movement, "It's gonna be really dark soon."

The sun was setting on Arvala-7, the scorching heat dissipating, and the unexpectedly cold breeze made goosebumps appear on her skin. Suppressing a shiver and the urge to rub at her arms, Elana straightened her posture even more, pushing her shoulders back as she sat down near Kuiil's heater, where a pot of stew was currently being warmed up on a portable stove.

The Ugnaught gave her and Bean a smile, as he slowly stirred, reaching for a small shaker and adding a few dried herbs to it. Looking up into the night sky, she soaked in the view, knowing that it was probably the last night she would be on Arvala-7. The galaxy above them was becoming more and more visible, so clear that it seemed as if the atmosphere around the desert planet did not even exist. With no clouds on the horizon and no light pollution from the inhabitants there was nothing that inhibited the view of the star-speckled sky.

It was weird, Elana thought. To think that she would leave the planet she had been trapped on for so many months. But each time she had thought it would be different. She always thought that she could maybe save enough of the meagre wage the Niktos gave her. That she would be able to convince someone to help her and Bean get off the planet. Or an elaborate escape plan, something that included taming a wild blurrg and heading to the first settlement she found, like those old Empire-approved holomovies she and her friends used to go to cinemas to watch, celebrating another week of school finished.

But it was nothing like that. Her departure from Arvala-7 would be unceremonious and undignified, and the fact that she could not know how long Bean would still be with her left a bitter taste in her mouth. Elana held the baby a bit closer at that thought, a shiver running down her back.

Should she be counting the days she still had with him? 

Should she be hugging him at every chance, feeling the comforting weight of the baby in her arms, relishing in the way he snuggled up to her, the tickling fuzz on his head, his soft ears? Bean's sweet noises when he was happy, the way his eyes would light up, a smile on his chubby face? Elana felt tears starting to rise as she thought about how she might very soon not be able to hear Bean wheezing softly and snoring at night, lying peacefully on his back, tiny hand wrapped around the soft blanket he adored. Blinking fast, and tilting her head upwards, she pretended to be watching the stars as Kuiil hummed and stirred the stew.

If she had to be honest, she was not in the mood for any company that night. She had not been ever since the Mandalorian appeared in their lives but in that moment, especially that night, Elana wanted nothing more than to be able to lock herself into a closed room, Bean safe in his pram and just give herself time to grieve for what was about to come.

Even if she was starting to feel the freezing cold of the night, she did not want to move closer to the heater, did not want to feel obligated to say anything in company. Bean made a small distressed noise, and looked up at her. His dark eyes were wide and he started to point at the heater.

The mental impression of warmth pressed against her, and a fuzzy picture of him and her near the device was clumsily put into her mind. Elana frowned and told him no quietly. 

I don't want to talk to them, she sent as an explanation, I'm unhappy with them, I don't want to be here.

Bean's ears drooped, and he frowned right back. An image slammed into her mind, of her from his point of view, hunched into herself, shivering. Elana stared at him, eyes wide. He wants me to be warm, she realised, and could not help the touched smile that flitted across her face.

"All right", she murmured, an arm snaking under the little bottom of the child, holding him securely, and scooted closer. 

Settling down near the others, Elana ignored how the helmet of the Mandalorian turned towards her, the beskar reflecting the light. Kuiil was gazing at her kindly, and smiled. "Do you want something to eat?" Kuiil asked.

She accepted quietly with a nod, and smiled back. A small bowl with the stew was given to her, a spoon already sticking in it, and Elana blew on it carefully before tasting it.

It was fine enough, so she blew some more and fed it to Bean. He chomped down on the spoon with a loud click of his teeth, making her chuckle at that. Sharing the meal between them, it did not take long until the stew was finished.

The Mandalorian was fiddling with his vambrace, seemingly fixing some of the wiring in the low light, probably waiting for them to be done so he could eat himself. Maybe her nagging had gone through his thick skull. Elana still does not know why she cared so much, but out here? Other than Kuill? He was their enemy and safest ally at the same time, and the logistics made her head hurt the longer she thought about it. Elana wondered why he did not just go into the almost finished ship, but figured that it was purely his business and it was not as if it was important to her.

Bean babbled happily to himself, his little claws scratching at her arms in a gentle manner, and she pressed a kiss onto the top of his head, soaking up the warmth the little child has to offer, feeling pure love across the bond with a soft sigh. The cold was starting to become uncomfortable at this point, but she felt too self-conscious to try to scoot even closer to the device.

Bean started to squeak at her, almost indignantly, before he stilled. Turning his head towards her, eyes wide, he gave an almost comical shiver. Elana squinted down at him, the corner of her mouth curving up.

He shivered again, holding eye contact, eyes big and watery. "Are you for real?" Elana asked, highly suspicious, a smile creeping on her face.

Bean basically started to vibrate, ears flopping up and down while shivering as dramatically as possible. She could not help the quiet laughter that escaped her. "All right, sweetpea," she told him, giggling while stroking his cheek affectionately, "You're a good actor, I know."

His eyes started to shine, and a low "aaah" escaped him, clearly happy that his plan is working. Elana scooted closer to the fire, still smiling, not missing how the two others have their heads turned towards her, clearly having been watching them both.

"The child is cunning for his young age," the Ugnaught said, voice level, kind eyes twinkling at her.

"I think he is cold," she replied, her smile almost playful, and nudged the little one, who gave a coo.

The Ugnaught nodded, and looked at the green child. "You are a smart one," he told Bean, "Able to recognize what others need." Bean cooed and tilted his head at Kuiil, ears held up high, before snuggling into Elana's chest again.

You're the sweetest, best behaving, most wonderful baby ever, Elana thought at Bean, scratching his back in a circular motion, and it was not long before the combination of having a full belly and being held by her lulled him to sleep. Even though there were not many words exchanged, the atmosphere was almost comfortable, no tension in the air.

"I will return to my home now," Kuiil said after a while, and stood up with a grunt, "I have spoken." Raising a hand in a wave, he gathered what he needed, and mounted the blurrg that had been tied to a rock formation. As he patted the side of the blurrg several times, he called out: "I bid you all goodnight."

The Mandalorian nodded, and she did the same as well. "Do you want to eat the rest?" Elana asked after a while, pointing at the leftover stew. 

"Later.”

Elana raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'll go into the Crest," he said, almost defensively.

"Do it before the stew turns cold," Elana told him, adjusting Bean on her lap, his limbs akimbo while he cooed in his sleep.

The Mandalorian just sighed, before helping himself to the food. With a full bowl in his hand, he turned, gave her a nod which she chose to interpret as thankfulness, and started to walk towards the Razor Crest.

Gathering one of the blankets and the sleeping roll that Kuiil had left for them, Elana made herself comfortable on the ground, the motion practised after a few nights out there. There was no one out here other than blurrgs and lizards, and they had stayed away the last few nights, so she figured that it would not change. Putting Bean into his pram, maneuvering her roll close to him, she lied down and stared at the lamp in the middle of the camping site.

Elana did not know how much time passed before the Mandalorian's steps sounded again, but she closed her eyes and pretended that she was asleep. She heard him getting closer to them, and he stopped at Bean's pram. After a while, he pressed the button, and the pod slid shut.

Not knowing what to think of it, it took a while until Elana could fall asleep.

  The next morning, they readied everything for departure. 

With an approving nod, Kuiil declared the Razor Crest safe for deep space and hyperspeed. The Mandalorian gave a relieved sigh at those words, and it was only a reminder of how time was running out, how it would not be long until he would hand them over to his client.

The bounty hunter cuffed Elana to the pram for the first time in days when he and Kuiil went into the ship for a final inspection before takeoff. Fuming on the ramp of the Razor Crest, worry and fear churning in her stomach, she stared hard at the horizon, trying to take in the way Arvala-7 looked like. It was unlikely that she would ever return again, and even if she did not always enjoy life here, she would not have met Bean without landing on this planet. Bean was the most important thing for Elana right now, and she would do everything for him, anything, trying to keep him safe. 

He was still snoring, the golden light of the sunrise illuminating his face gently, and she hoped that he would not wake up until they are in space, wanting to avoid him being fussy during takeoff, since it could irritate the Mandalorian. Elana would not take any chances.

"I can't thank you enough," she heard him say to Kuiil, "Please allow me to give you a portion of the reward."

Crinkling her nose at those words, she scoffed lightly, nails digging into her palms.

"I cannot accept," Kuiil said, and it did not surprise her. He had helped them for free the entire time, wanting nothing more than to bring peace to his valley. His next words only worsened the sour taste in her mouth. "You are my guest, and I am therefore in your service."

The Mandalorian was quiet for a while, before speaking up again. "I could use a crew member of your ability. And I can pay handsomely," he offered.

"I am honoured. But I have worked a lifetime to finally be free of servitude."

Blinking away furious tears, she stared hard at the ground. If Kuiil can understand the worth of a life free of it, why was he... simply giving Bean up like that? Surrendering an innocent child, just like that?

"I understand," the Mandalorian said, "Then... all I can offer is my thanks."

"And I offer mine."

The Ugnaught was quiet for a few moments, and she felt his gaze on her back, but she refused to turn around. Elana simply straightened, taking a look at the sleeping Bean in his pram.

"Thank you for bringing peace to my valley." It almost sounded as if he was talking to the Mandalorian and her at the same time, and if she pondered on his tone, she thought that she could find a hint of regret in his words. But what did it matter?

Heavy steps sounded as Kuiil descended the ramp, and she stood up the best she could, facing him. "And good luck with the Child," the Ugnaught called from on top of his blurrg, "May it survive and bring you a handsome reward."

The Mandalorian nodded at him, and Kuiil raided a hand in goodbye, old, wise eyes on her, meeting her gaze.

"I have spoken."

Elana clenched her jaw, frown on her face as the ramp raised, cutting off her view from the planet.

"Get up," the Mandalorian said, took off her binders, and pointed towards the ladder. Elana winced at the air that brushed the sensitive ring around her wrists, the skin feeling raw. She climbed, head tucked in low with the new environment, not wanting to bang her body against something, and when Elana arrived in what looked like the cockpit, she quietly inched to the side, letting the Mandalorian step into it as well.

He walked past her, used his vambrace to gently nudge the pram to the right of him, onto a co-pilot's seat. As Elana looked around, there was a symmetrical seat on the left side as well. Sitting down into it, hands in her lap, she watched the Mandalorian as he started to prepare the Razor Crest for takeoff.

Ignoring the whirr of the engine as the ship raised into the sky, and ascended in the atmosphere, she tried to calm her pounding heart and the sinking feeling in her chest. When the ship arrived into orbit of the planet, the warm glow of it slowly fading into the cold and infinite space, Bean woke up. Pushing himself up, and cooing loudly, both adults turned to look at him.

"Morning, Bean," she whispered, and gave him a shaky smile. His eyes went huge as he took in the viewport speckled with stars.

The Mandalorian shifted in his seat, pulled at a lever, and they entered hyperspace. Elana stared at the tunnel of swirling lights, heart beating fast in her chest. It had been so long since she had last seen this...

Bean made a loud squeak, eyes bright as he took in the new sight. Pointing excitedly at the lights, she felt a Pretty! coming from him. 

The Mandalorian turned around, took a look at the babbling baby, and gave something like a huff of amusement. Bean squealed happily, and made grabby hands towards the blue swirling tunnel, little body wriggling as his ears were raised high. Smiling at the sight, Elana subtly took a deep breath, feeling the claw around her heart easing slightly. Only slightly, though.

  They stayed in the cockpit for a few hours, not a word passing between them, the only noises coming from Bean.

Elana wondered whether the Mandalorian would play music, or put on a podcast, or watch a holomovie, anything that she herself would have probably done, but he just stared into the hyperspace tunnel, not moving an inch, with no indicator that he would do anything else.

Maybe he's meditating. Elana tried to find an explanation for why someone would choose to pass the time in hyperspace like that. Or he is sleeping, resting his eyes, whatever.

Because there was no way the Mandalorian simply stared into space for hours at an end without doing anything.

... right?

At some point, the Mandalorian started to fiddle with the sleep cycle on the console of the ship.

"You and the baby can go down for rations," he said. Flinching at the first words that were spoken in hours, she had to calm her fast beating heart. He’s just saying something normal. Not threatening, Elana told herself, and offered a quiet "okay" in response.

Looking over to Bean, she saw that he was chewing on his blanket, and she stood up and gently took it out of his mouth. "Come on," she told him, "We're gonna eat."

Scooping him up, ignoring the slight pang her wrists gave, the skin red and raw after many days of constantly wearing the cuffs, Elana turned to the Mandalorian. "Do you want something as well?"

He was quiet, before saying: "I'll be fine."

Elana blinked in confusion, but walked towards the closed door of the cockpit. It suddenly opened with a hiss, making her jump. When she turned her head to shoot a glare at the Mandalorian, his helmet was still in the same position, the blue light of hyperspace reflecting off it.

He did that on purpose, that bastard, she thought viciously, hiding a grimace.

Setting Bean down, before climbing halfway into the hull, Elana propped her upper body against the ladder so she could grab the baby, nestling him against her shoulder. 

With a slight struggle, she got both of them down safely, and looked around the hull, her wrists burned fiercely. Spotting a cabinet on the side where there could be rations, she pressed the button next to the ladder.

When it opened to a drawer full of weapons, she could not help but sneer. He seemed to be a tough enough adversary without all those ridiculous guns he had organised so neatly inside the drawer.

What was it again? He's a Mandalorian, weapons are part of his religion. Elana scoffed quietly, and muttered "Nutjob" under her breath. Bean cooed curiously, reaching a hand out to the drawer. She balked at that. "Don't even think about it, honey," she scolded him, and quickly pressed the same button so the door would shut, "You're too young for this violent nonsense, you hear me?" 

Pressing another button after carefully inspecting it, it seemed to be the right one, filled with packaged ration bars organised in some compartments. With a raised brow, she took in the contents, and started mentally filing away the different types of bars he seemed to have. Apparently he cared enough to upkeep a variety of selection, and with a smile she saw with a smile that he had those that the encampment had as well, those that Bean loved.

She fished that bar out, and showed it to the baby, who made a happy noise as he recognised the packaging. Bean promptly pointed at in expectantly, waiting for her to open the bar for him.

Elana nuzzled the side of his head with a fond smile. "Yeah, honey, give me a moment," she said, before taking out two random ration bars, and closing the closet. 

Seeing an open cubicle, she sat Bean into it, and pointed at him sternly. "You stay here, I'll be back in a minute, okay?" Bean just looked up at her with big dark eyes, and gave her a gummy smile.

Opening the packet for him so he could chew on it, she left the little one in the cubicle, and pulled herself up into the upper level of the Razor Crest. Clenching the ration bar in her hand, she entered the cockpit, and put it onto the console. “Here,” she said quietly.

The Mandalorian's helmet snapped to her. "Thank you," he said hesitantly, "That's... very thoughtful of you."

Elana clenched her jaw and looked down, already regretting this. "You're welcome," she whispered, before turning, preparing to leave.

"Why are you like this?" the Mandalorian suddenly asked.

She did not turn around, her nails digging into her palms, it hurt, but she could not bring herself to unclench her fist.

"Why are you so…" kind? Was that what he wanted to say?

The Mandalorian never finished the sentence, but the question lingered in the air. She felt her ribcage pressing in, her breath escaping her, heart thrumming against her sternum, and did not know how to respond. The words bubbled up and pressed against her throat, almost painful, and even as she swallowed, the pressure did not disappear, continued to hurt as she stared at him with burning eyes.

Because the universe has not been kind to me. 

Because even though she had lived a fairly privileged life, she had to see her planet's destruction on a newscast. Because she had lost everyone she ever knew in a blink of an eye, stranded on a foreign planet where no one showed her kindness when she needed it.

She wanted to say everything and some more.

Because no matter what, kindness costs nothing and is worth everything. Because even though you're our captor, you are decent enough for not hurting Bean, for not doing worse to me.

"I don't know," was the only thing she could manage, staring into the blank visor, feeling everything and nothing at the same time, body numb. She took a step back, then another, before fleeing the cockpit, feeling her eyes burn fiercely as his gaze lingered on her, almost intense enough to scorch. 

Dropping down into the hull again, choking down her heavy breaths from the confrontation, hands shaking and limbs trembling, she was greeted with the sight of Bean standing in front of the open weapon drawer. A ration bar was in his hand as he chewed slowly.

"Bean!" Elana admonished, hands on her hips as she watched him turn around slowly, ears flattening against his head as he realised that he had been caught.

He gave a coo at her, his dark eyes wide as if trying to appeal at her maternal instincts with acting cute. And damn it, it is working.

"You're in big trouble if I see you doing that again, you understand?" Elana told him sternly, trying to get her emotions under control, "It's dangerous! Those are not toys, those can hurt you if you touch the wrong parts."

His lower lip wobbled, and he looked up at her, eyes heartbroken. She scooped him up, and stepped closer to the drawer. Pointing to the various things mounted in there, she explained. "Those are blasters, they'll shoot a laser bolt out of the parts there, you see? It hurts a lot when you're shot with it, so stay away from them, okay?"

Bean blinked up at her again, and then ate the last bite of the ration bar, gurgling. Elana sighed, before closing the drawer. Taking a look around the hull, she sighed again. "Now, where are we supposed to sleep? You don't suppose on the floor, right?" Elana asked Bean, who did not give an answer. Not that she expected him to. 

She started to carefully explore the ship to avoid thinking of the bounty hunter, holding Bean tightly so he would not even get the idea of going off on his own again. Elana took note of the different crates, the nets hanging above holding various tools. The location of the standard issue medicine cabinet that was well stocked, and the carbonite freezers in the back.

Elana stared at them, feeling her heart drop. 

She had only heard horror stories about them, how the frozen person would still be completely aware of their surroundings the whole time they were in. How it would hurt to get frozen and that they would be sick for a long time after they were released from the device. Was it that there was a sixty percent probability of survival? Or was it lower? How did the Mandalorian even get his hands on these?

Suddenly she realised how lucky she had been to not be slabbed by the bounty hunter, how he had tolerated every time she had snapped back. Did he only slab dangerous quarries or did he refrain from doing it to her because he would have to look after Bean without help?

Elana did not know the answer to that, but one thing she was certain of. She was running out of time with which she could escape. Bean gurgled at her, and she could do nothing but sigh. What a mess. What an absolute, horrible mess.

Turning away from the carbonite freezer, she settled down onto the floor of the hull, ignoring the biting cold of the metal. >"You're not going anywhere near there, all right?" Elana told Bean in a stern voice, "It's dangerous, okay? In fact, everything on this ship is very, very dangerous."

She pointed a finger at him, and Bean lowered his ears, mouth down turned.

"No."

He whined loudly, and raised his hands up at her. Elana sighed, and pulled him onto her lap, holding him close.

"Oh, honey," she whispered, and pressed a kiss onto his forehead, "What have we gotten ourselves in?"

He seemed to understand the weight of the question, and did nothing but coo and nuzzle her skin, ears hanging low.

How do we get away now?

It was long until she was able to settle down, from pacing along the hull of the ship, trying to work out some of her nervous energy. She was quietly panicking until Bean had fallen asleep on her shoulder and is currently snoring quietly while his warm breath puffed against where his little face was. Then, she had carefully lowered herself onto the ground, back leaning against the hull, giving Bean the opportunity to snooze some without her pacing like a nervous Mid Rim chicken. As his breaths deepened, she started to quietly hum a song, letting the melody soothe both her and the baby.

He snuggled into her chest even more, and she carefully traced a finger over his cheek, looking down at him with the utmost devotion. There is nothing she would not do for Bean. Her scalp hurt, so she reached up, taking care not to disturb the baby, and started to methodically loosen her braids, sighed in relief as the tension lessened, massaging the ache away.

The little lump on her chest gave out a little coo and sighed contentedly, nose twitching slightly. She stroked the soft ear, tracing the shell of it with her fingers, and started the song from the beginning again. She was close to falling asleep herself, she noticed, but was so tired that she actually did not care. 

She will deal with it tomorrow.

Elana jerked up, wide awake once more, the panic swelling up again. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow Bean will be delivered to the client. She exhaled shakily, feeling her heart beat fast.

She propped herself up a bit, looking up and saw the Mandalorian watching her. She did not know how long he had been standing there, but she definitely had not heard him. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Elana's eyes wide, and his visor trained on her. Who knew what kind of face he had underneath the helmet. Who knew if he was sneering at her or mocking her.

Bean let out a yawn that cracked his face wide open, and then pressed his face into her shirt, little legs scooting up froggy style, straddling her stomach. She automatically moved her arm under his little bum, supporting the child, and looked down at the green baby.

His face was squished into her, head turned slightly upwards, button nose twitching. He started to snore softly, and Elana felt her heart break.

That was what the Empire wanted to destroy, that little, wonderful, precious creature, her child. They would take his innocence away, and she would probably never see him again. For the rest of his life, he would be experimented on, he would never have a childhood, he would never have friends, he would only know the hands of uncaring scientists that would toss him away as soon as they finished their examinations.

Hate welled up in her, white hot anger, pure despair and helplessness swirling inside her as her eyes started to burn. 

The Empire would take her child away and give him a horrible life. They would take Bean away and there was nothing she could do. The only thing that could happen is that the Mandalorian changes his mind, but that was unlikely. If he did not want to turn them in, he would have left them on Arvala-7. Elana felt wetness on her cheeks, her vision of Bean blurring more and more. Careful so her tears would not drop on the sleeping child, she tilted her head back and stared hard at the ceiling. 

"Could you move the pram to me, please?" Elana could not recognize her voice, hoarse and meek. 

The Mandalorian just nodded in her peripheral vision, pushed a button on his vambrace, and the pram floated to her, nearly at ground level. Setting the sleeping Bean into it, she was glad he did not wake up when she shifted him.

As soon as the lid of the pram closed with a slight hiss, she clenched her eyes shut and inhaled deeply, making no noise other than slightly hitched breaths. She did not shift in her seat, did not move or change position. Elana just could not stop crying. The tears rolled down her cheeks without her consent, and she did not bother to wipe them away, her limbs not cooperating anyways.

Elana couldn't fight against the Empire. She was not able to when they destroyed her planet. She would not be able to save her baby as well. She could not fight against a Mandalorian. 

I hate you, she thought at him, jaw clenched tight.

She saw how the Mandalorian's helmet tilted in her direction, observing her. Her vision blurred some more, new tears welling up.

I hate you, Elana thought again, heart aching, choking on a sob that caught in her throat. I hate you so much.

The Mandalorian just kept watching her, not moving an inch. She finally looked back, tears obscuring her vision but she gave him the fiercest glare she could manage. Pushing herself up from the ground, away from the pram, she knew that she looked exactly into his eyes.

Elana stepped closer to the Mandalorian, and he straightened. Leaning into the Mandalorian's personal space, getting into his face, she wanted nothing more than just stab him in the neck. Never before had she felt such hatred towards anyone. 

He is the one who will give my child to the Empire.

"Go to hell," Elana heard herself say, her voice barely above a whisper, breaking on the last word. Before he could say anything, she pushed past him, and disappeared into the tiny fresher, slamming the door shut. Back leaning against the door, she slid down to the ground, biting her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.

Never before had she felt such loathing. She hated him. And that was apparently all that was needed for her to completely break down. Burying her face into her hands, she sobbed, shoulders shaking under the strain of keeping quiet.

It did not matter to her anymore. The notion that she had to maintain the stoic facade in front of the Mandalorian had gone up in smoke, she did not care at all if he found her pathetic. Let him mock her for all she cared, let him laugh himself stupid at the sight of her tears, reduced to rubble under his silent judgement.

She felt like a complete fraud, everything she did before to protect Bean? It was worth nothing, because he would give them up anyway. She could have tried to kill him before they left Arvala-7, but she did not. Never mind what would have happened, she could have killed him, stabbed him in his sleep while they were repairing the Razor Crest. She and Bean could have stayed at Kuiil's place until they would have to leave again, seeking shelter somewhere else. If she had done that, Bean would not face capture tomorrow. If.

Elana cried until she was trembling, every single one of her limbs shaking uncontrollably. She cried until there were no tears left, and then some more, until exhaustion took over her and she fell asleep on the floor, against the door of the fresher, heart aching too much for her to handle. 

If. Oh, only if.

……………

Thank you for reading!!

Inspired by the wonderful OC lore that @charlotte-balfours-garden​ wrote and posted, I decided to finish this piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for months about my own RDR OC, visual references here!

Note: This takes place in canon, Chapter 3, and while everyone calls her Alberta Taylor at this point, it’s not her real name, just something she’s been going by for years because of something in her past. Professionally, she’s a bounty hunter, but has dabbled in other things. 

Read This First

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, at least the one thing today that hasn’t been surprising is Arthur finding Al has dragged a chair over to his tent to read, one leg propped up on the chest at the end of his cot. Sometimes she’ll set up there to get ample shade from the sun, and according to her, the chest is the perfect foot rest height. 

“Afternoon, Arthur,” she greets lazily as she turns the page.

“Miss Taylor. Comfortable?”

“Sure.” She cuts her eyes up at him from under the brim of her hat, seemingly just to give him a greeting glance and smile, but when she spots the shiny new accessory pinned to his vest, her head raises higher. “You steal that off a dead lawman or somethin’?”

And it begins, Arthur thinks with a snort. “No, Dutch—” he waves an arm in the direction he came from, though Dutch has long ago left that area—“got us ingratiated with the local sheriff, so now we’re honorary deputies.”

“Was Sheriff Gray drunk?” 

That’s surprising. They only met the sheriff yesterday, and he’s not sure the full story of their encounter has been relayed to the rest of camp, just the orders not to cause any trouble. “How’d you know his name?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes that most likely, it was Hosea. Those two are close. 

She answers with a cavalier shrug before he can say anything. “I’ve been here before. Once. Didn’t stay long.”

Arthur takes the bait she leaves out. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s Lemoyne. I don’t spend very long here if I can help it. But first time I got to Rhodes lookin’ for bounty posters, Sheriff Gray was puking in the bushes. Somehow he managed to get out that they do all the bounty hunting themselves. No reason to go back.”

“Well, that’s pretty much how I found him when I went lookin’ for Dutch and Bill.”

“Figures,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Not that I really care, but where is Bill? Didn’t see him come back with y’all. Still with the Sheriff, ingratiating himself?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression off him, but I wasn—”

Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his own head with a smirk. “No, no, the Grays around here don’t seem… his type. Matter of fact, I should probably warn Bill to just play it cool—“

“What, drunk, dumb, and ignorant ain’t Bill’s type? What about that guy we saw him chattin’ up at that saloon in Armadillo?”

“That ain’t what I mean,” he snorts.

“I know.” Al flashes a playful smirk. “I’m just messin’.”

“Well, anyway, no, he’s off hidin’ some wagon full o’ moonshine we stole off some bootleggers under the Sheriff’s orders. Hosea’ll know what to do with it.”

“Moonshine?” This seems to pique her interest, again to Arthur’s surprise. “You know who you stole it off of?”

“Yes…” Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He slowly lumbers over to his table, laying down the deputy badge and watching her carefully. Al’s expression is calm, but it’s a thin enough veneer that he sees the curiosity building by the second. “What’s it to you?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah.”

The book in her lap finally closes. “I used to run with some moonshiners not too long ago.”

“Alberta Taylor. Well, I never took you for a bootlegger.”

She throws an arm over the back of her chair and lets her head fall back, exposing more of her neck. It’s then that Arthur notices she’s not wearing her usual green neckerchief. Or her green jacket. She must be really burning up to be in just her workshirt and jeans. “Not every professional bounty hunter is a staunch upholder of the law, Arthur Morgan,” she says matter-of-factly with a lift of her brow.

“I never said that. Didn’t mean it neither. I mean, look who you fell in with, I know better. I just ain’t seen you drink much moonshine.”

“Sure. Always been more of a beer and tequila woman.”

He plops down on his cot and lights a cigarette. “Then what you doin’ runnin’ with moonshiners?”

“Tell me who you stole the liquor off of first, cowboy.”

Arthur concedes. Al is stubborn. “The Braithwaites. And those fellers that run around here with those yellow bandanas. Sadie and I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Uh—”

“Lemoyne Raiders?” She sneers. “I’d hoped someone had snuffed ‘em out by now. Hijo de putas.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, that’s them. You’ve had some run-ins with ‘em, huh?”

“Like I said, just the once. Three of them stopped me on my way into Rhodes. Brought ‘em into town, dead, which is when I met Sheriff Gray. They didn’t have any bounties on ‘em, so all I got outta one of his deputies was five dollars. I know they weren’t even worth that much, but he coulda paid me more,” she grumbles. Her light Cuban accent comes out more the lower her voice goes.

“Sounds about right. Least ya got paid somethin’.”

“I guess.” She picks at the spine of her book for a moment. “Wasn’t long after that I met a… moonshiner legend, so to say, through a mutual friend. Though friend seems to be pushing it.”

He gets the sense she’s not fully sour on the “friend,” so his shoulders shake in amusement. 

“He was a lot like Uncle, actually.”

“Lord.” Arthur snickers, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

“Yeah. Not as lazy. Probably younger, but who knows.”

“I reckon Uncle ain’t as old as he wants folks to think. Besides just bein’ too lazy, it’s probably why he don’t trim his beard.”

Al laughs, rougher than usual until she coughs and clears it up. “Damn humidity.”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, leaning forward and propping one elbow up on his knee. “So, this… moonshiner legend.”

“Ever heard the name Maggie Fike?”

The name isn’t familiar, but it isn’t unfamiliar either. “Don’t think so,” he settles on. 

“Well, she’s been mostly out this way rather than out where y’all been running around. Revenue Agents caught up to her a couple years back, tried burning her alive. Didn’t work, but gave her a nasty scar and bad eye. Almost puts Marston to shame. Almost,” she adds with a grin as he walks between Arthur and Strauss’ tents.

“Take a look in the mirror, Miss Taylor,” he grumbles back. Then he chucks a cigarette butt at a chuckling Arthur. “You too, Morgan.”

John disappears around the side of the tent as Arthur brushes off the butt. “Cranky cause he ain’t had his midday nap.”

“Pick better material.”

Al chuckles and presses the palm of her hand on her hat, affixing it more securely to her head. “Anyway…”

“Anyway…” Arthur sighs lightly. “You said she survived?”

“Yeah, went into hiding for a while. Somehow got a hold of my ‘friend’, who then asked me for help gettin’ her business back on its feet. Easy work at first. Finding a good location for the shack, gettin’ her some supplies, that stuff.” She waves a hand around. “Most folks don’t pay much mind to a bounty hunter buyin’ supplies in bulk like I was or destroying illegal stills. Sometimes I brought in the other moonshiners to the local town to collect on a bounty. Made for a better cover for what I was really doing.”

“Takin’ out the competition.” Arthur chuckles. 

“Exactly. Then came—”

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about anyway?”

Al puts her hand back on her hat before tipping her head back, almost touching the back of the chair, and looks at John, upside down. Arthur leans forward more to get his own look and the rangy outlaw, who’s circled back around to the other side of his wagon. 

“And what the hell is that?” John asks. He’s looking directly at the badge on Arthur’s table, disgust etched into his features. As if it’s some rotting, maggot infested carcass Arthur’s using for decoration.

Arthur sighs and briefly explains again.

“So this is just another excuse for you to play dress-up, eh? Guess I need to tell Hosea you’re itchin’ to go scammin’ with him again.”

“You do that, it’ll be your pecker in the stew pot next meal.”

Al’s crossed her arms over her chest and is watching them with barely contained amusement. “Playing dress-up? I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you yet, Arthur.”

“And you won’t,” he growls. “Only reason Hosea takes me on those jobs is because he knows I hate it. Just once I’d like him to take Marston instead.”

“You sure about that?” Al studies John as if she’s a talent agent in the big city. “Doesn’t he like to avoid mayhem on those jobs?”

John snorts indignantly. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try and follow Hosea’s lead. I swear even he don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“But it works.” Her eyebrows raise pointedly. 

“But it works,” John concedes. 

“Well, next time you go, let me know. I’d love to watch y’all work.”

“Whatever,” John grumbles as he waves her off and saunters away. Apparently he’s given up on butting into their conversation.

“I ain’t pullin’ that type of job with Hosea again. What we had set up in Blackwater, sure, but not...” Arthur wags a finger in the air, then unfurls the rest of his fingers and waves his hand once before letting it fall back in his lap. “Not that. The girls and Trelawny are much better’n me anyway. Safer that way.”

Al shrugs. “I won’t argue that.”

“So, back to what you was sayin’?” Arthur’s not willing to let the moonshiner story drop. It’s not often she lets down her walls and tells stories of her past that don’t directly involve some bounty she’s nabbed. He knows what happened to her family, but that had been a moment he wasn’t meant to see, and neither of them have ever brought it up again.

“So after we get a shack set up, she gets word of where this old buddy of hers is, go rescue him so he can make our moonshine. Not long after that, her nephew’s gettin’ moved from Sisika, so I go rescue him.”

Arthur pulls the cigarette from his lips and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wagon. “Just you against a bunch of lawmen?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Morgan,” she drawls, lolling her head to the side.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be,” he chuckles.

“No, actually, I had a couple friends with me, cashed in on some favors. I’m not stupid or reckless enough to take on an armed prison transport.”

Arthur just shrugs. “Woulda believed you either way.”

“You’re too trusting,” she remarks. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes sparkle with something else. 

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well, we bring them back to the shack, get the business up and running. Enact some revenge on a rival of hers in the meantime, I get to kill the agent who tried to burn her. Spent about a year with them. I didn’t do a lot of the actual running of moonshine, one of those friends who helped me break out Maggie’s nephew, Lem, did most of that. I focused on taking out the competition, clearing out Revenue Agent roadblocks when we were sure we couldn’t sneak past them. The real dirty work. But I didn’t mind, kept me moving, out of the government’s crosshairs enough that I could keep killin’ those damn agents.”

Arthur cocks his head curiously. But she isn’t done talking, so he lets her continue, holding onto his question for now.

“Couple months before I ran into y’all, I told them I’d have to leave. I’d spent so much time in this area, couldn’t… Needed to get out and go back out west. See some old friends, see some open country. They reckoned they’d be fine without me, but threw them the name of another friend I knew’d be able to help them, pick up my slack.”

“So… you think they’re still runnin’ that shine?”

“No reason not to. Never heard anything about her being captured. Got a letter from them while I was in Blackwater, actually. They’re doin’ well.” She gives a fond, reminiscent smile. “That friend is working with Maggie now, too. Dunno how she stands him, but…”

“Good. Since we’re over this way, you plannin’ on seein’ ‘em?”

“They’re north, Roanoke Ridge territory. Might, if I feel safe leavin’ you fools by yourself for more than a week.”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. “I reckon we can survive without ya for that long.”

“With all the trouble you been causing lately? I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan.” Al fans herself with her book, smirking at Arthur pointedly.

“I actually got another question for ya,” he diverts.

“Shoot.”

“I been thinkin’ about this since you got here, but now, knowin’ how much you seem to hate the Revenue Agents, how come you’re a bounty hunter, takin’ payouts from the government, but runnin’ with a bunch’a outlaws? After a year of runnin’ shine, that is.”

A simple shrug is her reply, and the pause is so long Arthur isn’t sure she’ll actually give him an explanation, until, “You have your code, I have mine.”

“Huh,” he grunts. They watch each other casually for a long moment, then he asks, “You gonna explain?”

He can see her weigh her options, and eventually she relents. “You know…” Her expression immediately tells him what she means: her past, what happened to her. 

“Yeah,” he offers quietly.

“Well, nobody’s born a seasoned gunslinger. When I first started bounty hunting, I had to take the easier targets. Most big pay days, or the jobs that are good start for those of us that’re green, they’re people who rob banks with a pen, rich people doing rich people crimes. They’re soft, easy, and all it really takes to catch them is knowing the land better and being tougher than city folk. Which ain’t hard at all. So, until I could stand on my own, those were the only kinds I took. Then I started goin’ after the bastards I really wanted to. People like the Johnson Brothers.”

She nearly spits the name. Arthur feels the sting in her soul.

“I never take those soft bounties anymore,” she continues after a deep breath, seeming more like herself again with every word. “Unless I need a break. But it’s been a while since I have.”

“Been a while since you took a bounty at all.”

She must notice the question in his voice. Not judgement, but question. “No. You’ve been kicking up too much fuss. Wouldn’t be smart for me to be seen around town here more than once or twice.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. While it is mostly true, it’s about all he’s going to get out of her, but he knows the real reason why. Even if she won’t admit it to herself. “Got me there, Al.”

“Not hard to do, Arthur.”

I'll Come Visit

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

@zerith-week » Day 2: Promise

Word Count: 2344

Rating: G

Summary: All Zack ever gave Aerith were promises: promises of a date, to see the sky, and to come visit after he returns from Nibelheim.

Chapter 2 of Of Wishes and Promises: Zerith Week 2021

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

All Zack ever gave Aerith were promises. The first was the promise of a date, the first time he met her when he dropped out of the sky and onto her flowerbed. The second was to show her the sky, because it wasn’t as scary as she thought, and he wanted her to see it. Then he bought her a ribbon and said they should make fun, little promises for when they next met.

“For example, when we meet, you always have to dress in pink.”

Aerith giggled and said that was silly, and it was, but it’d be fun. So she nodded and said okay and wondered what kind of pink dress she had that she could wear.

Then just before he left for Nibelheim, they went to the Sector 6 playground to sell flowers. Operation: Midgar Full of Flowers, Wallet Full of Money seemed to have a good start. The blooms were a big hit. One woman wished she could see them grow all around the slums.

“Yeah, that’s me and Aerith’s dream,” Zack said. “Not just the slums, either. We want to fill the whole of Midgar with flowers!”

Only a dream then, one he hoped would come true once he returned to Midgar, when he could finally take her to the city above and sell flowers under the sky together.

***

Zack sighed at the heavens above as he lay on his back. Thin wisps of cotton-soft clouds drifted past; though, did anyone really know whether clouds were cotton-soft? An age-old imagery that originated from how it looked from the ground, made by people who had too much time on their hands with too little thoughts in their minds.

Zack had too much time on his hands now. With Sephiroth having locked himself in the mansion’s library and still no lead on their investigation, there had been nothing to do but check on the reactor every day. Everything stayed the same. The monsters still slept in their pods, no more reactor malfunctioning, no more signs of Genesis—or any other intruders for that matter.

Cloud would grab any chance he could get to accompany Zack. Probably to escape the town and its people. Probably to be near their ebony-haired guide. He couldn’t blame the guy, and he had no intention to interfere, but sometimes, Zack would look at his stubborn younger friend and wish Cloud would let loose and show them who he really was. Not a SOLDIER, but still a proud member of Shinra’s infantrymen. They’d understand.

When the time came to return to town, he let the two kids go on ahead, saying he wanted to explore more of the mountain. Tifa offered to come with him, but Zack refused. It was still light out. If he’d gotten lost, his SOLDIER pride would be at stake.

Zack had expected a chuckle at the very least, but his guide only stared at him and said, “Okay.” Then she looked at the grunt and nodded her head down the mountain path. “Shall we, then?”

Grunt Cloud jerked, and for a fraction of a second, his wild, panicked eyes met Zack’s through his helmet visor. Zack waited until Tifa had turned and walked away before he slapped Cloud on the back and whispered, “You got this.”

“I got this.” A self-reassuring nod; Cloud gripped his rifle tighter before following Tifa down the mountain. They walked with a little distance between them, but never too far apart. Zack watched, a little grin playing across his lips.

He’d set off in another direction then: a greener, more life-abundant direction; a contrast to the barren, jagged mountain he’d left behind. He’d found the clearing shortly after, with trees on one side and a sheer drop on the other. It overlooked the Nibel plains and the small town below with the clear blue sky stretching far into the horizon.

Fragments of a cloud broke away into little dots, collecting in places that, somehow, reminded him of the yellow blossoms he’d find growing under the shades of a dilapidated church. Thoughts of the blossoms led to thoughts of the flower girl, and Zack couldn’t help but draw another long breath.

It’d been a week since he arrived in Nibelheim, longer still since he last saw Aerith. The closest interaction he'd gotten was the phone call mere days after reaching the mountain village. His PHS had rung when he’d been about to go to the mansion, and it had taken him by surprise when her voice came out of the receiver. But he’d been too busy then, so he’d told her that he’d call later.

“No, no, you don’t have to.” There had been a slight drop to her tone.

He'd pressed his lips together. “Okay, then I’ll come visit.”

“I’ll be here.”

Zack hadn't missed the momentary pause or the wistful sigh, hadn't forgotten her downcast eyes when he told her he would leave Midgar for a job. There had been nothing else he could say but: “I’ll see you, I promise.” He could almost see her smile as he hung up, hoping it had been enough until he returned to her side.

The drifting clouds offered a brief respite from the sun's harsh glare. Summer had long since gone and autumn was well on its way, but Zack still felt hot. Hot and restless and sweaty and wishing he was back under the cover of the church, where a ray of pleasant sunlight slanted in through the broken rooftop right onto her flowerbed. He’d doze on her lap, and Aerith would weave a flower crown to put around his head, and when he opened his eyes, he would see the brightest smile he had ever seen.

Zack reached for his PHS in his pocket. He had half a mind to go to his mails before he realized Aerith didn’t have a PHS. She’d borrowed Tseng’s when she called him before. Zack didn't want to call Tseng. The last time he did, the Turk had chuckled and said that he was at work, that he had one of his men watching her and that she was safe. He would, however, send her Zack’s regards the next time he saw her. Zack's mouth twitched at the memory.

What if he called her house? Elmyra probably wouldn't mind. The last time he met her, she had acted like he was already part of the family. It made him smile and miss her homemade stew, miss the warmth of the kitchen and the vibrant colors in her garden, miss that motherly touch.

But as good as the idea sounded, it was still daylight and Aerith was probably not home. He stared at the open mail draft on his PHS screen, then typed in Kunsel's name.

‘What are you doing?’

The reply came shortly after: ‘If you resorted to mail me in the middle of a mission, I can only imagine how bored you must be feeling right now. So let me tell you some good news, friend. I visited that church your Aerith frequented and I gotta say, she is such a lively fella. You have no idea all the little details she’d asked me of you.’

Zack jumped, glaring into his PHS screen as those last few words hammered their way into his head. He dialed Kunsel’s number. Kunsel immediately picked up.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

On the other side of the line, Kunsel cackled—a shoulder-shaking, back-bending, stomach-hurting cackle. “Gods, I can’t believe you fell for that one.”

Zack blinked, too mortified to catch up with the joke.

“I’m on a mission, if you remember—or maybe you don’t. Different from the one when you left for Nibelheim. With our Firsts out on a mission on the other side of the Planet, it seems the top brass has decided to have the rest of us—meaning us, Second-Class—take the lead on the remaining jobs. So I’ve been away, again. Far away from your lovely girl. So you have nothing to worry about.”

Another blink. Right.

“How’s the job anyway?”

A short pause, and maybe it was the easy-going tone of his voice that made Zack's tongue loosen up and tell Kunsel about the current state of his investigation, the current state of Sephiroth, the current state of his restlessness. Then at the end of it, Kunsel chuckled.

“Even in the middle of a mission, you still got time to worry about your girl.” Zack heard a scoff, soft and amused. “She’s fine. Aren’t the Turks watching her?”

“They are…” But even knowing that, there was a disquiet in his heart that he couldn’t quite figure where it was coming from.

“Well, if it’s any help at all, I promised to check up on her, didn’t I? Once I get back from my assignment, I’ll see how she is. Does that ease you?”

It did, even if only a little.

“So just focus on your assignment right now and make sure you get your ass back in Midgar. Quick.” Then he added, “You know I have a whole folder of you sneezing out snot, right?”

“Kuns—!”

The line was cut. The last thing Zack heard was his friend's laughter. It still echoed even when Zack had put his PHS down and stared at the screen, when he laid back on the sunny grass and covered his eyes with an arm. Maybe it was a bad idea to have Kunsel check on Aerith. Who knew what the guy would show her? All the embarrassing details of Zack's life! But Kunsel was the only person Zack could trust in SOLDIER right now…

Zack let out another quiet exhale. He lifted his arm. The clouds drifting past looked uncannily like the girl with the brightest smile.

***

He called a little after dusk. Zack was alone in his room; Sephiroth was still not back; Cloud and the other grunt stood watch somewhere. A few moments passed with only the dial tone filling his ears. And then:

“Hello?”

The smile came unbidden. Like a dam about to burst, his lips wavered at the intensity of the emotions overcoming him—overwhelming him.

“Aerith?”

“Zack?” Her surprise was almost palpable. He could imagine her wide-eyed stare as she stood beneath the warm lights of her home. “This is a surprise. You're not busy?”

“Aw, don’t you miss me?”

She giggled, and it was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. “Silly.”

They talked about everything and anything: what she was doing, how her days had been. "Same old, same old," she said. Tending to her flowers, running errands around the slum, then just as she’d headed for the church, the Leaf House kids had crowded around her and asked where Zack was.

Zack chuckled. “And what’d you tell them?”

“That Zack is on a very important job right now, but he’ll be back very soon and give everyone presents.” Her laugh made him smile, and he imagined her sitting next to the pots and vases, swaying her feet and twirling her hair. He closed his eyes, committing it to memory.

“Hey, Aerith.”

“Yeah?”

When he made that promise to visit, Zack had thought they would finish their mission soon and he'd be back by Aerith's side before she knew it. But it had been a week since then, and he was still stuck in a small mountain town with nothing to do but look for missing persons who refused to be found and wait on a stubborn comrade who refused to leave.

“Think I’d have to take a rain check on that promise. I don’t think I can come back soon.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Okay.” Then, because maybe she’d noticed the hesitancy in his voice: “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing wrong.” He was quick to answer, quick to ease her worry, even as his mind went to the mansion sitting on the town's outskirts, where Sephiroth was still perusing the many thick volumes stored in the basement. The last time Zack had checked on him, he'd been unaware of Zack’s presence. It’d been like talking to a statue, if statues could walk and talk. Ceaseless mutterings; unending strides; then at times, Sephiroth would stop and look up, and Zack would sigh and thought, finally! Because the meal the townspeople had prepared still lay untouched on the table, and all of Zack’s attempts to tell him to rest had flown over his head. But like a man possessed, Sephiroth had only walked past without truly seeing him, then discarded the book in favor of another.

“Zack?”

Zack blinked, then said again, “Nothing’s wrong.” It was less convincing. “Anyway,” he went on, brightening his voice. “Did you really tell the kids I’d bring them presents?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice too chirpy, as though she’d noticed his unease and opted to play along with his act. “Well, you have to give them something , after all their efforts to learn your combat moves. They’re really taking this Protection Squad business seriously, you know.” She giggled, and he chuckled too.

The kids had been hounding him every time he took the trip beneath the plate. What was supposed to be a quality time with Aerith always ended up as sword-fighting lessons with a bunch of children. Not that he minded them. The more time Zack spent with them, the more endearing they all seemed to him.

“Then I’d better get them something really good.” He wondered if the store next door sold souvenirs. He could ask Cloud for advice. Or Tifa. “But don’t tell them yet. It’ll be a surprise.”

He could feel her smile as she said, “Sure thing.” In the distance, he heard Elmyra’s call. Aerith had to hang up. “Do you think we can talk again tomorrow?”

“Of course. I’ll call you. Or you can call me too, if you want.”

“Really? Then maybe I’ll do that.”

Zack’s lips parted into the slightest grin. “I’ll be here.” Another promise. Her goodbye was the last thing he heard before Aerith ended the call.

~ END ~

*gasps* Ask box is open! Uh, hi! For a Haikyuu drabble, can you do 27 for KuroYachi and 44 for KageHina? Thankyouuuuu

I am so sorry this is so late, I hope you enjoy

“I’m pregnant”

Kuroo would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about Yachi, she seemed more worried than usual, more jumpy and prone to panic attacks. He hadn’t seen her this riled up since her university finals and he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint what it was.

She’d been so stressed recently she was having seemingly random bouts of nausea and had started jumping more when he arrived or suddenly called for her and when he asked her he got nothing out of her, if she even knew what was causing her anxiety she wasn’t telling him.

She wasn’t telling him anything which usually meant she was worried about his reaction or she was still sorting it out in her own mind to be able to word it in a way that wasn’t more a mashup of concepts so he could understand and hopefully help.

Today had been particularly bad, she’d been sick for the third time today and it had just passed lunch time, not knowing what was wrong worried him so much, he felt like all he could do was sit there and watch with no way to help, just hoping that whatever was wrong would soon pass or ease.

Yachi was currently doing what she had been doing for weeks, fighting an oncoming panic attack. She looked at the four positive pregnancy tests on the bathroom counter, fighting another wave of nausea as she tried her best to sift through the ridiculous amount of emotions that were stewing inside her. She was excited and ecstatic at the news but at the same time it was the most terrifying thing she’d learnt in who knows how long. She didn’t know when to tell Kuroo, she knew she had to but coming to grips with it herself was so hard, she wasn’t sure if she could handle his reaction were it bad and no matter how many times she replayed the scenario in her mind it always ended badly. Logically she knew he wouldn’t hate her or want nothing to do with their baby but her anxious thoughts very rarely planted themselves in logic, watered by the haunting thoughts of the unknown and the ‘what ifs’.

She’d been sitting on this for way too long now, she’d known for a week without telling him and she felt so guilty for not, she had come to the conclusion that she had to tell him, and she would tell him. Today. She knew the logical reactions, she knew Kuroo loved kids and she knew he wanted them in their future. She knew all of this, she just had to cling onto the logic, however fleeting, and not let go no matter what the anxious thoughts screamed at her. She’d tell him today and deal with the consequences as they came, that was all she could do.

Kuroo had started dinner, he hoped Yachi would be able to keep it down tonight. If it didn’t get better he would probably take her to the doctors, throwing up this often isn’t normal right? He didn’t think anxiety alone would cause her to be so sick so often, it hadn’t in the past. Sure, she felt nauseous and like she was going to throw up but she very rarely did so he had to wonder, was her anxiety just getting worse or was she actually sick with some stomach bug? She hadn’t mentioned anything or avoided anything so it didn’t seem like an anxiety thing.

He sighed and finished chopping the vegetables, putting them in the pan to stew with the rest.

Tetsu?” Yachi’s quiet voice cut through the kitchen, she fiddled with her sleeves and avoided eye contact. Maybe it was anxiety related.

“Yes kitten~” he smiled at her, stopping everything to give her his full attention.

She pulled out four little white sticks, at first he didn’t know what they were. They looked like thermometers that you stick under your tongue, so maybe she actually was sick?

“Hm?” He walked over to get a closer look, taking one from her hands and looking it. He saw two clear blue lines and he knew.

His eyes widened as her looked at the test, to her then to the ones in her hands, his mouth open and closing like a fish out of water as he thought of what to say.

“I’m pregnant” she clarified, with more confidence than he expected considering how timid she was only seconds before.

So many feelings flooded through Kuroo that he thought he was going to be sick for a moment, he was so excited and overjoyed, he was going to be a dad! But at the same time he was terrified, he was going to be a dad!

He decided to push away the fear, his excitement easily overpowering it as he picked her up in a tight hug.

“We’re going to be parents!!” He laughed and spun her around, earning a laugh from her as well which was like music to his ears.

“Is this what’s had you so worried?” He finally set her down, seeing her nod weakly and look away. He could tell she was embarrassed, she often said she felt silly after an anxiety attack. He smiled softly and kissed her face, the relief he felt was so intense he just wanted to laugh.

“I’m so glad it wasn’t something bad, I was worried you had the flu or something” he chuckled and gave her lips a quick peck. She giggled.

“Sorry for worrying you” she smiled at him, kissing back gently.

“I wish all my worries ended with news as good as this, we’re going to be parents Kitten!” She smiled at him brightly as he said that, he could just about physically see the stress and anxiety leave her body and he was so glad.

“Yes we are” they could both relax and rejoice in the news, neither weighed down by anxiety and neither could be happier.

“If you die, I’ll kill you”

tw: war and death

It wasn’tsupposed to be like this, it was never supposed to be like this.

They were supposed to finish high schooland go straight into university, hoping to play for the national team one day.

They were meant to find a house together,adopt a pet or two and live out their dreams, happy and content.

It was never supposed to be like this.

They had known the war had started, theycouldn’t not know about it, it had been plastered on every paper, TV channeland radio station.

Japan had gone to war.

The country was thrown into chaos, Kageyamaand Hinata had been drafted and now found them away from home, away from whatthey knew and away from routine and normalcy.

They’d been lucky in the fact that theyhadn’t been separated but Kageyama was terrified, this whole thing scared thelife out of him.

Whenever they were separated for too longhe worried so much he often made himself sick, he worried Hinata had beenkilled, or taken and exposed to much, much worse and by the way Hinata huggedhim, with all the strength he could muster, he figured he had the samenauseating fears as well.

It was never supposed to be like this.   

He was meant to come home, maybe a roughday at class or work perhaps, met with that tight hug to squeeze away problemsof the day, not to remind themselves that they were both alive and alright.

It was never supposed to be like this andit made him so angry, angry at the war, at his government, at the opposingarmy, at everything. They should be living their life, just the two of themwith whatever they felt like doing as stupid young adults, not wondering ifthey were going to live to see the next day.

As the war dragged on it took a heaviertoll on them both, Hinata especially. Kageyama had lost count of the amount ofnights he held Hinata as he cried, loud sobs, heavy under the weight of hisfear and guilt.

The weight of the world was on hisshoulders, the uncertainty of tomorrow clouding his vision and the panicgripped his throat in an icy grip, his cries for help barely audible to his ownears and Kageyama couldn’t help him.

Not completely anyway.

He could lie there with him, holding him ina tight grip and doing whatever he could to take a little bit of that weightoff him. To clear his vision just that little bit or loosen the grip on histhroat, but he couldn’t. There was just too much, too much pain, fear,uncertainty, and so much guilt he felt like he would suffocate before theyreached the light at the end of the tunnel. If they did suffocate, if it didprove all too much, the one thing he was certain of though was that he wouldn’thesitate to give his last breath so Hinata could have one more, even if hecouldn’t make it he’d do everything within his power to make sure Hinata did.

He squeezed the boy in his arms a littletighter, savouring the feeling of him being there, dedicating it to memory,dedicating Hinata to memory, even though he already had.

The sound of his voice, his laugh, his cryand the feeling of his skin and the softness of his hair and his smile. Thesmile he has when he’s done something cool, when he sees Kageyama after a longday or when he’s just woken up. All these little details have etched themselvesso deeply into Kageyamas memory they were just another part of him, heremembered these things like he remembered his own name, he firmly believedhe’d forget his own name sooner that those little things about Hinata, he wouldif he had a say in it.

Hinata’s sobs slowly settled down untilthey were more whimpers and hiccups than actual sobs, though his body stillshook violently, his fingers still digging into the fabric of his shirt so hardKageyama briefly wondered if it had been torn, not that he’d care if it had.

He knew he wasn’tthe only one though, he wasn’t the only one who’d held the one he loves as theycried, who lived in fear and everyday had to push it aside and do what neededto be done. He’d seen his team mates here, from middle school and high school,people he didn’t get along with now trusting him with his life and vice versa.

He remainedawake for what felt like hours after Hinata fell asleep, but realistically itwould have only been a few minutes before he too drifted off into a mercifullydreamless sleep.

Kageyama couldhardly keep up with what was happening, bullets were whizzing past his head,his ears ringing as something exploded somewhere he couldn’t quite make out,voices screaming out commands he that couldn’t quite hear but none of itmattered, absolutely none of it, it may as well be white noise in this exactmoment.

“K-Kageyama…I’msorry” his voice was weak, his hands shaking badly as they covered the redpatch on his stomach that only grew, taking Hinata’s colour with it and leavinghim pale.

“S-Shut up, you’regoing to be alright” Kageyama’s hands also shook as he did his best to stop thebleeding, blinking away the tears furiously in attempt to clear his visionthough whatever tears he shed were quickly replaced.

“I’m sorryTobio, I-I’m so sorry” he sobbed weakly himself, Kageyama growled and screamedfor a medic again.

He was vaguelyaware of Iwaizumi running over to help, vaguely aware of an explosiondangerously close to them, vaguely aware of everything that wasn’t Hinata inhis arms.

“If you die,I’m gonna kill you.” He sobbed weakly, holding his face in his hand and pressinghis forehead to his.

Hinata manageda weak laugh, one that shook Kageyama to his core, before leaning up to leave agentle kiss to his lips.

“I’m sorryTobio” he managed before he shut his eyes.

All Kageyamacould do was scream, a pain unlike any other took hold of his being andsqueezed him agonisingly tight.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  

                               “ no matter how fast light travels, it finds                                    the darkness has always got there first “

* ╰   lorenzo zurzolo ;  18 ;  he/his  —— wow,  lachlan hawthorn  sure has changed. i guess  he  is feeling isolated from the other  gryffindor  members. guess you can’t really blame him. i still remember him being so  curious & adaptable  now he just seems  frustrated & evasive  guess being a  halfblood  isn’t helping matters much either.  i’m hopeful though. they’ll be just fine.  (  zoe ; cst ; 21 ; she/her  )  

WARNINGS:  infidelity, murder, car crashes, mention of war & hospitals & general bigotry    ADDITIONAL MATERIALS:   lachlan’s stats page, playlist, & pinterest board   ADDITIONAL NOTES:  this is fully a few thousand words longer than either nate’s or alecto’s intros and i should edit it down but i also need it to not be in my drafts. really sorry about that. if you want a tldr version please hmu!! or if you just want to plot!!!

when lachlan’s biological parents married, rumors abounded. plenty of couples from their class got married right out of hogwarts   ---   but none of those other couples were such a puzzling case to their peers. no one knew what sweet serena alessandri saw in declan glynne. sometimes, even serena wasn’t quite sure what it was about him; he was a dark beauty, something she could only call him in her head. he was the sort of boy who’d bristle at such a feminine compliment as beautiful; never mind that it was true. but for all his good looks, no other girl had been interested in him. maybe because he wasn’t a sweet guy   ---   just a guy who was sweet to her. 

sweet serena alessandri: deposed princess of a new money pureblood family, she hailed from italy and had lived her whole life in clueless luxury. right up until her new money family found themselves newly penniless, and escaped to england to hide their shame. 

the girls and boys she’d grown up with, gone to school with   ---   they turned on her and her family the moment they lacked the funds to support the frivolous life italian purebloods led. 

oh, but they were mean. they rubbed her family’s new poverty in her face with well calculated cruelty. they were the reasons she vowed to keep her head down when she transferred to hogwarts. she was wary of befriending muggles and muggleborns, but wary of hating them, too. haughtiness got you nothing; she knew this well. 

serena was hurt and young and foolish   ---   not to mention ever fearful of seeming those things. declan never acted like she was; maybe that’s all there was to her love. a sense of safety, if only from ridicule. 

surly declan glynne: why, he hardly warranted a full backstory. he was an angry pureblood boy from a long line of angry pureblood boys who’d never had enough money to back up their feelings of superiority. 

he was almost militant in his hatred of muggleborns and muggles; he hated muggles with a quiet passion, but muggleborns were the real problem. muggleborns infected his everyday life, stole opportunities directly from him. 

hardly a radical feeling, but still   ---   his bigotry and working-class roots didn’t make for a winning combination. swimming in friends and admirers, he was not. 

so the unlikely hogwarts sweethearts settled down months after graduating, and bets were made among their peers on how long they’d actually last. 

everybody who bet that the answer was  ‘ not long ‘  had plenty of evidence to support their stance   ---   namely, that while declan scrounged up a job in the magical maintenance department at the ministry, serena went to muggle university   ( excelled there, in that world of finite answers and figures, like she never could in the magical theory and feeling and pronunciation at hogwarts )   and ended up working at a muggle accounting firm. 

that while serena was making more money than the highest ranking official in declan’s department, declan stewed in his anger. 

his resentment bled into the relationship. they’d never had too much in common; when the sweetness declan used to treat her with left, serena was so confused. but she hated asking questions   ---   fearful as ever of seeming young and hurt and foolish, wary as ever of showing a chink in her armor to people far better equipped for cruelty. just as she learned that the purebloods of her childhood were crueler than her, she knew without needing the lesson that her husband was crueler, too. 

serena’s muggle coworkers and classmates had always liked her. 

she’d always told a version of the truth, to explain why some simple things confused her so much   —   after all, it wasn’t a lie that she was grew up in a rich italian family who lost the fortune when she was in her teens and left her kind of adrift. 

her confusion at taxis and ball point pens could be laughed off as a sign of her former rich-girl ways. 

as could her need to be liked. they all knew she attended a string of elite boarding schools but ended up having to pay her own way through university   ---   knew that she worked hard and wanted people to see that about her. 

so, yes: they’d always liked her. she was kind. 

her coworkers noticed the seemingly sudden shift in her mood, and one brave man she’d worked on a few projects with took that notice a step further   ---    friendly and concerned about her, just as kind as serena had always been to him, andrew reynolds asked her out to lunch one day. and there, he asked why serena was feeling so low.

the sweetness and the kindness from him was enough to open the floodgates. maybe, she could admit, she’d felt a little starved for those two things. declan’s moods had only ever gotten worse. she answered andrew’s questions with all the honesty the ministry allowed. 

she revealed that her husband wasn’t sweet to her anymore, that he was actually kind of cold. she revealed she was hurt and unsure of what she did wrong. andrew paid for her meal and told her that she hadn’t done anything wrong. 

that one lunch, where he said he’d be there for her, devolved into many lunches, and then late-running meetings, and finally time spent out of the office. they fell in love   —   and she became pregnant.

she hid it from declan for a while; they hadn’t been having sex all that frequently, with his sudden ire at her putting a dent in romance. but she hurried to initiate it as often as she felt was  ‘ normal ’  for a happy marriage, after she found out she was pregnant.

she wasn’t happy being married to him, but the idea of separating was alien to her   —   so she needed him to think that the baby was his.

she only got more unhappy with him, when she figured enough time had passed that she could reveal the pregnancy without suspicion. serena wasn’t sure how she’d have felt if declan had been pleased to hear they were having a baby   —   if any excitement or warmth would have won her back to him, if a return of love would’ve erased all her hurt. but the news only seemed to make him more miserable; so serena never had to find out. 

fast forward: lachlan is born, the staff at st. mungo’s hurrying as best they can to get out of a room so tense where it should be joyous. declan named the baby, and serena let him. a pang of something wrong rang through her but she ignored it in favor of plastering on a warm smile.  

then the trio returned home. 

apparently declan   ( who’d never been all that smart, whose suspicions never seemed to touch his wife, for all his anger at her and the world at large )    had wondered at serena’s change in mood before the pregnancy. he hadn’t really noticed she’d started feeling small and hurt and lost at home until she was happy again. and when she was happier, he got suspicious. he followed her physically when he could, spied on her magically when he could, and never got proof of an all-out affair   ---   but declan glynne had been born suspicious. he could wait. 

here’s the thing: all babies kind of look the same. lachlan’s looks weren’t a shocking departure from declan’s and serena’s. andrew reynolds had been white, too, so it wasn’t like baby lachlan’s skin tone was super different. but declan had just made a deal with himself, like   —   serena and I both have light hair; if this baby’s hair isn’t almost transparent, I’ll know. 

baby lachlan was born with a shock of honeyed-brown curls. so that was that. 

declan was, all records would show, an anti-muggle wackjob. and he was beyond furious that serena   ( his wife. he may not have loved her any longer, but she was his )   thought to pass off some  ‘ muggle’s bastard ‘  as his son. 

they lived in a little wizarding neighborhood a small ways away from godric’s hollow; some might say, kindly, it was more quaint than godric’s hollow. others, honestly, might point out it was a way cheaper godric’s hollow. a neighbor saw and understood what the flash of green light in the glynnes’ windows meant, and alerted the aurors. 

baby lachlan was left generally parent-less, as serena was dead and declan ended up in prison. he might have ended up dead himself, had the aurors not arrived on time. godric bless nosy neighbors, and all that. 

declan wasn’t a smart or wealthy enough pureblood guy to get away literally murdering his wife over an affair. 

some people probably sympathized with him   ( serena cheated on him with a muggle. when that saucy story hit the news, that fact was hammered in and plenty of people got where he was coming from )   but it wasn’t enough to keep him out of prison. 

lachlan definitely did have a still living parent who would’ve jumped at the chance to take care of him   —   but the wizarding authorities never even considered andrew reynolds for any real length of time. 

a peek into the auror office’s thought process:  if we give him the baby we have to explain how and why and that serena’s dead. and it’s just easier to not do that.

a peek into the world of wizarding adoptions: even smarmy, blood purist wizarding society is all about preserving magical blood. so magical orphans aren’t long left without homes; magical orphanages aren’t a thing. wizarding families are often huge. so orphaned wizards are shopped around to even distant relatives and then, if that doesn’t work out, given to other families.

scandalous, family-less, little baby lachlan wasn’t long alone.

meet the hawthorn family   ---    edmund hawthorn was born edmund shafiq and was quietly exiled from his sacred twenty-eight family when he came out. which was fine, because his husband travis hawthorn came from a sprawlingly big and welcoming half-blood family and they took edmund in right away. 

edmund still wrote to his parents, and they wrote back; they hadn’t disowned him out of bad blood. he knew his parents still loved him. they just loved the family’s image more, and needed to give him the boot in order to name his brother orlando the heir  ...   since he could give them more heirs. 

travis, conversely, had a lovely relationship with his family. 

both edmund and travis were pretty high ranking ministry workers. edmund worked in the office for the department of magical law enforcement   —   not an auror, but someone who puts together files and goes over paperwork and traces patterns. travis was a liaison minister with the department of international magical cooperation. they’re good guys with good reputations and the ministry was honestly relieved when they offered to adopt lachlan. 

lachlan grew up with two sisters: della, who was five years older, and laurel, who was just ten months older. he loved them with all his heart. 

people tended to think he and laurel were twins, especially growing up   —   the dads cut her hair a little short because she was always getting into a mess, and it was easier to clean mud and neon paint out of shorter curls than long ones   —   but with their matching hair and their alliterative names, their propensity to always cause trouble as a team   ...   they just seemed like twins.

him and laurel seeming like blood related siblings to the outside eye made it easier for the world to forget that the hawthorn’s son was the baby that caused that big scandal.   

edmund and travis never lied to the two of them and said they were blood related twins or siblings, outright. but they did let the world outside their family assume that. they figured life would be easier for lachlan if that was the readily accepted truth.

lachlan wasn’t all that adventurous on his own, but found himself dragged into his sisters’ adventures; he could vouch from experience that mud and neon paint were a pain to wash out as it was, and couldn’t imagine adding more hair into the equation. 

his sisters might’ve been better at getting into messes, but lachlan made up for it by being a mess. he was always having a crisis as a kid   —   his stuffed dinosaurs were just ravaging the block city, dad, but what about the finger puppet people in that apartment building? do they even sell dinosaur insurance?? why didn’t I think of the implications here  ... 

he and laurel played knights a lot, with toy swords and helmets modeled after the suits of armor in hogwarts  ( travis asked edmund if that wasn’t a little much, when they bought them; they were a few years out from school, after all, they didn’t care that the helmets were accurate   —   )   and lachlan always wondered about the ramifications of two knights fighting each other. laurel always took the ensuing soliloquy of hypothetical questions as opportunity to knock him flat backwards.

he was a needy kid   —   he always had questions at his lips, a thousand moral quandaries to discuss. he had an active imagination and a tendency to let situations snowball into situations.

he was often hilarious, and rarely on purpose, and very easy to like. anyone who knew his birth mother would’ve been surprised to see lachlan   —   he truly was nothing like serena. he was bright and sweet and openly curious about everything. he loved storytelling and art and music; a perfect case to show that nurture always won out over nature.

when it was time for him to go to hogwarts, he wasn’t at all sure what house he’d get sorted into   —   it wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever been hung up on thinking about, for all that he’d wondered about every other part of the hogwarts experience. his dads had both been in different houses, and he had no way of knowing what houses his birth parents belonged to. the sorting hat cried out GRYFFINDOR a scant few moments after touching down on his unruly curls, and lachlan decided that felt right.

he loved hogwarts.  

 lachlan made friends easily and often   —   he’d grown up in the constant companionship of his sisters and knew well how to start conversations and shift them from uncomfortable topics, was skilled at asking questions that made people feel good and liked. 

he was a little overzealous in class, but most of his professors liked him well enough. lachlan was still a curious guy, and seemed to genuinely care about each subject   —   something that went a long way towards endearing him to hogwarts’ staff.

though, some of the staff might’ve been endeared to him even if he wasn’t generally endearing. 

his interesting past wasn’t a secret from most of the professors; travis and edmund had done well enough redirecting people’s memories around their son, but then most people had already forgotten about serena and declan, or else had never really known them in the first place. but many hogwarts professors recalled teaching the couple, recalled the shock their ending gave them, when the news hit.

lachlan’s  ‘ story ‘  wasn’t something his dads had shared with him just yet, so lachlan himself didn’t know. it was a little maddening walking around the castle, when it felt like all the adults looked like they knew something he didn’t. 

dumbledore, being dumbledore, took it upon himself to tell lachlan the whole sordid tale himself, when lachlan was just starting his fourth year. it was a shock   ( it majorly pissed off travis and edmund, who never found out why the old man did such a thing )   but the next time he went home for the holidays his dads sat him down and explained that, no they weren’t hiding it from him and yes, they’d had plans set to tell him when he was seventeen and of age.

wizarding authorities could have hunted down andrew reynolds and told him he had a son, but they didn’t. travis and edmund, however, wanted to find andrew just in case lachlan ever wanted to meet him. so lo and behold   —   once lachlan knew, his dad’s set up a meeting for the four of them in muggle london. it went well; kinda full of shock and crying, even without breaking the  ‘ wizard ’  of it all to andrew, but still well.

lachlan was perfectly happy with his sisters and his dads; for all that he’d always known he was adopted and for all that he’d always been curious as hell, he’d never really pushed his dads about his birth parents. his dads just were his dads. end of story   —   no need for questions. 

which was part of why it was easy for him to go fourteen years before learning about his past. lachlan could not be paid to stop the flow of his curiosity, but there were somethings that seemed so solidly true he never thought to question them.

so while it was kind of cool meeting andrew, it was also kind of weird. knowing about andrew at all was weird   —   because it meant knowing that his mother had died days after giving birth to him, alone and scared and unhappy. and that her husband had been a bigot and a murderer; that declan glynne was still alive in prison somewhere. it was a suckerpunch to the gut knowing that lachlan had come close to being killed himself, if a neighbor hadn’t called the aurors on their house just in time to save the baby he used to be.

listen, he’d never wanted to know where he came from. 

but he knew he’d feel, like, kind of bad if he just never saw andrew again. so with his dads’ permission   ( and encouragement; edmund and travis thought this would be good for lachlan, like getting to know his Muggle Heritage from his Muggle Birth Father )   he hung out with him on occasion, during holidays and school breaks.

even though the professors clearly knew about his past, and his dads did, and his sisters did once he decided he wanted to tell them   ...   lachlan kept it all under wraps around his friends at school. he liked to think he was an open book, before. but learning where he came from made him want to play his cards a little closer to his chest. he couldn’t put his finger on why   —   he knew it worried his dads, he knew it did, and figured he’d get over it in due time, once he settled into the truth.

it just didn’t seem like the truth wanted to settle around him.

declan glynne had family. he was a middle son from a whole gaggle of bigoted, disillusioned glynne brothers. the ministry just never considered them when they were trying to figure out who would take lachlan on. they looked at serena’s family and saw no options, but declan was not lachlan’s father and, like andrew, was never even considered. 

ian glynne had a bone to pick with this   —   had a bone to pick with lachlan’s whole existence, too, had a problem with that almost more than being overlooked. 

( he thought that if serena had just kept her legs shut she’d never have gotten herself pregnant and gotten herself dead and gotten her husband sent to prison. more than that, he thought if she hadn’t gotten the idea of a muggle career into her head and made his brother upset, what with her math and her decent paycheck, she really would’ve staved all this off. but serena was dead   —   so it was easier to blame the baby, who wasn’t. )

he was a fan of simmering in his anger and hatred and kept up with the news about lachlan, at least enough to know who he ended up being adopted by.

and from there he got an idea; the hawthorns were good people   —   a compliment that would’ve come out as a sneer if ian voiced it, the judgement and sarcasm inherent in every syllable. he figured at some point, they’d tell lachlan who his birth parents were, maybe even introduce him to that homewrecking muggle. and if they did, and if ian kept a low profile, kept observing   …   they’d lead ian right to the muggle at the root of his brother’s injustice. 

he wasn’t always watching lachlan, just keeping an eye on him by keeping an eye on his dads. he’d never been all that smart or ambitious   —   the glynnes were a family that thrived in their self-righteousness and self-importance and didn’t feel like they should have to act on those things to get what they deserved.

but his anger, his half baked plot, was enough to spur ian to action for the first time in his life. he rose through the ranks of the ministry through pure determination and will and ended up working in the same office in the department of magical law enforcement as edmund. they almost became friends; not earnestly, not honestly   —   not on ian’s part. but they did. friendly enough for ian to ask after edmund’s kids and get answers, friendly enough to hear about the trip into muggle london to visit someone edmund described as one of the kids’  ‘ distant relatives. ‘

he followed them.

and he didn’t do anything that time lachlan and the muggle were in the same place, but he started to plan.

it would’ve been too hard to keep magical surveillance over lachlan and the hawthorns, so he hadn’t, not ever. just kept an eye on them the old fashioned way, through word of mouth and casual water-cooler conversation. but andrew reynolds had no means of catching ian glynne in the act of spying. so, spy he did.

muggle police would later rule it a tragic car accident   —   shaking their heads at the carnage as they carted lachlan off to the muggle hospital while he clung with bloody hands to consciousness. it took hours for the dads to find him there and by the time his family reached him he decided he wouldn’t tell them any of the truth of what happened; told the official from the auror department once he got relocated to st. mungo’s, but only because he had to. 

he never asked if that official told his dads. none of the hawthorns talked about the situation anymore than they had to, after that.

here was the situation:

ian glynne tailed lachlan and andrew all day   —   a saturday during easter hols during lachlan’s fifth year wherein andrew showed lachlan around muggle london. the pair had lunch together, looked in a few shops, and were set to drive out to andrew’s home outside of the city, where edmund and travis and lachlan’s sisters would meet them later for tea. 

ian glynne got them on a secluded section of road just far enough away from both the city proper and andrew’s home to cause immediate alarm.

he came out in front of the car and andrew made to swerve around the man, but ian cast some defensive spell lachlan had yet to learn at the hood. it exploded   —   felt like they crashed into another vehicle even though they were the only car on the road.

lachlan and andrew both slammed into the windshield, but neither crashed through it. ian came ‘round to andrew’s side of the car and started screaming questions at him about serena and declan; then he shot him with a muggle handgun, something lachlan had surely never laid eyes on before.

andrew did not die from that initial gunshot   —   ian was a terrible shot, and was half out of his mind besides. the bullet just grazed him, and he inelegantly dragged andrew out of the car after. 

lachlan made his way out of the vehicle too, bleeding and hurt, all cut up and bruised from the crash and the glass he had to wade through. he thought, maybe, he was in shock. he was certainly in shock once he finally bambi-legged his way out of the demolished vehicle and saw ian cast a cruciatus on his biological father. 

and, still in shock when he saw ian whammy andrew with a killing curse after that. 

ian did not attempt to turn his wand on lachlan   —   this was the second time in his short life that a glynne brother forgot to kill him once done with a more satisfying target. ian took for the bare april greenery lining the road and lachlan   ( curious, trauamtized dumbass that he was )   ran after him. found a gun pointed at him for a terrifying moment before the muggle police sirens cut the air and sent ian apparating on out of there.

he fought to go back to hogwarts right away; it was only the first saturday of the holiday that all this went down, so lachlan felt, since he spent the whole rest of it in hospitals and bed, surely he was fine. the dads disagreed, and his sisters disagreed, and the auror working on ian’s case disagreed. he’d just become, in a way, an orphan. and it felt like no one around him cared to see him recover in the way he wanted to.

lachlan managed to bargain that he’d get to return to school as soon as ian was sent to join his brother in prison   —   none of the world any wiser that he’d been there when the newest glynne family crime was committed. 

laurel decreed that it’d look less strange if both of them stayed home until then, and that was that. the dads wouldn’t begrudge lachlan the company of his sister, if he couldn’t return to full normalcy just yet.

della was graduated at this point, technically an adult working a fancy job at some boutique robe shop, but she came home every day from work and glued herself to her younger siblings’ sides. lachlan recovered his new, strange orphan-hood with his not-twin and big sister at his side, dads hovering around as much as their jobs allowed.

the hawthorns were tight knit and loosely configured all at once   —   always brimming with love and independence in spades, care expressed tenderly and roughly, like no one was sure how to be earnest. edmund and travis had always expressed affection like that: through arguing and debating and ribbing more than any big displays. 

the kids worked the same way. family dinners used to be more running jokes and teasing than anything, raucous like none of them knew the definition of serious.

the five hawthorns weren’t really sure if that old normal was still achievable; lachlan’s brush with near-death met the daunting news lurking on the edge of their world. the whispers of war.

things became very real for the carefree family   —   the fact of edmund’s disownment, and travis’ famous half-bloodedness.

that all three kids were adopted with far-from-simple origin stories   ( even if lachlan’s was the loudest, neither laurel nor della came from a closet free of skeletons ),   that the dads were gay and the kids were open in their opposition to anti-muggle and anti-muggleborn sentiment

ian glynne might not’ve gone after lachlan for any of that, not really. but the possibility started to hit with dizzying closeness.

two weeks after the holiday officially ended, laurel and lachlan returned to hogwarts. if lachlan had seemed new and different upon receiving the news of his biological parentage, then he seemed really different following his brush with death and new witness to murder. it was the kind of different that was hard to put your finger on. he smoked now, and drank more; he was liable to fall into fits of melancholy. 

cynicism did not come easy to him, but he found that wariness did, that secrecy did. it was shocking.

he finished his fifth year chomping at the bit to do something, anything, about the awful ways in which his world was changing. the next year only held more tragedy   ---   attacks and deaths and disappearances. no one knew what happened to him unless he chose to tell them   ( and in truth, there was almost no one he chose to tell )   but he couldn’t help but feel a kinship with everyone newly hurt by this world. he’d been hurt by it, too, after all. 

there was a small degree of safety offered within hogwarts’ walls, but he couldn’t help but want to be free of them. to be out there, doing something. lachlan would wait for now, ask questions and notice things and store them away the way he always had. but it started to feel like he was just biding his time until he had something to do with every new thing he learned. 

coming in with the draft

(just some more light and fluffy OC stuff)

Far north in the Imperial Capital, winter was fast approaching. Leaves were browning and dropping from trees, days were growing shorter and colder, and a fierce wind rattled windowpanes in every quarter. Today, it meant that Castor would be needing a heavy coat and something warmer to go under it, and that he'd have to come straight home to avoid being out too long. The changing seasons always managed to get him sick- a cold snap was followed by a cough or flu that stuck with him in some way throughout the whole winter. It felt sometimes as if his life were bouts of health in between illness, having already spent so much of his years in bed convalescing.

Today, he could feel his solace of health fading. As he rose from bed, his symptoms made themselves loudly known. His nose was stuffed up and his chest heavy with congestion, his bones heavy and hurting. He remembered that he had gone to sleep with a bit of an itch in the back of the throat, just enough to be concerning, but not enough to take a spoonful of syrup or a cup of tea to quell. He figured it was only the cold, dry air coming in, and that a hot bath tonight would clear it up just fine.

He was very wrong. Using a concerning amount of strength he managed to stand, only to immediately start coughing. He hacked into his sleeve wetly and tried desperately to catch his breath. Once it was all over, he paused, collecting strength. Never had a sickness gotten so bad just overnight, he thought. What had struck him this way, had blown in with the draft and sapped him of strength? He took a gulp of water from the glass on his nightstand and went about to start the day.

The rest of the morning went smoothly- his cough didn't come as violently as it had, and swallowing a bit of thick, syrupy medicine from his cabinet appeared to calm it down. He dressed himself warmly, in shirt and jacket and trousers with thick underclothes. Breakfast was laid out for him on the table - a bowl of porridge with honey. He was grateful for the sticky sweetness that coated his rough throat. He left for school along with his brother, wishing both his parents a good day, promising his mother to come home right away to avoid the cold and damp, as she worried horribly about these things.

The day at school passed somewhat without event. What weighed on him were his upcoming exams, which he had studied well for but not enough, he knew, to get the high marks expected of him. Getting around that day was a challenge, with his whole body aching fiercely. Even turning the page of his notebook was a strain. He brought some tissues around with him to cover his mouth, being interrupted by coughing fits every few minutes. Luckily, his instructors and lecturers saw that he wasn't feeling well, and let him off easy that day. Normally, he felt that being the royal son held him to a higher standard, which he feared falling short of.

What worried him was that instead of shaking off the morning congestion, it only got worse as the day went on. By his last lecture, he needed to excuse himself twice to step into the hallway for his cough. The fits lasted minutes, grating his throat, racking his frame, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded. He wiped his eyes, spit up some mucous, and returned, not meeting the concerned glances of classmates. He could barely focus.

He met with his brother in the courtyard and set on home. But as soon as they stepped outside, Castor breathed the freezing air and was thrown into another fit. He doubled over on the steps, face buried in his elbow, his brother alarmed. Alcinous eased him to the ground, where they both sat on the marble steps. He gently patted his brother's back, struck by how deep and throaty his hacking was, and how he wheezed for breath as though choked.

When the coughs subsided, Castor looked up to his brother. His skin, normally pale but ruddy, had gone white. His lips had a faint blue tinge, and his poor eyes were red, wet, and sore. Tears of exertion streaked down his face. Alcinous quickly produced a flask of water, urging him to drink.

Castor took a few sips and remained sitting, regaining his breath. He knew by now he was really, truly ill. All he could do was hope that he would only be kept in bed for a day or two instead of a week or two, and that it would be in his own bed and not a hard, clinical hospital mattress.

"Are you alright to go now?" Alcinous asked. "That sounded horrible - you ought to rest as soon as you finish your work."

Castor nodded and cleared his throat. He stood up, a little unsteady at first, and followed his brother back home.

Once inside, he hung his jacket and went to his room. Not having been heated all day, it carried a chill, and he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders while he sat at his desk. His father, once he retired home for the night, would surely have a fire made up in their living room.

He set about to finish some assignments in the meantime.

However, his illness struck fierce. As soon as he settled down, he felt that familiar scrape in his throat. His vision blurred and he felt like fainting. He shook it off, hacked some mucous into a tissue and tried to work. At best, he assumed, this was just a cold, and he couldn't let it interrupt his studying.

The coughing eventually grew so bad that he needed a break. He drank some hot water from the faucet and sipped a bit more syrup. After a while of regaining his strength, he picked up his textbook and read from it while lying down, afraid of inviting another fit by sitting up.

The sun set early that day, turning the grey skies an inky black, extinguishing in the faintest traces of pink and orange at the horizon. Castor watched it from his window, nearly finished with the reading. He had slowly been feeling better from resting and had only had two more horrible fits of hacking. They left him faint, lightheaded, and pale, tears streaming down his face and body aching. But it was ignorable now. After dinner, he resolved, he would skip supper, take a long bath, and turn in early.

Around dinner time, he heard a knock at his doorway. His father stood there, smiling.

"Come in," Castor said, though his voice rasped from his raw throat.

His father sat on his bedside. "Still studying? Do you have an exam coming up?"

"Yeah," he whispered. "Midterms." He coughed into his fist, softly at first, but then hacked.

His father rubbed his back once he had finished. "Dear, that doesn't sound good. How long have you had this?"

"Just today." Castor wiped a tear from his eye. "But I've been feeling a little off the past two weeks." It was true that he'd been not feeling himself lately, always a little fatigued and weak. But today was when his quiet malaise turned into a cause for concern.

"Do you have an appetite? We had something special cooked up for dinner. Nice hot beef stew with plenty of vegetables. Come, there's a fire going. Your mother misses you."

Castor sat for dinner and was helped to a bowl of stew. He stirred it around, not feeling very hungry at all, when normally he'd be stuffing himself. His family knew how he loved his food, almost to the point of a gourmand, so a fading appetite was a definite sign of something going wrong.

His mother looked at him, looked down to his still-full bowl. "Eat up, love," she said, "Nice hot food will leave you warm and full all night."

"It's really good," Castor said. "I'm just not feeling-" he coughed into his elbow. "Not feeling too good."

"You have a cough? How bad is it?"

Castor tried to respond, but was choked by congestion. He turned away and hacked into a napkin, feeling like he might expel his lungs along with the mucous.

"He wasn't doing well all day," Alcinous said for him. "When I met him after school, it was awful. I dare say it's gotten worse."

Castor convulsed forward. His mother laid a protective hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

He had coughed hard enough to bring up some of his meal, a sticky, foul-smelling mess in his napkin. He gasped for breath and sighed, excusing himself to clean up.

In the bathroom, he wiped his mouth and rinsed, his breathing ragged and rough. He wiped his brow with a cool cloth. Everything was beginning to feel very warm, to the point of making him sweat. He spit up a few trails of mucous. A faint trail of red fell from his mouth into the sink. Was he dying? Panic made his heart flutter.

He rinsed out his mouth again. His throat itched. Please, not again, he begged. He was launched into another fit, more violent than the last. With every cough, his vision grew dimmer, and a ringing in his ears grew louder. He couldn't control his lungs heaving so hard that they brought up even more of his dinner, which he puked into the toilet along with stringy mucous. A moment allowed him to catch his breath; he glanced in the mirror. His lips had gone blue, his eyes red, his face white but for a flush accross the cheeks from the exertion. He doubled over with the force of more hacking.

"Castor?" A familiar voice called for him, but he could barely hear it. Footsteps echoed down the hall. He couldn't catch his breath. He wheezed, desperate but unable. Things began to fade.

His brother knelt by him while he sunk to the floor. A few strong pats on the back brought up a blob of mucous spotted with blood. Gradually, the coughing died down, until he was able to breathe again. He fell back into his brother's arms, totally spent and almost passed out.

"That's it, just breathe," Alcinous urged. "Breathe." He laid a cool hand on Castor's forehead. They sat like that for a while on the bathroom floor, letting Castor recover.

"You feel a little warm," Alcinous finally said. "Let's get you up and into bed." He pulled Castor to his feet.

He wasn't ready for the sudden shock. The world spun around him and everything went cold, ringing, blurring. He felt his knees buckle, his head drop, and blacked out.

He awoke in bed. His brother was on one side, along with his mother. A doctor was on the other, having waited for him to awake. He was sat up, his temperature taken, his throat looked down, his heart and lungs listened to. His brother dosed him with a spoonful of cough syrup, the strong, foul-tasting, prescription stuff that made him gag. He washed it down with a steaming cup of tea. He was told he most likely had pneumonia, that his lungs were in bad shape, and that first thing tomorrow he'd be sent in for chest x-rays and blood tests and whatever else they needed to run on him. His cough was severe. Not fatal, but requiring good treatment and days off from school. He very well could have hurt himself worse - passing out and hitting his head, being deprived of oxygen, shattering a rib. He was feverish, he learned - not too hot, but enough that he felt delirious and weak. For now he was to rest and take plenty of fluids.

"Oh, honey," his mother whispered. "Poor angel. I know how you get coughs in the autumn, but it's never gotten so bad so quickly." She stroked his hair that had gone limp with sweat.

After his mother had gone to bed, giving him a sweet kiss on the forehead, his brother stayed to keep him company. He fed him pills to keep the fever down and to break up the sticky mucous in his chest, and read to him from one of his favorite novels until his eyelids grew heavy and he began to feel the pull of deep velvet sleep.

"You seem just about to drift off," Alcinous said finally, shutting the book. "Goodnight, then, brother - Shout if you need something - I'll have my door open to hear you." He squeezed his brother's hand.

Castor coughed weakly. "Goodnight," he breathed, "and thank you for taking care of me."

"Nonsense," said Alcinous, "I would care for you no matter what. Now don't you fret. The more you let yourself rest, the easier you recover."

Castor nodded. His lamp was flicked off. His chest was still leaden, his bones still aching, but he at least felt well enough to sleep.

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

So I may or may not be a little behind on reviews right now. But joke’s on you, there are a bunch of scary movies that have been released in 2019 (and very few being released in theaters this October) so you can enjoy some seasonally-appropriate spookiness right on schedule like I planned it that way and not at all because writing reviews for 119 movies is really hard and time-consuming. Everything’s going according to my master plan.

Hey, so do you remember the 90s? Between Goosebumps and Are You Afraid of the Dark?, kids in the 90s basically just wanted to have the bejeesus scared out of them. Enter Alvin Schwartz, who produced a couple of collections of folk tales and urban legends that were unsettling but fairly bloodless and combined them with the nightmare-inducing artwork of Stephen Gammell. BOOM - generation of kids traumatized. I know all my fellow #90skidsremember and probably have very high hopes for the spookiness of this movie. Does it deliver? Well...

Mostly, but it misses the mark somewhat. What’s worse, I think some different choices could have really propelled this into blood-curdling classic status. As it stands, those stories we knew and loved as kids have been roughly strung together into a PG-13 horror flick held together by a somewhat clumsy connective narrative about a young girl named Sarah Bellows (Kathleen Pollard), who was tortured and abused at the hands of her family, locked in a basement, and took her revenge by writing scary stories that came to life and killed all those who tormented her. Now it’s Halloween in 1968 and a group of teens (Zoe Margaret Colletti, Michael Garza, Gabriel Rush, and Austin Zajur) investigate the derelict Bellows house and find Sarah’s murderous book - and then start dropping like flies as Sarah’s stories start to come to life once more.

Some thoughts:

The movie theater we saw this in was an independent theater recently acquired by a big corporate chain, and as such, the employees could not figure out how to turn the lights all the way down. And we were in the biggest auditorium they have - think almost IMAX size - so the lights were those really strong spotlight kind recessed into the super high ceiling, but dimmed to about half strength. This is all to say that my experience was less Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark and more Scary Stories to Tell in an Office Building Past Nine.

The soundtrack is absolutely banging. I really, really enjoyed the extended intro sequence to “Season of the Witch” particularly.

Ok, hard and fast rule - don’t throw things that are on fire into ANYONE’s car, even if they’re a bully.

How are all these walls of cobwebs not a deterrent even if a scary murder basement isn’t?

You know, I don’t think I had overbearing parents in high school by any means, but even my friends with hippie parents could never have come home absolutely fucking WASTED and just be told, “go deliver eggs.” In the middle of the night. On Halloween. Like people do.

Harold was always the scariest story in the collection to me, and Harold himself is not fucking around here. His character design is deliciously creepy, plus the fact that he’s isolated in a huge cornfield at night. Anyone who grew up in the middle of the country will tell you - one of the scariest things on God’s green earth is a field of corn. Listen to this and listen well - cornfields are full of blood and old magic. Don’t. Fuck. With corn.

Glad to see they’re not underplaying the racism that someone with the name Ramon Rodriguez would be experiencing in a small town like this in 1968. Or now.

I can’t help but feel this would have been a far better movie if it was A) rated R and B) about a half hour longer. I’m all for short and snappy when the movie calls for it! But things moved SO quickly that nothing had much room to breathe. There were entire plot lines that felt dropped, or completely breezed past. Example - there’s a whole subplot about our Final GIrl Stella’s strained relationship with her dad (Dean Norris) that could have carried a lot of the emotional weight and really underscored some themes of the movie about generational trauma...but Stella and her dad have I think 2 very brief scenes together? Maybe 3? It feels like a LOT was cut from their arc. Even small details that could have been fleshed out into something really creepy feel dropped or missing - like, the corn in Harold’s field? Completely green and thriving on Halloween night, dead and yellow the next day. It feels like a scene is missing or that lines illuminating this choice were cut - even something as simple as “What could do something like this to an entire field of corn?” and the answer is E V I L.

I’ve been around lots of teenage boys before, I’m not a nun, but seriously who eats stew of all things that 1) people told you they didn’t make (and that you know YOU didn’t make) 2) that is COLD and 3) when people you love are saying DO NOT EAT ANYTHING OR YOU WILL DIE. I’m willing to concede 1 and 3 through sheer stubbornness and stupidity but COLD? COLD STEW? Cold, chunky, brownish stew??? Disbelief unsuspended.

There are a number of Very Good Dogs in this movie, including a beautiful Doberman, some excellent police K-9 units, and a Very Good black dog named Trigger! And I’m happy to report all of the dogs make it out ok!

“You don’t read the book - the book reads you” might be the worst line I’ve seen in a film this year. What does that even mean?

Why did Chuck say “My sister’s gone” - based on what we see in the film, the implication is that she actually survived? Unless there was a scene establishing her death definitively that was cut. This is what I mean when I say that the brutal to-the-bone editing to keep it PG-13 really makes the plot and continuity suffer.

Why would you throw away that perfectly good clipboard? Hospitals aren’t made of money, young man!

But maybe this hospital is, because they own a fucking gramophone?? And for the record, it has never been that easy to find any hospital records in the history of ever, so maybe this is a magic hospital, idk.

In terms of the actual scary stories come to life, the red room lady (see gif above) is really the only one that feels the same way the Stephen Gammell’s original artwork feels. All the other scary stories embodied in the film either rely too heavily on CGI to look convincingly real (Me Tie Dough-ty Walker) and therefore lose their dreadful creepiness or the character design, while scary, doesn’t really resemble the look or feel of the original illustration (Harold).

Speaking of Me Tie Dough-ty Walker, that part really rubbed me the wrong way. He moves super fast, and is so violently in your face - it doesn’t at all fit the tone of the books or the creeping dread of Gamell’s art. I understand you need to escalate the action as you’re heading into the climax of the film, but this move felt completely wrong to me, like it came from a totally different (and lesser) B-horror movie. He’s loud and gross and terrifying looking, like The Toxic Avenger doing parkour and shit, and that is not at all the vibe that any of these urban legends have.

Did I Cry? I teared up a teeny bit during Stella’s phone call with her dad. Dad-daughter stuff just gets me, ok?

It feels weird that they’re so clearly trying to set up a sequel, especially when the scariest story the movie tells is that Nixon wins the election and Ramon is drafted to go to Vietnam.

Overall, this could have been something pretty great. The acting and characterizations are solid, and there’s some rich thematic material to make this feel less like an anthology collection cash-grab. There’s even some pretty profound messages about trauma at the heart of Stella’s confrontation with Sarah Bellows - Stella understands that Sarah is only a monster because she is lashing out in pain, but she’s hurting innocent people. All Sarah wants is for her trauma to be heard, acknowledged, and remembered - all she wants is her story to be told. And while it doesn’t always reach its highest potential, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark is still certainly a story worth listening to.

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

Okay so tumblr decided that instead of saving an ask into my drafts when I answered it, it would eat it instead, so my prompt-fill will be ask-less. Was for @wheel-of-fish, with a trope mash-up prompt of Soulmate AU + Survival/Wilderness AU with a pairing of my choice (and we all know which one that’ll be). Warning for animal death and suggestive themes. (Also, this took forever and it’s WAY bigger than I expected it to be.) ___

The song is loud in his head.

But there is someone Nadir is meant to be chasing. Someone he knows very well, someone he cares for very well, enough to follow into every country carrying the tiniest inkling of a trail. Enough to disregard the fact that the man was never the one whose song matched his, no matter how often they hummed them to each other with hands clasped a thousand-thousand ages ago. Enough, even, to risk braving a frigid Swedish November in a northern forest with a name impossible for his mouth to form.

Not enough for Nadir to remember that man’s name, with his upper arm bleeding in a curtain down his sleeve and his entire body quaking with numb. The sleigh was just behind him, he is sure of it. It was just behind him, but the fall down the jagged slope had shaken snow off of one tree, which had shaken snow off of many trees, until even the one-armed and sweating climb back up proved fruitless for the loss of his tracks and what few faculties the cold had allowed him to keep to that point.

The dark has since fallen, the moon has since set, and he uses his good arm for eyes, as much to keep the branches out of his face as to feel forward. He has given up hope that he will find the trail again, given up hope of finding decent shelter, and the song shrills and echoes between his temples like a desperate, clawing thing trying and failing to keep him gripping to life.

He sees nothing but spots, floating in and out of existence. He feels little but the gumming blood on his arm and the crystals of ice in his beard. And when the light appears through the trees, above the mid-thigh snow, he knows it to be a figment. Still, the song grows louder, and for that, he doesn’t quite hear the sound of crunching snow from somewhere beyond the pines. He only hears, amidst the frantic notes as he falls forward into blackness, a distant, hazy woman’s shout.

~

He wakes to thick, sap-scented heat and a cloud of sheepskin under his naked back, the song faded to its steady, continuous background melody. He wakes, too, to the sleep-bleary ceiling of a ramshackle hut—the inside of a ragged wooden pyramid, longer than it is wide and even then only long enough for a bed. Two beds, he amends when he turns his head, the other separated from the one he lays on by a tiny stretch of floor lined with furs and pine boughs. To one end is an iron stove, crackling with a hearty flame behind the grilled front, the other a door and—a figure.

A young woman, to be precise, perhaps in her twenties, and the song shivers like a bell at the sight of her untucking pale-gold hair from where it had been pinned beneath a mottled grey hat. She lays a basket at the foot of the opposite bed and it seems a ritual, the methodical way she rids herself of patchwork coat, bright red scarf, matching mittens. Her boots are last and heaviest, and she doesn’t so much as look his way when she takes them up, pads on thick-stockinged feet to the stove, and sets them down beside where his own sit neglected. She crouches to stoke the fire, so close he can see the reddened shade of cold-kissed cheeks and the dew of melted snowflakes in her eyelashes, even in the low light.

“Miss,” he croaks. She starts, he with her, the clang of poker against the stove, the hiss at the twinge of sutures he hadn’t realized were lining his arm when he jolts to sit, when she jolts to her feet. The song trembles again when she whips ice-blue eyes to him, wide as though amazed that he is alive.

~

She speaks none of his language and he only enough of hers to know numbers and the cardinal directions, but with a fumbling game of charades, he learns that he was unconscious for a little more than a week, and it is more a guess to know he was hypothermic first, and then feverish until he came to. He learns, too, that her name is Christine Daaé, and the syllables of it make the notes in his head trill in a peculiar way that he attributes to the fever shaking from his brain.

He relearns the name of the man he was chasing, Erik, because she points to him and states it like a question. He doesn’t understand at first, nearly spills the tea of pine needles that she made into his lap in his haste to ask her where, where is he? It isn’t until she grabs his arm—grip tight, like she knows the strength in the thrashing of the ill and determined—that he realizes that she doesn’t know, only that he must have spoken the name in his ailing.

“Nadir,” he corrects with apologetic smile. “Nadir Khan.” The song trills again and if he didn’t know better, he would say that he saw her brow crease just a hair.

~

That first night, after she’s plied him with spoonsful of honey and bowls of thin, herbed broth, she sits at the edge of the bed she’s lent him. She doesn’t look his way just yet, staring across the tiny stretch of floor to her bed as though looking for something in the ecstatic colours of her quilt. She stares until her expressions flick from considering to anger to something else entirely, and at that point she is holding his hand—the song skips a beat, barely noticeable—and the staring turns to him while she brushes a thumb over his knuckle. He squeezes, an instinct—did she hold his hand, when he was sick?—and she squeezes back, and in that little moment, he sees a flash of a knowledge in her face he has had since waking but hasn’t yet put to worded thought.

He was left out here to die.

He doesn’t have the time to think properly on the fact, to think on the implications of his own mistake or the ill-will of those he paid, of how he will get to the point of no longer being dangerously deep in a Swedish forest—to say nothing of finding Erik—because she squeezes his hand again, tighter this time. With her other hand and a surety that is marked by a bowing mellow of the song, she points to him. She points to the bed beneath him. With an uncurling and splay of her fingers, she mimes something—grass, growth, spring.

You. Here. Spring.

Stay until the spring.

With a surety he doesn’t quite understand himself, and a series of notes that sit odd and heavy and warm, he nods.

~

He learns the word for ‘soup’ first—or perhaps ‘stew’ or perhaps ‘broth’—and the word for ‘bread’. He teaches her the same in his tongue while she snips his sutures free. He learns the word for ‘shirt’ and the word for ‘quilt’. These he teaches her too while she shows him how to sew patches into his torn shirt to match those she gives him. He learns the word for ‘pine needle’ and the word for ‘rabbit’, and when he finds his legs again and the echoes of the fever stop muzzying him, he learns to find and collect them.

He doesn’t ask why she is here, doesn’t have the words for it even if he wanted to ask, and all the same, what difference does it make? She is here, and she is patient while he learns to spot the squirrels’ caches and tie the knots for the snares, and it is a blessing. It is luck that sees him alive, and something in that luck feels tenfold when she hands him bowls of stewed rabbit and his fingers brush hers for the barest of seconds, roughened and dried by the chill and the fire-heat. The song crackles with the fire in those instants.

~

His heart pangs when she first brings out the violin, three weeks after the day he first woke. The case is ragged as the hut, wood dry and splintered in places, dinged and dented in others, but in the tender way of an object aged and well-loved. He isn’t used to seeing them in such a state, instead to the pristine upkeep of one belonging to a restless, manic mind—a different sort of love, but love too.

The violin itself is gorgeous despite little bits of wear, stained a dark auburn, with mother-of-pearl set into the neck in scrolls of fanning flowers that shine a pink-gold in the firelight. She holds it in her lap, thumbing the pegs. Though she always has some colour beneath her eyes, it seems deeper now for her looking at it.

“Christine,” he says softly. When she looks up, he recognizes the weight of resigned grief in the line of her brow. He holds out a hand and she takes it with no hesitation—he knows now that she held his hand in that feverish week, because it comes too easily to doubt—and with his other, he mimics bowing beside his shoulder. He points to her, then the violin. “Do you play?”

She laughs, a low and weary thing, before she shakes her head. She nods it then toward the bed she’s lent him, plucks at the cuff of the shirt she gave him, and says ‘Papa’.

The way she speaks it speaks more than a recounting would and it bruises something between his ribs. She must see it because she twines their fingers, perfect and interlocking, and smiles a smile that dips the dimple in her cheek. He can’t help but return it, nor to swirl his thumb in a circle at her wrist—the song stutters.

It lasts only a second before he is back to his mending, she back to her tending. She takes to tuning, and for a moment, he thinks the way she thrums the strings matches with the tune in his head.

~

He learns the word for ‘fur’ and the word for ‘bark’, and teaches them back to her. With the first, how to skin a rabbit and prepare the hide. With the second, how to find the soft white flesh between pine-bark and wood, and how to bake it into the dark bread that fills their stomachs when they can’t eat the rabbit for lack of lard and fear of being ill.

He learns the word for ‘light’ and the word for ‘star’, and teaches them back to her. With the first, he learns that it can form ribbons that shimmer and coalesce to turn treetops to dancing, vibrant-edged silhouettes. With the second, that he remembers nights under heat-swaying Persian skies and that they were different, so very different without the clouds of breath that plume into his blurring vision. With both, he learns that she turns her head to hide her tears, and that she leans against him but says nothing when he does the same.

He learns, too, a Swedish folk song while she stokes the fire. With this, he learns that the song in his head can change course to other songs, and that the colour of her lips is peony, the colour of her eyes is winter-sky, the sound of her laughter is addictive. He learns that the burr of a thought in the back of his head that tells him he needs to be searching is prickly, but less when she uses his knee to prop herself to standing.

~

He learns the word for ‘axe’. This one he doesn’t teach back to her because he is too busy shaking from the adrenaline, fingers bloodied for the gashes in her arm where the woken bear had swatted at her and almost, almost did more than just graze. He ignores the stinging in his palm where the axe handle had splintered in his throw, ignores too her quavering, thin-laughing protests—knows them to be protests, by the push of her other hand—when he presses his already rust-stained shirt into her sleeve to quell the bleeding.

Had her arm been turned the other way, had she hadn’t had the reflexes she had—it doesn’t warrant thinking. He stitches her up, practiced himself from more reckless and purposeful violences.

When he is done, he finds the bear again, felled and frozen with axe-head lodged in its skull, and he makes her rest while he cooks them both a meal that fills the hut with the scents of melting fat and berry-fed meat. The song stays frantic all the while, beating against his chest and lodging in his throat, but when she nudges him with her foot and inches forward until their knees press together, it fades quiet.

~

It is past midwinter when the firs outside keen and the chill hisses insidious promises beneath the crack of the door. It is past midwinter when he first feels the proper fear of it, this reality of a forest that stretches for an age in all directions with nothing but the snow and the bears and the wolves he hears so far but too close not to stop stiff at the sound. It is past midwinter when he lays awake for the cold that nips at his feet beneath the fur and the quilt.

It is past midwinter, too, when she whispers his name across that tiny distance between their beds.

The firelight is dim, only one log burning at a time until they can reach the wood shelter again, but he can see her face, her eyes, her hair, all spirit-pale against the burnt umber of the fox pelt beneath her head. The song takes on a waltzing rhythm, or a heartbeat rhythm, or some other thing slow and steady while she stares and he stares back. His heart trips at the way a curling lock falls over her face and she pushes it back.

Again when she sits up, stockinged feet touching the furs on the floor. He sees the ripple of goosebumps on her bare arms, her scars dark against the pale, the slightest shiver. He mirrors it with the tiny draft that brushes his neck, and with it he sees now the wordless question in the shift of quilt from her lap.

The answer is obvious.

She is soft against his chest, warm with the scent of bay, thyme, woodsmoke that clings to her hair and the fanning of breath over his lips. She is solid where she tangles her legs with his to keep on the too-small bed, solid beneath the hand he pushes to the small of her back and his arm resting in the dip of her waist. They are still, listening to the wind beat livid snowflakes against the roof of the hut to bury them alive. The solitude is thick around them, held only at arm’s length by the press of her forehead to his, by the pull of her inward breath.

“Nadir,” hush, hand creeping up his chest. It reaches his jaw, strokes over his beard, up to his temple, into his hair. He shivers and she does the same and the song follows suit. “Nadir.”

He kisses her to taste his name on her lips. He kisses her to swallow the sigh. He kisses her and she kisses back, and they aren’t still anymore. Palms find the places to warm, chests and shoulders and waists. Fingers find the places to trace, sensitive and pulling gasps. Fingers find the crests of hips. Fingers find hems and waistbands and flesh, find the skin seldom touched, find the places hot and pleading and shuddering while lips find necks and jaws.

He learns the word for ‘please’ and the word for ‘yes’, and teaches them back to her while the song quickens with the blood in his veins.

~

He doesn’t learn the word for ‘song’. They leave it secret and unspeakable, because he knows the ache of songs mismatching and the sting of rhythms that don’t quite meld, and he sees the same in her when she hums some other folk song and hugs that red scarf around her neck with distant memory in her eyes. He doesn’t want to know the melodies because in the end, he knows that now he would follow her the way he follows Erik and he doesn’t want the pain of knowing that he isn’t meant to.

Otherwise, he listens to her sing somber tunes they know while she looks at the hut, or looks at the fire, or looks at the violin with that heavy, weary grief that ages her twenty, thirty years for a fleeting, awful moment. She always turns to him afterward, cradles his face, swallows when he leans into it and tries to make sense of her expression.

She doesn’t give him a chance, because she always kisses him next, fiercely tender when she guides his hands to her hips.

~

It is mid-March when the snowdrops peek through, delicate and living against the snow. It is mid-March, then, when he decides he must move on.

They’ve learned many words by now, simple phrases that tangle their tongues but that the other understands even through the stumbling. Enough for her to say she can guide him to the village and help him on his way, and enough for him to have the means to ask her for something she can’t give. He doesn’t use them.

So they mend, and they stock, and they pack the things they need for the long trip, and the night before they intend to leave, they hold each other and weep in silence while the song trembles weak in the back of his skull.

She brings the violin and he doesn’t ask why. She looks back at the hut with tears in her eyes and murmurs something under her breath that he can’t hear. He doesn’t ask why for this either.

They don’t speak at all for the week that passes in travel between the dewy spruces.

~

The carriage to Stockholm is ready and she is there, starkly fae-like outside of the insulated fantasy of the wood. He feels a stranger himself, for those few months spent—rugged, ragged, ill-fitted for civilization with the new callouses on his palms and the thickening of his blood.

She holds the violin case slack, those wild winter eyes fixed to him across two steps’ distance, and that question is perched on his tongue, light and heavy at once. He can’t ask it of her. He shouldn’t. He won’t.

But pained and pleading, she hums.

He doesn’t recognize it at first, in a voice that isn’t in the echoes of his own head, but it tickles at the edges of his knowing until it slides into place, effortless and liquid. A harmony that shifts when that in his head shifts, a harmony that lingers when she stops and waits, expectant with knuckles going white on the handle of the violin case.

When he takes the song up himself, she sobs, but with fae face brightened to a grin.

He can’t ask it of her, but she answers.

~

He learns the word for ‘song’, because she teaches him when she pulls him into the train car bound for Paris from Le Havre. He teaches it back to her, teaches her the name ‘Erik’ in earnest, and she says the name with ease.

She knows little of his language, he little of hers, but they each know enough to promise that when they find the man, it will be together. The song, with her singing under her breath to it to the rhythm of the train car’s rocking, is lighter than it has ever been.

Sinker Ghost - 00

“So I guess we’ve got a stowaway here.”

The captain, looking as fearsome as could be, bore down on the deckhands’ “catch of the day”, as they had dubbed her. Of course, they usually just caught some fish on their trips, never any humans or anything of the sort. The little girl’s eyes watered as all manner of possible punishment ran through her head. What were they going to do to her? Was she going to be executed? Enslaved? Possibly fed to the sharks?

“Hmm...”

The captain’s eyes narrowed, and the girl felt herself being gruffly pulled up by the collar. She immediately stood up, though her legs were shaking. The deckhands were laughing their heads off, calling out things like “turn her into shark bait!” and “send her down to fish school!” Her thoughts went back to the orphanage that she had escaped from. The incessant beatings from the other kids, through no fault of her own -- rather that she was the only girl in the entire orphanage. The caretaker from the lower circles of hell, who looked upon all of them with loathing, as an old lady forced upon the profession, without anywhere else to go after the original caretaker passed away.

Her regrets piled high, and she began wishing that, instead of harboring dreams of a fantastical new world beyond the sea, she had simply leapt off into the pier instead.

“P-P-Please, please don’t k-kill me, I-I’ll do w-whatever you want,” the girl sobbed, clasping her hands together as she pleaded for her life. Around her, the laughing and taunting continued as she stared down at the wooden floor through tear-soaked eyes.

“Pull your head back up.”

The girl felt her chin being lifted up gingerly, and stared directly into the captain’s burning glare.

“Stop crying, you little shit!”

Startled by the sudden admonishment, she immediately stopped. The glare in front of her turned into a satisfied smile.

"All right, little girl. I'll listen to what you've got to say later. Right now, you can take that mop over there, and I'll see what we can do."

The ship's galley wasn't a very active place. Despite its sizable crew, only a single person manned the entire place. Bubbling pots accompanied a burly man's little ditty, who tapped his stumpy wooden leg to the tune of his humming as he checked ever so often on a potato stew. Meanwhile, a little girl sat quietly in the corner of the room, trying to make herself as small as possible. In her hands, a small mop revealed what she had been doing earlier.

"Oh, what am I going to do with you, squirt. Don't go sneakin' off a bite, now," laughed the cook, "or I might have to replace these potatoes with you!"

"I really doubt that you don't actually have a recipe for that."

The cook's ears picked up, and turned to see the captain at his door. "Oh, you flatter me, captain," the cook said, grinning with a yellowed set of chompers. Meanwhile, the girl in the corner decided to make an escape, and snuck about the counters. Unfortunately for her, the room wasn't entirely large, and the floor squeaked like a nest of mice.

"And what's she doing here?" the captain asked, freezing her in her tracks.

"Oh, her. I found her finished up with all the cleaning. Better work than I could've done, really. Dragged her in here so's I could show her a thing or two about the place she ought to be. Maybe even take her for my own!" he exclaimed with a hearty laugh. The burly cook attempted to make a friendly face, but all he did was make himself look a tad menacing. The girl seemed to shrink even further into the corner, and her head turned towards the exit. Her shaking feet looked like she simply wanted to bolt it, right that moment. However, before she could do so, she felt a heavy pat on her head. She looked up, and saw a soft smile; a stark contrast to the canine-bearing grin she had saw on her first day's pardoning.

"Sorry, Silver, but I think I'll take her under my wing. That's an order, but don't worry, you're off deck duty for a little bit."

The cook's face dropped. "What! Oh, and just when I thought I got a break. You just enjoy making me upset! I'll lace your dinner with a pepper from hell!" taunted Silver, shaking a spatula at his superior with mock anger.

Meanwhile, the little girl, stunned by the sudden save, only heard a hearty laugh. A rough hand messed through her short black hair.

"Come on, I'll show you the bridge."

Under the tutelage of her newfound guardian, the little girl found herself accepted by the crew, if somewhat begrudgingly. Lucas, the grizzly-looking quartermaster with the broadest shoulders she had ever seen, who subtly eyed her every time he came about drunkenly at some random point in the day. Jesse, the navigator, whose lanky figure never stopped him from smacking her in the back mirthfully when she came near. Bram, Levi, Sven -- the three slant-eyed mates that showed her how to tie the knots on the sails and the pulleys and check all the riggings. Daniel, the wiry-looking maintainer and surgeon, who brandished his tools with a fervent gleam in his eye, whom she prayed she would never have to meet under the knife. Silver, the portly cook, whose vulgar jokes seasoned his dishes much more than anything else he did. And of course, Jan, the captain, whose watchful eye kept all of the ship's crew at bay.

The entire time, however, the girl was never called by her name. It was always "girlie", or "lass", or some other. "Stowaways don't get names," Jan had said to her, once she had gathered enough courage to ask, followed by a rough pat on her head. And that was that, before she was bidden to some other deckhand to help with something or another. It didn't really matter to her once she went on, as one day melted into the next, and the girl allowed herself the happiness of being able to belong.

“Get those fucking sails down! Reconfirm the lifelines! Come on, people, move it!”

As the deckhands rushed about, their pasty sea-worn expressions betrayed their expectations. Under the roughly barked leadership of their captain, they scrambled to secure everything they could to ensure their chances of living. Everyone was muttering prayers under their breath to every deity they could think of. The storm couldn’t care less, however, and continued to howl over the captain’s profanities. Thunder crashed down on their ears, denouncing them for daring to challenge the seas.

In the midst of all the panic, a small figure in an oversized sailor's outfit crouched inside the captain's cabin, who had been told to stay indoors by the room's owner. She desperately hung onto the dresser, the heaviest thing she could find. The ship rolled wildly, and the dresser threw itself open, scattering all manner of clothes onto the wooden flooring. Her trembling hands found a small dress, and she scrambled around it, trying to hold on to the dresser's heavy body again as she closed her eyes in fright. Not that it mattered; the candle in the room had long been snuffed out.

Thunder crashed, and the world shook around her. A loud sound. Something smashing into wood.

The sound of the rain suddenly intensified on her ears, and the cold stormy winds blew hard against her. Specks of rain spattered against the tips of her toes, and though her eyes were clamped shut, she knew that the window, located at the far end of the room, had been thrown open. She opened her eyes to find that her guess had been correct -- the window had been dislodged from its latch. Hugging herself from the sudden draft, she crept across the room slowly to close the window.

The far wall seemed far away as she braved the rolling motions, but eventually she made it over, sidling up the wall to close the window. However, as soon as she grabbed the window frame and pulled herself up slightly, something caught her attention. A broad-shouldered figure, with what appeared to be a sack over their shoulder, near the chest-high wall that separated the starboard end of the ship and the murky seas.

... It was not until she saw the sack being thrown overboard that she noticed its limbs.

"Hey, chow time," a gruff voice said. Her listless eyes stared dully at the clinking plate being shoved towards her, containing a pile of unidentifiable mush, mixed in with some bit of greens. Her clothes had been replaced with a disheveled mishmash of rags, barely covering her diminutive frame. Lying in a corner in the dirty galley, with bruises about her battered body, she looked more like some discarded doll rather than the girl that she was supposed to be.

She felt a light smack on her cheek; it repeated itself a few times over. She shook her head, and that seemed to shake it off. "Good, you're not dead," the voice said again, shuffling away somewhere else. "It's only been half a week since the captain went and kicked the bucket... Can't blame you, though." A quick slurping noise. "Mmh, maybe I'll use a bit of that salt..."

Suddenly, the door to the room flung open, and the cook jumped slightly. "Oh, I was wondering where she was hiding," a booming voice said. At the sound of the voice, Silver heard a frightened whimper from the corner, and his heart sank.

"Christ, Lucas! Nearly gave me a heart attack -- would it kill you to not slam that door?" Silver groaned, watching the quartermaster hobble across the room. Though the man no longer had that title -- he was now the acting captain. The smell of drunken breath passed Silver's nostrils as the unwelcome visitor walked over to where the girl was, and dragged her off roughly by her arm. The cook thought of reaching out to stop the man, but one look at the man's bestial eyes, and he drew back. It was best that he stay out of it, he thought, and just let the man satisfy himself. As much as he longed to care for the girl, his altruism stopped exactly where his own wellbeing lay.

"Sorry, lass... you'll be able to see the old captain soon enough," he muttered to himself, returning to his post.

At some point, the girl found herself lying in another place, where she was deposited after being violated. The open deck was familiar enough to her -- the salty ocean air brushed at her unkempt black hair. She hadn't had the will to cry any longer, but her anguish painted itself over her expression all the same. Her fingers clutched about at the air as she curled up into a ball behind some hidden alcove of the deck.

Except -- her fingers touched something solid. They closed around a curved metal shaft, and her eyes drifted down to see that she was clutching the end of an anchor, attached to the ship by a heavy metal chain. She drew herself up to it, and allowed her consciousness to drift away.

The next time her eyes flitted open again, it was from the pitter of rain on her face. She stared up at a pitch-black sky, where lightning danced about, and thunder played its rumbling tune for accompaniment. The rain quickly intensified into a storm, yet the girl did not move. Even as the ship began to rock and turn dangerously, even as panicked screams came about her, even as the tilting of the ship tipped it over the point of no return, even as she felt the air in her lungs being filled with seawater.

... It’s so cold.

She stared listlessly in front of her, drifting about in the expansive blue sea. Shimmering lights peered down from the surface, and a school of fish swept past her. The girl tried to reach out to them, but only caught the trail of bubbles left behind. As her fingers grasped at nothing, her mind was overtaken by blank apathy. Weary eyes drifted upwards, she watched rays of sunlight dance about before her.

Maybe I should just sleep. I’m so tired.

She peered through her half-closed eyelids, one last time.

The underside of a ship slowly passed on by, its white sails at full mast.

A moment later, a blue trail of light rocketed through the water, and slammed into the side of the boat. The vessel shook violently, and she could hear screams coming from above. Her once-lifeless eyes flared up with delight, and she slammed herself into the hull once more.

Ahahahahaha! Die, die, die!

Again and again, she crashed into the boat. Over time, she could see a small crack traveling along the ship’s wooden hull. She cracked a demonic grin, and cackled. Her mayhem was taking too long, though. She needed something big, something that would wipe those that provoked her wrath.

Something big, something heavy, something amazing! Something that’ll drag them down. Drag them down, drag them down… Drag down a ship, a ship. A ship dragged down. A ship dragged—anchored. A ship anchored. Anchored. Anchor. Anchor. Anchor.

She repeated it to herself, over and over again. The entire time, her hands swung around an imaginary “object”. She felt the “object” get heavier and heavier with every swing, and her excitement grew stronger. Then, she heaved one last time, and tossed the weight at the ship’s hull. As soon she did so, a ladle appeared within her hand. A blue light rocketed from its cup, transforming into an enormous dark blue anchor.

Yes! Yes! Die! Die with me! Hahahaha!

The anchor bore into the ship, creating a titanic hole. With such a grave wound, the ship slowly gave out, and it began to tilt on its side. The girl examined her handiwork, and laughed. She looked up, and saw some of the ship’s passengers lowering some lifeboats. Her face lit up in delight, and she swung her ladle once more, listening madly to the screams of the dead.

“Hijiri-sama, are you sure you’ll be able to do this?” “Nobody is irredeemable, Ichirin. You know that as well as everyone else here,” the monk said. The head of the Myouren Temple smiled radiantly, seemingly glowing even as the clouds above foretold a rough ride. The blue-haired youkai next to her couldn’t help but sigh at her absurd altruism. A pink apparition of clouds surrounded the youkai, forming the head of a bald old man. Its blue-haired companion looked up at her cloudy compatriot, and closed her eyes, as if confirming something. “Mmm, I don't doubt your capability. Even though we've confirmed the ship's location, your plan still makes me kind of nervous.”

Then again, she also knew that at that point in time, there was nobody else of enough caliber to handle the infamous ship phantom. The locals were deathly afraid of her, as even though she only resided in a certain area, the surrounding currents would often force any ship that would try to circumvent it. From there, the bloodthirsty sinker ghost would capsize anything that floated into the deep end. The nearby coastal village residents had only called in the “youkai monk”, Hijiri Byakuren, after many others had failed to remove, or even placate her. The villagers had peered between their shutters at her arrival, afraid of her youkai entourage. Ichirin couldn’t blame them; they certainly didn’t look too pleasant.

“Is someone there?”

Ichirin jolted at the reverberating, ghastly voice. In front of them, a translucent green apparition materialized, in the form of a young girl dressed in a messy sailor outfit. Her eyes bore down on the head monk, who stood resolute against the phantom. The phantom’s expression became brighter as she did.

“Ooooh, I think I’ve heard of you. Hijiri Byakuren, right? Some big-shot temple monk?” “Nice to meet you. Please, call me Byakuren.” “Ahaha, sure, that sounds good,” the ship phantom laughed. She then raised her right hand, and a ladle came into being in it. Seawater began to swirl around it, filling up an outline of a huge anchor. “Well, then, Byakuren, I’ll be expecting a grand show from you.” “Do what you will. I’ve only come to talk.” “Yeah, let’s fi—what?”

Byakuren then spread her arms wide, showing the ghost a gesture of defenselessness. Blood drained from every one of her subordinates’ faces. “Ha, hahaha. You’re not gonna do me in with that. What, you think I died yesterday? You’re gonna pull out some crazy-ass exorcising contraption or something. They all tried to.” “I assure you that I have nothing up my sleeves. I’d just like for you to stop causing trouble for everyone.” “Hmph, trying to smooth-talk me? Ha, I bet if I can kill YOU, I could leave this little puddle and wreck some real havoc on land! Yeah! Hahahahaha!”

The phantom then raised her ladle, and the single ethereal anchor suddenly multiplied, resulting in what appeared to be half a dozen of them. She brought down her ladle, and the anchors rained down on Byakuren’s ship. Water erupted high into the sky with each anchor, ensuring that the ship would be eternally anchored on the seabed. After the mist cleared, she saw nothing but wooden shards littering the waves, and laughed, as she always did.

“Namusan!”

All of a sudden, a brilliant pillar of light exploded from where the ship had been, and the phantom cried out, shielding her eyes. The lightshow lasted for a moment before receding. She shook her head to clear it, and turned back to the site of the shipwreck.

“What…”

In front of her, a gigantic golden ship floated several feet above the waves, with a brilliant white sail adorning its mast. On its deck, all of Byakuren’s crew stood firmly, with the head monk herself muttering a few prayers with her hands clasped. The ship phantom gawked at the spectacle. It wasn’t only the fact that there was a huge floating ship in front of her, nor the fact that everyone she just fired a salvo of anchors at survived the attack.

“Will you listen to my plea, miss phantom?” said Byakuren.

The ghostly girl floated down to the deck, and felt her feet touch solid flooring after what seemed like an eternity. She looked around in a stupor. Everything was exactly the same as she had remembered it; this ship was the ship she had lost her life on. She hobbled across the main deck like the ghost she was, and opened the door to the halls, where she made her way through, and the monk followed shortly after.

Her guest was trailing the hallways. Every time she came across a room, she would turn her head to look inside, and every time, she looked a little more melancholic. Eventually, she came across a particular door, and stopped walking. She put her hand up to the door, looking hesitant to open it. She turned back to Byakuren. The monk merely smiled, and gestured with her head towards the doorway.

The door slowly swung open.

The room they entered was mostly unremarkable, having only three pieces of furniture to its name. A writing desk, a bed, and a dresser were the only occupants of the cabin. Yet as soon as they entered, the ship phantom’s cheeks started to wet, and her body started to shiver. Byakuren walked to her side, and waved towards the dresser with the same radiant smile. “Go on,” she said. The girl did as she was told, dragging its doors open. There, a small safe sat, tightly sealed with a rotating dial on its front. Her hand rested on the dial, and mechanically spun it once, twice, thrice. Click went the door, revealing the safe’s contents. However, this was no secret pirate chest; a small, unassuming bound book was the only treasure to be found. She flipped it open, and came to the last few pages.

Month ███, Day ███, Year ███. What a day. We found an interesting stowaway today on deck after we cast off. A mousy local girl, looking about eleven, maybe twelve. Everyone was excited to see her, and by excited I mean downright bestial. I just made her swab the decks for a bit, give old Silver a bit of a rest after losing his foot. He seemed happy about it, not so much to say about the rest. She’s staying in my room, though, I’m not about to trust these scruffs with her.

Month ████, Day████, Year ███. Silver’s been talking a lot about the new girl. Says she’s learning quite a lot, and he’s going to take her under his wing or some other. She honestly looked a bit terrified at the thought, and it’s funny to see Silver’s face scrunched up anyway, so I said no, and I went with making her my assistant. Normally I’d expect everyone to mutiny, but they seem to adore her now, it’s amusing. Apparently she ran off from an orphanage in the port we left half a week ago. I forgot to ask for her name, though. I hope she didn't take my joke earlier too seriously.

Month ████, Day████, Year ███. It’s been a cold year so far. We’ve got a rush order to take care of, right in the middle of monsoon season, and I’ve got something dastardly running me a fever. It’s amazing how she’s grown in the past few months. Ha, maybe if I die I could name her to succeed me. I still haven't asked her for her name, though. At this point, I'm just dragging my feet, aren't I?

Month ████, Day█████, Year ███. I can’t even leave my bed without leaving a mess on the floor. The storms outside aren’t helping matters, either; even keeping this journal is a task on its own. I’ve trusted the girl with the safe lock, at the very least. She’s keeping me up to date with everyone’s well-wishes. What a good girl.

Month ████, Day██████, Year ███. I woke up a fright this morning. Nightmares of black waves, red moons and whatever else I haven’t recalled. I do pray it’s not a premonition of some sort. The season hasn’t let up one bit, and the ship is still rocking something fierce. I pray that we get through safely.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

With every page she went through, the girl’s crying went unabated. As she finished the last (unfortunate) entry, she clutched the journal to her chest, and bawled, just as she did the very first day she stepped on this ship. She poured out all her heart for a few minutes before the ship was quiet again. “All better?” said Byakuren. The ghostly girl jumped, she had completely forgotten that the monk was even there. She waited a bit, and nodded.

“I-I’ve done so much, though. Sunk so many ships. I-I can’t…” she said, sobbing with her head drawn into her chest. Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up to see the monk's smiling face.

“Well, if you're looking for some way to redeem yourself, there is a way.”

“H-Huh? Really?”

“The Myouren Temple is accepting of everyone in need, human or youkai. And we do have a ship in need of a captain,” said Byakuren, the monk’s eyes looking straight at hers – determined, yet calm. Someone else’s face flashed in front of her eyes briefly, and she looked down at the journal in her arms. The memory of that dreaded stormy night threatened to burn her down.

Instead, a fire was lit in her heart, where previously only cold resided. She bowed forward, and resolutely exclaimed, “Captain Murasa Minamitsu of the Palanquin Ship, at your service!”

Drifting along the bridge deck of the Palanquin Ship, Murasa leaned back against a wall as she gazed at the starry sky. As she held her hand up, she counted the stars between her fingers, as though they were countable. How many years has it been? Hundreds, maybe a thousand? However long ago, after Byakuren had sacrificed herself to her angry opposers, who had called her a “demon in human form”, she had been locked up in Hokkai, a sealed region in the far corners of the Demon World, Makai.

“Murasa-kun,” a voice called out. The ship phantom stiffened up, and turned towards a tall blonde woman, dressed in a brilliant orange-white dress and a giant cloth circle behind her back.

“Shou? Did you get everything?” asked Murasa tensely.

“We’ve located a few more pieces of the Soaring Vault. We may have it entirely constructed by tomorrow, and thus be ready to pierce the seal of Hokkai,” reported Shou. “How’s the ship holding up?”

“It’s holding up well. You don’t need to worry about it; Ichirin and her pet fog machine did a good job of patching things up,” laughed Murasa.

“W-What’s a fog machi—Never mind. Just prepare for our trip into Makai. The miasma there is rough, even for the most seasoned youkai,” said Shou.

Murasa waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Go get some sleep, you old cougar.”

“I-I am not a cougar! How rude. … Good night,” the avatar of Bishamonten said, walking away into the halls.

Left to her own devices once again, Murasa sighed. Turning back, she phased through the walls into the dark bridge. Her green luminescence shone on the pitch-black room, and she floated towards the captain’s chair. A small bound book sat on it, and she picked it up. Her heart burned with a fervent wish as she held it to her chest.

[Ending Theme]