End of an era snippet submission <3

Izuku sometimes, often, think about how strange he must seem to his classmates. They didn’t know him before he went back, but he can never quite stop that niggling worry that he at some point let something slip, that they will never fully trust him like they once, in a long gone future, did.

He watches First and Second dance around the field, careful not to step on the few wild flowers even as their footsteps do no harm. They are less careful about stepping on third and fifth as they sunbathe, first delightfully chanting in a childish sing-song that it’s perfectly legal to walk on people laying on the floor.

Even if Izuku haven’t let anything incriminating of the future and his way too much knowledge slip, he’s sure at least some of his classmates have spotted him looking at empty air, laughing at jokes no one else can hear, mumbling more than just hero analysis notes.

But even as he worries, Izuku can’t bring himself to dislike the vestiges company. He can’t bring himself to hate that they came back just like him, that it only took a few days with one for all for them to show up outside of his head as well as within it, compared to the two years it took the first time.

Their presence is grounding, a clear reminder that what he went through really happened. Listening ears for the events no one else may hear, for the plans he brainstorms with them to make sure it will never happen again.

It was just barely too long to put in an ask so I had to make it a submission. One day I’ll clean up my blog so I feel comfortable making original posts on there and then it’s over for you all <33

Over-Emotional: Danny Phantom Oneshot.

Original idea by @amabsis on their post right here!!

[Originally written on a reblog of the prompt but it went all screwy and left an incomplete version so I made it it's own post and I've made a few grammar and spelling edits. Sorry for any confusion!!]

(This is the first thing I've ever written for the DP Phandom so I apologize if it's a little OOC)

⚠️(TW: DESCRIPTIONS OF A PANIC ATTACK AND GORE!!!!!)⚠️

  Danny drifted through the skies of Amity Park, following the streets which were slick with recent rain. The stars twinkled merrily above and the beams from the street lights seemed to buzz through the comforting, crisp air. Not a sound disrupted the mellow atmosphere and ghosts had appeared to leave tonight alone and retired to their lairs. A soothing night such as this would have been Danny's favorite; it would have been a much needed break from his overly stressful life.

  Yet Danny couldn't shake off the creeping apprehension even as he twisted in and out of alleyways back into the lit roads.

  His parents had been working tirelessly  on a project that they wouldn't tell him and Jazz about. Jack, their father, would always jump at the chance to describe what he was doing and couldn't keep his antics quiet for long. Maddie's, their mother, eyes would have brightened as she recounted the innovate idea she had conjured and the necessary calculations she could toy around with. These facts coupled with Jazz and Danny casually inquiring about their latest project would make them incredibly ecstatic.

  But whenever the two had asked about it, put off by the unusual quiet of the parents, had only been given an amused smile and an occasional wink.

  Tonight, before Danny's patrol and during dinner, Jazz had managed to weasel some information out of them. Though, it left more questions than answers.

  "So, you guys have been in the lab a lot recently," Jazz said conversationally. "Working on some new ghost stuff? It seems important if you're spending most of the day down there."

  Maddie had given her a deliberate look like someone who'd finally decided to take a second cookie.

  "It's our greatest invention yet," she said lowly and excitedly. "I think your dad and I have found the solution to our little ghost problem."

  The siblings gulped and tried to suppress their shudders.

  "It's not going to hurt them is it? Phantom and the other ghosts." Jazz's voice was even and didn't show a hint of a tone shift.

  "Surprisingly, no. No harm will be dealt to them. It's not like they can feel anyway. That's exactly the problem," Jack chimed excitedly before going back to his ectoplasm contaminated lasagna.

  "Besides, we wouldn't want to hurt the object of our daughter's affection.  We all know about your crush on Phantom," Maddie teased but then added with a small frown. "Though it's not healthy to have a crush on ghosts at all."

 Jazz gave an aggressive gagging noise and Danny was torn between hysterical laughter and a gag of his own. Dinner resumed as normal —well, as normal as you could get being a Fenton— and Danny took note of the fact his parents had refused to say anymore.

  Danny was busy going over and dissecting the conversation and lax in his attention to his surroundings by the inactivity that he didn't notice the two shadow-cloaked figures tailing him. The taller one with a broader build was holding an intimidating gun, that looked like it was straight out of an eighties sci-fi movie, on his back.

  Maybe I should head back, Danny thought to himself. I have so much homework due and a test tomorrow. A pop quiz in calculus and a lab in science. I have to meet Nathan at my study hall period and at lunch. Liz needs my help…

  On and on the list went as Danny subtlety started flying home. Just thinking of things that needed done was making him more anxious and tired.

  "Phantom, we'll have you now," Jack cried, his voice echoing in the hollow streets.

  Danny turned around, slightly aggravated when he was struck by a violet beam and plummeted, crashing to the sidewalk.

  "Jack! I told you to wait," Maddie chastised as they walked over to Danny who had barely sat up.

  His head swam and Maddie and Jack looked like the reflections of a carnival fun house mirror. Though his vision corrected itself quickly.

  "I think you might have given him a concussion. But that doesn't make sense, ghosts don't have brains," Maddie said, slightly confused. She reached out to gingerly place her fingertips on Danny's temple and he flinched.

  "Don't touch me!!" Danny had yelled louder then he meant to and his voice came out with an extra echo; like he had been about to use his ghostly wail. The three stilled before Danny began crawling backwards, keeping his eyes on Jack and Maddie at all times.

  "I don't wanna hurt you," Danny whimpered and tears sprang to eyes like a line of men ready to battle. Why the hell was he crying!? He didn't cry easy, at least not of late, and he'd been in these situations and worse without crying so why was he breaking down now??

  Maddie looked at him with wide eyes and her hand, which had still been suspended in shock, dropped to her belt and Danny panicked.

  "Don't hurt me!" Danny tried to pick himself up to fly, to get the hell out of dodge but when he went to stand his vision and black an —god why were his veins burning with adrenaline???

  Danny's chest was caving, that was the only explanation as his ribs seized and threatened to crush his lungs. His heart had left its place and sprinted from the back of his throat down to right beneath his collarbone before starting all over again. Has his hands always been this sweaty??? Tremors wracked through his limbs —he couldn't deal with this now!! He needed to finish his Hamlet essay, and review his history notes, and hadn't Liz asked him to buy popsicle sticks for their art project??? That's what he had forgotten!! He can't think of this now!! Maddie and Jack could easily catch him now —but oh, God was he screwed when —if— when he went to school the next day.

  "Phantom, you're having a panic attack," Maddie said calmly.

  "No, shit there, Sherlock." Danny bit his bottom lip to prevent another scathing comment from escaping. Usually he had better control of his mouth believe it or not. He put his head between his knees, closing his eyes and trying to focus on, well, nothing. He felt tears slip from his eyes and barely stopped himself from screaming.

  "You know what a panic attack is?" Jack titled his head as he scanned over his shaking form.

  "Jack did you put the settings up too high while we were following him?"

  "Of course not! I was very careful not to bounce anything out of place. You've Done the math, four times, it should be perfectly calibrated." Jack twisted the purple and silver metallic gun in his hands, giving it a thorough look over.

  "What the fuck are you two talking about!!" The scientists' head whipped back to see Danny's eyes glowing a tad brighter than before and his mouth transfixed into a snarl. Maddie slid a careful hand to her holster.

  "Our newest invention. Ghosts, well most of them, are just whispers of feelings that people once had. They can't actually feel and so they do bad things or... or they mimic human behaviors really well to make it seem like they do, like they're human." Maddie's voice trailed off at the end as if seeing if he would explode.

  Danny felt that normally he would have but he started to hyperventilate. How was he going to reverse it??? Was there even a way to do so or did they not include a reverse button by mistake (on purpose?) like they had mistakenly put the 'on' button inside the portal??

  "We're going to take you to the lab. Check your... concussion and to stabilize your mood. Run a few tests..."

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodoh—

   They would strap him down and cut and lay his chest open like a butterfly steak and their hungry eyes would roam over him and their hands would devour him by pulling at his nerve endings and removing his organs and Danny would scream until his voice was hoarse and then some like a helpless lamb. Would he bleed blood or ectoplasm when they drained him? Would they take turns as he bleed out?? Or would they flow out together like some sort of demented, holiday dinner?? Or—

  "Phantom! You need to calm down." Maddie was at his side (when had she gotten there?) and was squeezing his hand. Danny briefly noted her eyes were filled with worry as her goggles hung at her neck. "Just breathe with me okay, please."

  "Breathe with her, buddy" Jack, who sat on the other side of Danny, whispered as he gently rubbed circles on the boy's lower back. "It's gonna be okay. We aren't going to hurt you."

  Danny wanted to say a smart aleck remark about them not having the same sentiment five minutes ago but instead focused on his breathing. He faced his head skyward and tried to count the stars. Nothing but him and the stars, no home— just the stars.

  Danny was reminded of the time he went stargazing with the rest of his family. A rare occasion as Maddie and Jack seemed to always be working. They had smiled so big at him as he pointed out constellations, awestruck. Jazz had nodded along as she listened attentively with a smile of her own. The night hadn't been more clear in months and more stars then usually were out. The picnic blanket they laid on was soft and him and Jazz had rested in between their parents and God they had been so happy then—

  Danny let out an involuntary sob. The melancholy seemed to come from the depths of his chest but at least it seemed to push out the panic.

  "Phantom," Maddie asked as she huddled closer to him. Phantom, not Danny. It hadn't really bothered him before; they didn't know it was him so why would they call him by his name?

  But it still made him cry harder. He wanted to tell them. He wanted to so, so bad.

  Jazz had urged him to tell them. But Danny had always been afraid. Scared that they wouldn't want him anymore.

  Now the sadness had overwhelmed the fear and the panic. He felt so isolated even when his parents were next to him, right there, trying to coax him into being calm. He had to tell them. He had to do it now because he wouldn't be this impulsive again.

  He felt the white rings gloss over him and heard Jack yell out "Phantom". When it was over he heard them gasp.

  "D-Danny," Maddie choked out.

   "I'm so sorry," Danny said through his tears. He chanted it over and over again as his parents reassured him that he had nothing to be sorry for and that they should apologize.

  The three sat there for quite some time, huddled close and crying together.

  Soon they would head home and take care of Danny's quickly healing concussion and reverse the effects of the gun. They would ask questions tomorrow after school but, for now, they tucked him into bed, something they hadn't done since he was eleven, and gave him their good night kisses on his temple before creeping to their room unaware of Jazz watching them from her bedroom door. She would text Sam and Tucker an explanation and ask them to give Danny the answers to the homework in the morning. She slipped into bed and fell asleep.

  The streets were barely slick with rain anymore. The stars twinkled merrily and the street lights buzzed. The crisp, cool air was calm and mellow. The night soothing and the Fentons were a family once again.

A Dance in Fire, v1

A Dance in Fire Chapter 1

by Waughin Jarth

✲•······················▃🖋️······················•✲

Scene: The Imperial City, Cyrodiil Date: 7 Frost Fall, 3E 397

It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission, the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly every construction of any note in the Empire. It had stood for two hundred and fifty years, since the reign of the Emperor Magnus, a plain-fronted and austere hall on a minor but respectable plaza in the Imperial City. Energetic and ambitious middle-class lads and ladies worked there, as well as complacent middle-aged ones like Decumus Scotti. No one could imagine a world without the Commission, least of all Scotti. To be accurate, he could not imagine a world without himself in the Commission.

“Lord Atrius is perfectly aware of your contributions,” said the managing clerk, closing the shutter that demarcated Scotti’s office behind him. “But you know that things have been difficult.”

“Yes,” said Scotti, stiffly.

“Lord Vanech’s men have been giving us a lot of competition lately, and we must be more efficient if we are to survive. Unfortunately, that means releasing some of our historically best but presently underachieving senior clerks.”

“I understand. Can’t be helped.”

“I’m glad that you understand,” smiled the managing clerk, smiling thinly and withdrawing. “Please have your room cleared immediately.”

Scotti began the task of organizing all his work to pass on to his successor. It would probably be young Imbrallius who would take most of it on, which was as it should be, he considered philosophically. The lad knew how to find business. Scotti wondered idly what the fellow would do with the contracts for the new statue of St Alessia for which the Temple of the One had applied. Probably invent a clerical error, blame it on his old predecessor Decumus Scotti, and require an additional cost to rectify.

“I have correspondence for Decumus Scotti of the Atrius Building Commission.”

Scotti looked up. A fat-faced courier had entered his office and was thrusting forth a sealed scroll. He handed the boy a gold piece, and opened it up. By the poor penmanship, atrocious spelling and grammar, and overall unprofessional tone, it was manifestly evident who the writer was. Liodes Jurus, a fellow clerk some years before, who had left the Commission after being accused of unethical business practices.

“Dear Sckotti, 

I emagine you alway wondered what happened to me, and the last plase you would have expected to find me is out in the woods. But thats exactly where I am. Ha ha. If your’e smart and want to make lot of extra gold for Lord Atrius (and yourself, ha ha), youll come down to Vallinwood too. If you have’nt or have been following the politics hear lately, you may or may not know that ther’s bin a war between the Boshmer and there neighbors Elswere over the past two years. Things have only just calm down, and ther’s a lot that needs to be rebuilt.

Now Ive got more business than I can handel, but I need someone with some clout, someone representing a respected agencie to get the quill in the ink. That somone is you, my fiend. Come G meat me at the M’ther Paskos Tavern in Falinnesti, Vallinwood. Ill be here 2 weeks and you wont be sorrie.

- - Jurus

P.S.: Bring a wagenload of timber if you can.”

“What do you have there, Scotti?” asked a voice.

Scotti started. It was Imbrallius, his damnably handsome face peeking through the shutters, smiling in that way that melted the hearts of the stingiest of patrons and the roughest of stonemasons. Scotti shoved the letter in his jacket pocket.

“Personal correspondence,” he sniffed. “I’ll be cleared up here in a just a moment.”

“I don’t want to hurry you,” said Imbrallius, grabbing a few sheets of blank contracts from Scotti’s desk. “I’ve just gone through a stack, and the junior scribes hands are all cramping up, so I thought you wouldn’t miss a few.”

The lad vanished. Scotti retrieved the letter and read it again. He thought about his life, something he rarely did. It seemed a sea of gray with a black insurmountable wall looming. There was only one narrow passage he could see in that wall. Quickly, before he had a moment to reconsider it, he grabbed a dozen of the blank contracts with the shimmering gold leaf ATRIUS BUILDING COMMISSION BY APPOINTMENT OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY and hid them in the satchel with his personal effects.

The next day he began his adventure with a giddy lack of hesitation. He arranged a sear in a caravan bound for Valenwood, the single escorted conveyance to the southeast leaving the Imperial City that week. He had scarcely hours to pack, but he remembered to purchase a wagonload of timber.

“It will be extra gold to pay for a horse to pull that,” frowned the convoy head.

“So I anticipated,” smiled Scotti with his best Imbrallius grin.

Ten wagons in all set off that afternoon through the familiar Cyrodilic countryside. Past fields of wildflowers, gently rolling woodlands, friendly hamlets. The clop of the horses’ hooves against the sound stone road reminded Scotti that the Atrius Building Commission constructed it. Five of the eighteen necessary contracts for its completion were drafted by his own hand.

“Very smart of you to bring that wood along,” said a gray-whiskered Breton man next to him on his wagon. “You must be in Commerce.”

“Of a sort,” said Scotti, in a way he hoped was mysterious, before introducing himself: “Decumus Scotti.”

“Gryf Mallon,” said the man. “I’m a poet, actually a translator of old Bosmer literature. I was researching some newly discovered tracts of the Mnoriad Pley Bar two years ago when the war broke out and I had to leave. You are no doubt familiar with the Mnoriad, if you’re aware of the Green Pact.”

Scotti thought the man might be speaking perfect gibberish, but he nodded his head.

“Naturally, I don’t pretend that the Mnoriad is as renowned as the Meh Ayleidion, or as ancient as the Dansir Gol, but I think it has a remarkable significance to understanding the nature of the merelithic Bosmer mind. The origin of the Wood Elf aversion to cutting their own wood or eating any plant material at all, yet paradoxically their willingness to import plantstuff from other cultures, I feel can be linked to a passage in the Mnoriad,” Mallon shuffled through some of his papers, searching for the appropriate text.

To Scotti’s vast relief, the carriage soon stopped to camp for the night. They were high on a bluff over a gray stream, and before them was the great valley of Valenwood. Only the cry of seabirds declared the presence of the ocean to the bay to the west: here the timber was so tall and wide, twisting around itself like an impossible knot begun eons ago, to be impenetrable. A few more modest trees, only fifty feet to the lowest branches, stood on the cliff at the edge of the camp. The sight was so alien to Scotti and he found himself so anxious about the proposition of entering the wilderness that he could not imagine sleeping.

Fortunately, Mallon had supposed he had found another academic with a passion for the riddles of ancient cultures. Long into the night, he recited Bosmer verse in the original and in his own translation, sobbing and bellowing and whispering wherever appropriate. Gradually, Scotti began to feel drowsy, but a sudden crack of wood snapping made him sit straight up.

“What was that?”

Mallon smiled: “I like it too. ‘Convocation in the malignity of the moonless speculum, a dance of fire --’”

“There are some enormous birds up in the trees moving around,” whispered Scotti, pointing in the direction of the dark shapes above.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Mallon, irritated with his audience. “Now listen to how the poet characterizes Herma-Mora’s invocation in the eighteenth stanza of the fourth book.”

The dark shapes in the trees were some of them perched like birds, others slithered like snakes, and still others stood up straight like men. As Mallon recited his verse, Scotti watched the figures softly leap from branch to branch, half-gliding across impossible distances for anything without wings. They gathered in groups and then reorganized until they had spread to every tree around the camp. Suddenly, they plummeted from the heights.

“Mara!” cried Scotti. “They’re falling like rain!”

“Probably seed pods,” Mallon shrugged, not turning around. “Some of the trees have remarkable - - “

The camp erupted into chaos. Fires burst out in the wagons, the horses wailed from mortal blows, casks of wine, fresh water, and liquor gushed their contents to the ground. A nimble shadow dashed past Scotti and Mallon, gathering sacks of grain and gold with impossible agility and grace. Scotti had only one glanced at it, lit up by a sudden nearby burst of flame. It was a sleek creature with pointed ears, wide yellow eyes, mottled pied fur and a tail like a whip.

“Werewolf,” he whimpered, shrinking back.

“Cathay-raht,” groaned Mallon. “Much worse. Khajiti cousins or some such thing, come to plunder.”

“Are you sure?”

As quickly as they struck, the creatures retreated, diving off the bluff before the battlemage and knight, the caravan’s escorts, had fully opened their eyes. Mallon and Scotti ran to the precipice and saw a hundred feet below the tiny figures dash out of the water, shake themselves, and disappear into the wood.

“Werewolves aren’t acrobats like that,” said Mallon. “They were definitely Cathay-raht. Bastard thieves. Thank Stendarr they didn’t realize the value of my notebooks. It wasn’t a complete loss.”

✲•······················▃🖋️······················•✲

Issue 8:Holy moly,me oh my,you're the spider of my eye

Enji sneered at the photos of Spidermenace.Who did that Mutant think he was,parading around like a normal person?!

"Mr.Todoroki,sir-"

"WHAT?!"He barked at the photographer who had entered his office and she flinched.

"W-We got the photos of Spiderman and that creature."

"Well,what are you waiting for?Bring them in!"

She listened and spread them out on his desk.He inspected them and snarled."Just as i thought!Palling around with that thing!"

"Sir,i really do think he was trying to stop it-"

"Nobody cares what you think."She shrunk back,"New headline: Spiderfreak consorts with monster."

-

(Saturday)

Katsuki yawned as he walked down the stairs and saw Moms looking at the newspaper with disgust."What happened?"

"Todoroki is demonizing Spiderman again."Mom said,contempt in her tone as she said his surname.Mom growled.

"What the fuck is this guy's problem?!Spiderman has done nothing wrong,he just hates Mutants!"

Katsuki joined them in their disgust.Suddenly,he had an idea.A crazy idea that just might work.

-

(Monday)

"Deku!"

Izuku blinked in surprise as Kacchan ran up to him that morning on his walk to school,smiling and phone in hand."Did you see it?"

"See what?"

Kacchan responded by typing something on his phone and handed it to him.Izuku's eyes widened at what he saw.A red and blue website with the username'Spiderblog'."Is this...a blog about me?"

"It's a blog to support you."Kacchan corrected,"Todoroki's dad and all the other mutantphobes keep talking shit about you so i wanted to show you you're not alone and that we believe in you."

Izuku felt himself tearing up.'Kacchan...'Kacchan believed in him."Wait,who's 'we'?"

"Me and the other webheads!"

Izuku could have sworn he heard a record scratch."Webheads?"

Kacchan smiled again,"That's what Spiderman fans are calling themselves."

Izuku actually started crying."I love them."

Kacchan wrapped an arm around him,half-hugging him as they continued their walk to school.

"Do you run this all by yourself?"

"My Moms helped me set it up.They know way more about this stuff than me.But it was all my idea.I'm your number 1 fan."

"I love you.You're my best friend."Izuku blutered out.Kacchan started to tear up.

"Damn,Deku...keep talking like this and i might marry you."

Izuku put his attention back to the Spiderblog to turn down his blush,pushing the thought of Kacchan intentionally flirting with him away."What's this?"He pointed at a video.

"That's the first thing i posted."Kacchan said proudly.Izuku clicked on it.On screen appeared Kacchan in his bedroom.

"Hey,i'm Bakugou Katsuki!Are you a fan of Spiderman?If yes,then this is the perfect place for you!Here,you'll find Spiderman positivity and updates on the web hero himself!If no,well,get better soon,i guess!"Izuku laughed at the last line as the video ended.

"I posted this yesterday."Kacchan clicked on another video.This time,he was sitting at his desk.

"Hey Webheads!As you've noticed,Spiderman has been under some insults by-"he coughed,"-brainless dumbasses-"he coughed again,"-mutantphobes.To counter attack,i propose a new hastag-#istandbySpiderman,no spaces.With this,we can show support to our favorite hero.Are ya with me?"

"Fuck yeah we're with you!"They jumped and whipped around to see Kirishima(who had yelled)and their other friends behind them.Jirou was even smiling and Todoroki and Sero were carrying a box.

"What's that?"Izuku asked.Kacchan looked equally curious.Kirishima grinned and pointed at something on his shirt.It was then that Izuku realized that they were all wearing red pins with '#istandbySpiderman' written on them.He resisted the urge to burst into tears.It was hard."I...i'm sure Spiderman is very grateful."His voice cracked as he choked up.

-

Izuku spent the whole day trying not to sob as his friends handed out the pins and so many accepted them.Even Mr and Mrs.Yagi!

"You guys really are Webheads,huh?"Kacchan commented fondly.

"And proud!"Said Monoma.

"Yes⭐!"Aoyama agreed.

After school,Doc Oc attacked again.Izuku put on his costume and sprung into action.

"You!" He snarled upon seeing Izuku.

"Me!"

During their fight,Kacchan arrived and began filming them from a safe distance.Doc Oc eventually noticed him."Ah,Spiderman's boyfriend.What a delight to see you again."Kacchan and Izuku blushed.

"He's not my boyfriend!"They said simaultaneously.Doc Oc laughed.

"Ah,true love.Such a pitiful thing."Doc Oc launched a tentacle at Kacchan and he dodged just in time,grazing his knee in the process.

"Leave him alone!"Izuku shouted furiously,shooting webbing at his face and it landed in his mouth.As Doc Oc coughed,Izuku took the opportunity to kick him in the face and that knocked him out cold.He ran towards Kacchan.

"Kacc-Citizen,are you okay?!"Kacchan smiled at him.

-

'Deku,always worrying about me...I'd be lying i said i didn't like it.'

-

"Eh,it's no big deal.Just a little scratch."Izuku grabbed his hand and took him to the nearest hospital.A nurse nearly dropped her plate upon seeing him.

"S-SPIDERMAN!Oh,it's an honor!May i get your-"Izuku signed her notepad before she could finish and she squealed before coughing into her hand,embarrased."So what seems to be problem?"

"My friend got his knee scratched.Can you patch him up?"

Kacchan looked like he was not to smile,"Spiderman,get that look off your face.I'm fine."

"You can't even see my face."Izuku turned to him and did a bunch of expressions,moving his hand up and down his face as he changed.Kacchsn burst out laughing and Izuku smiled softly,loving that sound.

"You're such a dork,Spiderman!"

The nurse patched up his knee,afterwards Izuku kissed it and smiled when Kacchan blushed kirby pink.

"Let me take you home."

-

Katsuki had never felt this much adrenaline.Swinging through the city and arms wrapped around his best friend.He didn't know which one made his heart race faster.

"WOOOOOOHOOOOOOO!"He exclaimed,grinning,the world around him gone.It was just him and Deku.

"Having fun?"Deku joked.

"Fuck yeah!We should do this more often!"

"If that's what you want."

"Really?"Deku nodded,looking at him with with soft eyes.Katsuki squeezed him tighter."I love Spiderman!"He exclaimed.

"I love you too!"

They arrived at Katsuki's house and entered.Mom nearly dropped her coffee in shock.

"Spiderman?!"

"Hi,Mrs.Usagiyama."Deku waved.Mom's shock wore off and she smiled widely.

"Rumi,come here,dear!"

"What for?"

"Spiderman is here!'

Katsuki heard Mom stumbling.Mom turned to Deku once again,smiling.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?"

"WOULD YOU LIKE TO STAY FOREVER?"

-

"So."Ryuko said as they digged down,"Spiderman,how do you know our Katsuki?"

"We met at school."Not a lie.He and Kacchan met on the first day of pre-k.

"Do we know you?"Rumi inquired,"Wait,don't tell me.Secret identity bizz.I get it."

"Thank you."

"Katsuki,how is Hamlet going?"

And the conversation continued.They laughed and joked and overall got along great.After they finished,Izuku helped wash the dishes and was led outside by Kacchan once he was done.

"They love you."Kacchan beamed.

"They already love me."

"But now they love Spiderman.It's important to me that my Moms like you.Because you're my best friend and nothing can change that."Izuku was pretty sure he was about to cry again.

He lifted up his mask just enough to show his mouth and nose and lifted up Kacchan's leg,kissing his wound again."Last one."

-

The next day,Izuku and his friends decided to head to the arcade after school and agreed to change into casual clothes at home and meet up there.He tapped his foot as he leaned next to entrance.Izuku did a double take when he saw Kacchan.

He was wearing a trans flag pin.Normal enough.But he was also wearing a white crop top with a heart shaped Spiderman mask on it.Izuku's jaw dropped as he blushed up to his ears.

Kacchan was hot and cute(He already knew that bit this just smacked him across the face with the fact once again.)

"Yo,Deku!"

"H-hi,Kacchan."His noice cracked.Kacchan looked concerned.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah,it's just...your shirt...!I love it!"Kacchan smiled brightly.

"Thanks!They were selling these for sale at the mall and i just couldn't resist!Gotta live up to my title."

"As my number one fan or as my boyfriend?"Is what Izuku wanted to say but he didn't have the courage to.So he just smiled and nodded along.

-

Doc Oc attacked once more.But this time he had a target.

"Spiderman's boyfrieeeeend,where are youuuuuuu?"He cooed.Kacchan straightend up and Izuku gasped.

"Spiderman has a boyfriend?"Ashido squealed.

"Yo,on Spiderman?"Sero added.

"NOT THE TIME,GUYS!"Kacchan yelled.

Panic crossed the arcade at Doc Oc's voice and Izuku raced to the bathroom to change into his costume.

-

Izuku froze at the sight before him when he exited.Doc Oc had captured Kacchan and was climbing the building in front of the arcade!

"GIVE HIM BACK!"Izuku screamed in rage,running towards them.

"SPIDERMAN!"Kacchan exclaimed as he began crawling up the building,making small cracks in the walls from pure rage.

"Are you sure he's not your boyfriend?He sure acts like it."Doc Oc said to Kacchan,who remained silent.Izuku shot webbing at one of his tentacles and swung his way over to him with it.He tried to shake him off but it was futile.He crawled his way to over the tentacle that Kacchan was captured in and wrapped his arms his shoulders.

"Hang on."Kacchan did so.Izuku stuck his hand inside the tentacles wiring and released his webbing,causing it to malfuction and release Kacchan.Izuku made a web trampoline to catch them as Doc Oc wailed and ran from the scene.The cops finally approached them as they got down and the news crew arrived.

"Do you have something you'd like to say?"The news anchor asked,holding the mic out to Izuku.

"Fuck blue lives."

-

"Disclaimer-I am not nor will i ever be Spiderman"s boyfriend."

"Bull-shit!" Denki declared as he paused Bakugou's video.Ashido shook her head.

"Bakugou.Spiderman's boyfriend.Who would have thought?"

"I always thought he and Midoriya'd end up together."Todoroki said.Yaomomo,who was snuggling him,nodded in agreement.

"Maybe Midoriya is Spiderman!"Aoyama proposed.They all looked at eachother for a few seconds before brushing it off.

"Nah!"

Homecoming

TW for death mention, abuse, blood mention, and depressing themes.

Thank you to @nyrs-nook for helping me write this work and deciding dice rolls with me for the flow of events, as well as being present in this work.

Deep within the bounds of the South Shroud slumbers a small hamlet, one of many in that belong to a branch family of the Bajhiri clan. It’s here that Nyr and Una’to were born, and where their mother Una yet dwells. Nervously the approach the door to the hut in which they grew up in all those years ago. They are here seeking answers to their dreams and tales that once were whispered here that now haunt them.

Before entering, Nyr holds out an arm, stopping his brother, and turning towards him. He sighs, ang gives his head a small shake before placing his mask back upon his face.

“Remember… You’ll do most of the talking. If you need me to jump in, I can, however… After my last encounter with Una… I don’t know if I can do it. I’ll probably excuse myself to our old room. I never got a good look at it the last time I was here, and… Who knows. Maybe I can get some good memories here.” He chuckles a bit, though the pain on his face is obvious. Stepping back, he makes room for his brother to go inside.

Staring at his brother with an odd face Una’to knocks on the front door waiting a few ticks… He knocks again and this time he hears movement from inside the house. Calmly he removes his mask, thinking it best if she has something maybe familiar. Though she didn’t recognize Nyr the last time she saw him. The movement within gets louder until the door opens a crack, in nervous huntspeak he hears her utter a quiet, “H-hello…?”.

“Uhm… does Una still live here?” Una’to asks, glancing to his brother nervously.

Slowly the door opens more and she comes out, looking much older than they remembered. It looked as if she was collapsing in on her self. Long hair done dull and starting to gray, though well kept by another clearly. Paper pale skin, sunken bloodshot eyes, and that ever present shake from the alcohol in her veins, though she smelled free of it. Despite everything, she still has traces of her former beauty shining through. It was enough to make Una’to cry were he not on a mission with Nyr to get answers. Barely wrinkled eyes locked on him. Looking at Una’to her eyes start to well up before she chokes up a sob flinging herself on to him and hugging him around his neck, making him stiffen and look to his brother in a panic once more.

“T’ara! My T’ara! You’ve come back for me! You don’t look like you’ve aged at all! Look at me… I’m a mess T’ara!” she wails and sobs into her son’s shoulder mistaking him for his father. Hanging off the very neck she tried to crush between her palms when he was a kit.

Una’to in a panic looks to his brother for help, who merely give a nod. The message conveyed to him clearly to use this, to play along so they could get answers. Sighing slightly to shove his touch aversion down, like he had before. Gingerly, he wraps his arms around Una to embrace her back.

“Una… look at you… May my friend and I come in for a spell? There are some things I would like to ask you if you’re not busy tonight,” he says in a calming voice, internally reeling and wishing he could escape the grasp of his mother. Curiously she looks over the Nyr studying him, a look of recognition crossing her face.

“Oh… you’re the one that came to check on me a few moons ago…” she says, dreamily before she turns her attention back to Una’to, untangling herself from him before giving him a playful slap. “T’ara! You could have come to check on me yourself instead of sending a friend ahead of you!”.

Sighing internally Una’to shoots a small glare at his brother, hating every second of this. “I’m sorry Una. I was busy traveling through Ala Mhigo at the time and thought it best to send a friend in my absence who was in the area. Can you forgive me?” he asks of her with a charming smile.

With a playful pout she looks lost in thought for a time, “Well… I suppose I can forgive you this once T’ara. Both of you come in, come in. Mind the mess. Kiri and Kana have been making a mess of the place”. Una’to can feel his ears and heart droop. She really must have gotten worse all these years.

Out of his curious nature he asks her, “And what of our sons?”

Without looking to him she response coldly and plainly, “They died,” before walking through the doorway, her tail beckoning the pair into the dark little hut, with barely a fire in the hearth to keep it lit and warm. The chill of the decaying season hanging in the air.

Very little had changed since the brothers had left in their youth. The house seemed sparse of the bottles Una’to had come to know, but everything had aged considerably in his absence. Una’to feels Una grab onto his hand gently and push him onto a chair from the table they used to gather around to eat at. Meanwhile he could see Nyr slip into their old room, the door hanging awkwardly from its hinges. Most of the glass remained hanging from the ceiling, though he could see areas where Una likely ripped them down in a rage. He could even see their own bed from his spot on his chair, the same furs stained ink black as ever. Una settled near the hearth in her rocking chair, where she once sat and knit for her kits the memories were going to irritate him for the entirety of their visit clearly. 

Una’to meets Una’s gaze once more, swallowing slightly as she looks at him with nothing but endearment again.

“Una. I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me, about that tale you used to tell our children when I would visit. The one about the Moon Keeper maiden and the traveling man she loved?”

Blushing slight Una laughs a little, “Truly? A tale for kits? Well, I will talk with you on whatever you wish to know about, it’s been years after all. Anything and everything, I will tell you,” she says warmly before wrapping the shawl on her shoulders around her more, as if to hide how happy she is. 

Smiling back at her to hide his discomfort Una’to starts to prod her for answers, “Well… Is it founded in something that actually happened?”

“Of course it is, many tales are T’ara, as you should know from your own clan’s tales… It was a very long time ago that it happened. It must have been before the floods in the Fifth Astral Era, yet it continues to this day,” she says cheerily.

“Does that mean that people here make deals with forest spirits for wishes yet, and that they aren’t strictly elementals,” he asks back leaning in slightly and holding his hands, his head tilted as he studies Una’s reactions. Looking for any tells that could indicate her lying. He can’t see any so far.

“Rarely does it happen that deals are struck with them, but they do happen… Very rarely for male attention either. However, there are always tales and whispers of a person in the clan doing so. It’s often said that no matter what the deal was that they made. They will have a child gifted early on in Thaumatugy that the spirits will claim for their own as payment,” she says, seeming more and more bashful as she says this. Una’to can feel himself pale slightly at this, glancing towards Nyr in the other room. He was one such child and died before. He knew of no other children gifted in such magicks as a kit.

“As I recall, wasn’t Una’to gifted in such talents?”

“He was, and the spirits came and took him away…” Una says cautiously.

“Una… did you make a deal with the forest spirits for something… or perhaps someone?” he asks her gently, that smile ever present on his face. Masking his feelings.

“I… I… I wasn’t the first one to…,” she responds pouting.

“Una… please… I won’t be angry. I just want to know…” he asks her pleadingly, seeing her heart melt slightly as he looks to her.

“I… Did… I can’t say what I wished for so badly to make a trade with them… But others did it before me and told me how to do it,” she says clumsily, her eyes start to well up again as she looks to the son she thinks to be her love. It’s then that Una’to knows, she followed the tale to t.

“Una, who was it who taught you such things?” he presses, curious. If the payment was always future kin, just how much void blood was in the brothers?

“My great grandmother, who learned from her grandmother, who learned from her mother’s sister… It’s an old web T’ara… why does it matter?” she asks pouting again, as she fights back the tears threatening to brim over. Shaking… as if afraid of what he would say to her.

“Shhh, shhhh. Una… Una… I’m not mad. I’m just curious is all…” he says soothingly. A life of lies made him all the more convincing and she started to sniffle the fear back, dabbing at her face with her shawl before wrapping it about her once more. “Now Una… where did you make this deal? I’m afraid of our daughters doing this as well”. He grimaces slightly, knowing full well that his sisters are truly dead.

“I… I went into that city… The one in the large tree and made it with… with one in a dark room. I went alone…” she retells dreamily, as if retracing her steps slowly. Worry etching its way into Una’to heart. How long could he hold up this charade. It was bound to become clear who he was in time as they talked, that is if her adoration for his father didn’t stop clouding her world. In a way he curses that he took only after his father in looks. He looks to Nyr, trying to gauge his brothers feelings in the briefest of moments. Nyr was pressing a hand to his mouth, holding a shaking fist before him, nails biting into the flesh of his palm. He can see from here a small stream of black blood starting to run slowly down his brothers arm. It becomes all the more clear why Nyr wished for Una’to to speak to Una, Nyr lacks charm and the ability to manipulate others.

“Una… does the name Diabolos mean anything to you?” he asked her ever so gently. 

In a snap her face goes from dreamy to that of insult. “T’ara I’m offended you would think me one to work with voidsent I---” she stopped short however, her lip trembling as if something had occurred to her. “You’re… You’re not T’ara.. I knew you were awful, but to… to parade as your father to take advantage of your mother…” it comes out as a venomous hiss, and he can only smile. This is more up to speed with what he’s used to and he sends a sympathetic look towards his brother. They had gotten what they came for after all. Turning, she looks to follow Una’to’s gaze to Nyr, asking him, “And what are you then? Hm?”. Making Una’to’s heart drop into his gut.

“I knew you were horrible, Una, but to think you forgot me entirely. Know how lucky you are… I should repay you a thousand times for the suffering your greed has caused us.” Turning to Una’to, he tears his mask off, cold eyes gazing at his brother. “We got what we came for. Let’s go before things get out of hand.”

Sighing Una’to stands up following Nyr to the door leaving first, his skin crawling and screaming for the feeling of Una’s weight to be lost from it forever. Nyr holds the door ajar a moment more watching his brother go before turning back to a stunned and angry Una. “Goodbye mother”. The words leave him as a bitter venom, as realization dawns on Una’s face before she starts to scream at them to get out, throwing odds and ends as Nyr ducks out the hut, closing the door to shield them before catching up with Una’to on the edge of territory Una’s hut took up. In silence, they make their way back to the more populated areas of the South Shroud, the weight of the matrilineal curse hanging over them. It wasn’t just Una who sold them.

                                          FIRE , FIRE ! ASHES , ASHES .

HEAT IS A LEECH THAT DEPRAVES HIM OF OXYGEN & fear is pierced like spear through his heart. the onset of FIRE, FLAMES, THE WRATH OF HELL has engulfed his home & destroyed those who never loved him. those who cursed him with torments & low self-esteem -- the family he thought was family, but was no family at all. but he’s sorry. guilty, even, as he chokes on his own life. this pressure that builds & builds has no release & the tears will not stop spilling from his eyes, his nose, his mouth. he is riddled with anxiety, & he cannot breathe. the boy is clenching his throat, his fingers grasping for something that does not exist, praying that someone, somewhere might help him  .  .  .  but he doesn’t cry for help. he cries loudly, alone, afraid, as if he wants someone to hear him but he knows better than request assistance. he doesn’t deserve it, after all.

knees give out, & he crashes to the ground. he’s crawling, but he doesn’t know where. he can hardly see, eyes clouded with smoke & tears while simultaneously trying to blink away the dryness of the air. he gave up on yelling, on announcing his presence. some strange instinct comes over him, lest he would have let himself perish. he remembers women -- three of them. mother, lady liprica, anthiese. he doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye  .  .  .  but it may be too late.

while he thinks of them as some symbols of hope, a woman’s feet would bestow themselves in his bleary sight. exhaustion has become him. he can no longer move. on the verge of unconsciousness, he’s lifted with familiar arms, but he can’t recognize whose they are. suddenly his vision fades to black & his ears are ringing before his senses fall short.

                                                      .  .  .

CLACK , CLACK , CLACK .  he knows the sound of boots upon pavement & his eyes squint open, unaccustomed to the light. ah -- it’s her. his mother’s closest companion, one of his most trusted people. of course she would save him, but it doesn’t stop the sorry conscience from festering within. he’s still in her arms, & he can tell she’s growing weary. they’re travelling through dark halls, lit only by the lantern in her hands. sometimes she stops abruptly as if to find which direction opens next. she probably doesn’t know that he’s awoken, so he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t speak. some strange anxiety pulses through his veins  .  .  .  is he allowed to be awake ? no. he must speak. he knows that there are matters far more important than his selfish fears.

                             ❝   where  .  .  .  ❞     his voice is soft at first. hesitant.

                                                          ❝   where is anthiese .  .  . ?   ❞  

he’s tired, weary, desperate. it takes a moment for it all to sink in. he stops at first, his eyes wide. the words replay like the repeating fractions of his mind. ‘ princess anthiese was not found. i’m sorry, conrad. she is no longer with us. ’ & he doesn’t know what that means -- no, he doesn’t want to know what that means. so, he asks again.                      ❝   wh -- what do you mean ?! ❞

& she speaks again. that sweet familiar voice now laced with the venom of a traitor, ‘ she has died, dear. i am so sorry. your mother along with her. i’m so sorry, my love. ’ but he doesn’t want apologies. tears stream down his face once more before he can even form an expression & they do not stop. he lays in her arms, dormant, still, as the emotion he wishes he could feel pours only in rivers out of him. it does not take long. the realization, struck like lightning, electrocuting his body in a fit of absolute terror, turmoil, regret. he doesn’t even think -- he only wails into the woman’s tattered cloak. he knows it well... white & ripped at the edges. he’s only staining it more with the way he leans his entire weight into it. he grips on her clothes & screams. how can the only good he’s ever met face with in this cruel world be stripped from him ? the only rays of hope that ever allowed the flowers to bloom in the spring time  .  .  .  killed away with winter’s eternal dread.

                                                mommy , anthiese , lady liprica  .  .  .

his sobbing is uncontrollable. he knows that he does not deserve much, but does he deserve this? he must, he thinks, but he has a hard time coming to terms with it.

                                                           --

move on, continue forward, grief is for those weak of heart, & sadness must be kept dormant, lest you fail to prove yourself a proper knight.

he’s older now, living in a town, sage’s hamlet. he lives with a man, halcyon, some man once devout in the faith of duma, until he was replaced with some other man named jedah. conrad is unfamiliar with the politics, for he was never explained them. he’s a servant now. & a student, at that. that woman had handed him off to any who would seek pity on a child abandoned of life through death’s relentless grasp. there’s some bitterness he holds toward her still. why couldn’t she take care of him ? he knew her. she knew him. was he truly so unlovable ? well, of course. he’d only heard it one thousand times over. halcyon was a nice enough man, but he was nothing tolerant of any sort of emotional expression  .  .  .  which made it quite difficult on a boy of overwhelming feeling.

surely  .  .  .  a good man, a good teacher. not a good  .  .  .  father. though what is he to know of the goodness of men ? nothing. even he, himself is so poor of heart. he was often the brunt of rage in men. halcyon was no different, truly, but he was better than that king. that king who wears the same flesh as he, the same blood, the same eyes. it’s inescapable as he looks at himself with hatred in a mirror. he lives his life in the dusty village, commanded & trained. academically, physically, emotionally. he learns the person of a worth man, a prince, a knight & he takes this idea & creates some facade of self worth. this is who is he now & he must be content until he is not.

he sighs for a moment, & closes his eyes. he knows the smell of his pillow, his lightweight wool blanket & his creaking bed frame. he curls into himself, wishing that he had something to hold onto. it’s quiet, only the sounds of chickens clucking in the darkness seen through his tiny window. he pulls his blanket over his nose & eventually all the sounds fade into the bleakness of night.

TW: blood, glass, screaming, death, panic attack

The Beginning

Hamlet marched down the hallway towards his mom’s suite. He’d been home three hours, and Claudius was already complaining about him.

Hopefully he would be able to keep his temper under control. The flight back home from England hadn’t been the smoothest, and he was still tired from being up so early. Both Horatio and Guildenstern had been randomly stopped and searched in the airport, and they (Horatio especially) were on edge afterwards, even before the actual plane ride. For whatever reason, the turbulence reminded Horatio of the subway ride in France, the one that had ended in an explosion and had preceded his being shot. Hamlet had tried to keep tabs on Horatio, but it had frayed his nerves terribly.

His mother’s timing was always impeccable.

He opened the door to the suite and stepped into the warm floral air.

“One moment, darling,” A familiar plummy voice floated over from behind the bathroom door. “Let me throw on my robe!”

Hamlet heard her rustling around, sighed, and flopped down on the bench that sat at the foot of the luxurious white bed. His mother stepped out of the bathroom, hair wrapped around large curlers.

“Hamlet, be a dear and fetch me that bottle over there,” she motioned to the bottle of perfumed lotion on her dresser. Hamlet rolled his eyes and grabbed it.

She lowered herself down into the chair by her vanity and watched him from the mirror as she talked. “Hamlet, your father has been very disturbed by all your… antics, and I want to talk to you about your misbehavior, so we can start these next few months off on a better step.”

“Great, stop calling him my father.”

Gertrude sighed. “Oh, honey, you know I don’t mean it that way, I’m only trying to reestablish some kind of normal relationship between you and him.”

“Yeah, well, he kinda blew that up a while ago. At least call him my step-dad, if we have to talk about him at all,” Hamlet added under his breath.

His mother turned and looked at him, hard. “Hamlet, enough with the games. Can you not even pretend to get along with him? He’s not all that bad, I promise.”

If only she knew, Hamlet thought, and he pondered whether to tell her everything he knew about the bastard she had married. Not yet.

“Well?” Gertrude insisted, tone growing cold, “Can you not pretend? Look at me, Hamlet, I’m very happy with him, can’t you be happy for me?”

Hamlet looked at her, shock lacing his expression. “How the hell can you be happy with that?” He tried in vain to keep the anger out of his tone, and the edges of his voice shook with emotion. He snatched the small picture of his uncle in all his kingly glory off her table and showed it to her. “This- this fattened lizard of a man?? How can you call this disgrace of man a good husband, much less a good king?!”

“Hamlet! He is the king! You’d better watch your words-”

He could feel the rage bubbling up inside of him. All the anger he had crushed and pushed down inside of him seemed to be coming back with full force.

He didn’t remember taking the switchblade from the holster on his arm, but there it was, opened and ready in his hand all the same. He saw Gertrude’s eyes widen, and was disgusted at the part of him that was glad to see her fear what he had become. Words kept pouring out of his mouth like sand, and he became more and more enraged the longer he spoke. “The scum of the earth- how could you have traded my father with this disgusting excuse for a king?”

Hamlet took another step forward, and his mother shot out of the chair and backed away. “Do not take another step or I will call the guards. Put that blade away-”

“Just listen to me for one moment!” The picture in his hand flew to the floor and shattered, and Gertrude shrieked as glass scattered across the floor.

“Help, help me! He’s got a knife! Help me!” she cried, and Hamlet’s head snapped to the side to see the curtain covering the bookshelf begin to squirm and shout.

“HA! The rat himself!” he shouted, and with one swift motion and a burst of passion and frenzy, the switchblade was buried hilt-deep into the crimson curtain.

All he heard was Gertrude’s screech, and everything fell silent as the body began to sink to the floor. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. A triumphant grin spread across his face.

Hamlet only realized his mistake when Polonius let out a shout “Oh, I am slain!” And fell to the floor, letting the curtain fall down around him.

Hamlet dove to the floor and checked his pulse. Dead.

“Shit,” he whispered. Gertrude collapsed onto her bed.

“What have you done?” she spoke breathily, barely able to speak from the horror.

Hamlet couldn’t hear her. He sat in shock on the floor. It is one thing to imagine killing another human, and quite another to do it.

“Why do you do this to me Hamlet?!” Gertrude wept on the bed. “I don’t think I can take much more!” And she collapsed in a heap of sobs.

Hamlet, reeling, stood up, “How can you DARE to cry?!,” And in two strides he was across the room, and grasping the end of the bed.

“What have I done to deserve this, God?” She wailed as Hamlet shouted.

“We wouldn’t even be in this situation if any of your marriages had ever stuck for longer than a few months! Or if you had even a speck of decency, to abstain from marrying your husband’s murderer!! What the hell kind of harlot woman could stand to knowingly commit incest?? God you disgust me!” He flung her down onto the bed by the shoulders and spun around in a frenzy of emotions.

At the corner of the room stood the ghost of his father.

Hamlet froze when he saw it and stopped all movement entirely, “Oh god,” was all he said.

Gertrude slowly stopped her sobbing and looked up at her son, frozen and staring at a blank wall, an entirely different human than a second earlier.

The Ghost moved towards Hamlet without any emotion or expression, and Hamlet backed up quickly- too quickly- and tripped over the foot of the stool, stumbling and falling onto his back. “What do you want from me? I promise, it will be done, I just need more time-”

“I told you to leave your mother to her own sins in peace.” The Ghost said, and Hamlet took a shaking breath. “Keep your focus on one thing and one alone: avenging me.”

“I- I’m sorry, I just-” Hamlet stammered as he tried to pick himself up off the floor. The marble was tacky with drying blood from the murdered man on the floor.

“He’s mad for sure,” Gertrude whispered, watching as Hamlet continued to talk to the stagnant air.

The Ghost put a finger to his lips, “Go to her,” And he turned and disappeared into nothingness.

“No wait, come back-!” But he was gone. Hamlet took a few heaving breaths before glancing up at his stunned mother watching him from the bed. “Are you alright?”

She didn’t say a word, only looked at him with wide eyes. After a moment, she spoke, “Hamlet, you are mad. Who were you talking to?”

Hamlet glanced around him, but the Ghost was long gone, “Did… you not see it?” He said with disbelief. “He was right here!”

“Who?”

“My father!!!” He screamed, and, overwrought with emotion, curled in on himself and sobbed.

Gertrude, unmoving, watched him from the bed. He was covered in sweat and the blood of Polonius. After a few moments, he took a shaking breath and slowly looked up. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and stared, shocked, at what he saw. His dark hair was overgrown and hanging in his eyes, blood was flecked on his face, a wild expression was in his eyes, and every part of his body seemed to be shaking.

“Goodnight, mother. Do not speak of this to…” Hamlet started, but stopped and thought for a moment. “No, do tell Claudius of this affair. Tell him everything, and repent.” He looked her dead in the eyes as he spoke the word repent. And then he picked himself up off the floor, and walked over to the body near his feet. With both hands, he took him by the feet and lugged Polonius’ body through the corridor behind the bookshelf that the curtain had been covering. He didn’t look back at the room, covered in glass, blood, and his mother, but instead kept walking through the dark and dusty corridor.

The Witch, by Anton Chekhov

It was approaching nightfall. The sexton, Savely Gykin, was lying in his huge bed in the hut adjoining the church. He was not asleep, though it was his habit to go to sleep at the same time as the hens. His coarse red hair peeped from under one end of the greasy patchwork quilt, made up of coloured rags, while his big unwashed feet stuck out from the other. He was listening. His hut adjoined the wall that encircled the church and the solitary window in it looked out upon the open country. And out there a regular battle was going on. It was hard to say who was being wiped off the face of the earth, and for the sake of whose destruction nature was being churned up into such a ferment; but, judging from the unceasing malignant roar, someone was getting it very hot. A victorious force was in full chase over the fields, storming in the forest and on the church roof, battering spitefully with its fists upon the windows, raging and tearing, while something vanquished was howling and wailing.... A plaintive lament sobbed at the window, on the roof, or in the stove. It sounded not like a call for help, but like a cry of misery, a consciousness that it was too late, that there was no salvation. The snowdrifts were covered with a thin coating of ice; tears quivered on them and on the trees; a dark slush of mud and melting snow flowed along the roads and paths. In short, it was thawing, but through the dark night the heavens failed to see it, and flung flakes of fresh snow upon the melting earth at a terrific rate. And the wind staggered like a drunkard. It would not let the snow settle on the ground, and whirled it round in the darkness at random. Savely listened to all this din and frowned. The fact was that he knew, or at any rate suspected, what all this racket outside the window was tending to and whose handiwork it was. "I know!" he muttered, shaking his finger menacingly under the bedclothes; "I know all about it." On a stool by the window sat the sexton's wife, Raissa Nilovna. A tin lamp standing on another stool, as though timid and distrustful of its powers, shed a dim and flickering light on her broad shoulders, on the handsome, tempting-looking contours of her person, and on her thick plait, which reached to the floor. She was making sacks out of coarse hempen stuff. Her hands moved nimbly, while her whole body, her eyes, her eyebrows, her full lips, her white neck were as still as though they were asleep, absorbed in the monotonous, mechanical toil. Only from time to time she raised her head to rest her weary neck, glanced for a moment towards the window, beyond which the snowstorm was raging, and bent again over her sacking. No desire, no joy, no grief, nothing was expressed by her handsome face with its turned-up nose and its dimples. So a beautiful fountain expresses nothing when it is not playing. But at last she had finished a sack. She flung it aside, and, stretching luxuriously, rested her motionless, lack-lustre eyes on the window. The panes were swimming with drops like tears, and white with short-lived snowflakes which fell on the window, glanced at Raissa, and melted.... "Come to bed!" growled the sexton. Raissa remained mute. But suddenly her eyelashes flickered and there was a gleam of attention in her eye. Savely, all the time watching her expression from under the quilt, put out his head and asked: "What is it?" "Nothing.... I fancy someone's coming," she answered quietly. The sexton flung the quilt off with his arms and legs, knelt up in bed, and looked blankly at his wife. The timid light of the lamp illuminated his hirsute, pock-marked countenance and glided over his rough matted hair. "Do you hear?" asked his wife. Through the monotonous roar of the storm he caught a scarcely audible thin and jingling monotone like the shrill note of a gnat when it wants to settle on one's cheek and is angry at being prevented. "It's the post," muttered Savely, squatting on his heels. Two miles from the church ran the posting road. In windy weather, when the wind was blowing from the road to the church, the inmates of the hut caught the sound of bells. "Lord! fancy people wanting to drive about in such weather," sighed Raissa. "It's government work. You've to go whether you like or not." The murmur hung in the air and died away. "It has driven by," said Savely, getting into bed. But before he had time to cover himself up with the bedclothes he heard a distinct sound of the bell. The sexton looked anxiously at his wife, leapt out of bed and walked, waddling, to and fro by the stove. The bell went on ringing for a little, then died away again as though it had ceased. "I don't hear it," said the sexton, stopping and looking at his wife with his eyes screwed up. But at that moment the wind rapped on the window and with it floated a shrill jingling note. Savely turned pale, cleared his throat, and flopped about the floor with his bare feet again. "The postman is lost in the storm," he wheezed out glancing malignantly at his wife. "Do you hear? The postman has lost his way!... I... I know! Do you suppose I... don't understand?" he muttered. "I know all about it, curse you!" "What do you know?" Raissa asked quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on the window. "I know that it's all your doing, you she-devil! Your doing, damn you! This snowstorm and the post going wrong, you've done it all—you!" "You're mad, you silly," his wife answered calmly. "I've been watching you for a long time past and I've seen it. From the first day I married you I noticed that you'd bitch's blood in you!" "Tfoo!" said Raissa, surprised, shrugging her shoulders and crossing herself. "Cross yourself, you fool!" "A witch is a witch," Savely pronounced in a hollow, tearful voice, hurriedly blowing his nose on the hem of his shirt; "though you are my wife, though you are of a clerical family, I'd say what you are even at confession.... Why, God have mercy upon us! Last year on the Eve of the Prophet Daniel and the Three Young Men there was a snowstorm, and what happened then? The mechanic came in to warm himself. Then on St. Alexey's Day the ice broke on the river and the district policeman turned up, and he was chatting with you all night... the damned brute! And when he came out in the morning and I looked at him, he had rings under his eyes and his cheeks were hollow! Eh? During the August fast there were two storms and each time the huntsman turned up. I saw it all, damn him! Oh, she is redder than a crab now, aha!" "You didn't see anything." "Didn't I! And this winter before Christmas on the Day of the Ten Martyrs of Crete, when the storm lasted for a whole day and night—do you remember?—the marshal's clerk was lost, and turned up here, the hound.... Tfoo! To be tempted by the clerk! It was worth upsetting God's weather for him! A drivelling scribbler, not a foot from the ground, pimples all over his mug and his neck awry! If he were good-looking, anyway—but he, tfoo! he is as ugly as Satan!" The sexton took breath, wiped his lips and listened. The bell was not to be heard, but the wind banged on the roof, and again there came a tinkle in the darkness. "And it's the same thing now!" Savely went on. "It's not for nothing the postman is lost! Blast my eyes if the postman isn't looking for you! Oh, the devil is a good hand at his work; he is a fine one to help! He will turn him round and round and bring him here. I know, I see! You can't conceal it, you devil's bauble, you heathen wanton! As soon as the storm began I knew what you were up to." "Here's a fool!" smiled his wife. "Why, do you suppose, you thick-head, that I make the storm?" "H'm!... Grin away! Whether it's your doing or not, I only know that when your blood's on fire there's sure to be bad weather, and when there's bad weather there's bound to be some crazy fellow turning up here. It happens so every time! So it must be you!" To be more impressive the sexton put his finger to his forehead, closed his left eye, and said in a singsong voice: "Oh, the madness! oh, the unclean Judas! If you really are a human being and not a witch, you ought to think what if he is not the mechanic, or the clerk, or the huntsman, but the devil in their form! Ah! You'd better think of that!" "Why, you are stupid, Savely," said his wife, looking at him compassionately. "When father was alive and living here, all sorts of people used to come to him to be cured of the ague: from the village, and the hamlets, and the Armenian settlement. They came almost every day, and no one called them devils. But if anyone once a year comes in bad weather to warm himself, you wonder at it, you silly, and take all sorts of notions into your head at once." His wife's logic touched Savely. He stood with his bare feet wide apart, bent his head, and pondered. He was not firmly convinced yet of the truth of his suspicions, and his wife's genuine and unconcerned tone quite disconcerted him. Yet after a moment's thought he wagged his head and said: "It's not as though they were old men or bandy-legged cripples; it's always young men who want to come for the night.... Why is that? And if they only wanted to warm themselves——But they are up to mischief. No, woman; there's no creature in this world as cunning as your female sort! Of real brains you've not an ounce, less than a starling, but for devilish slyness—oo-oo-oo! The Queen of Heaven protect us! There is the postman's bell! When the storm was only beginning I knew all that was in your mind. That's your witchery, you spider!" "Why do you keep on at me, you heathen?" His wife lost her patience at last. "Why do you keep sticking to it like pitch?" "I stick to it because if anything—God forbid—happens to-night... do you hear?... if anything happens to-night, I'll go straight off to-morrow morning to Father Nikodim and tell him all about it. 'Father Nikodim,' I shall say, 'graciously excuse me, but she is a witch.' 'Why so?' 'H'm! do you want to know why?' 'Certainly....' And I shall tell him. And woe to you, woman! Not only at the dread Seat of Judgment, but in your earthly life you'll be punished, too! It's not for nothing there are prayers in the breviary against your kind!" Suddenly there was a knock at the window, so loud and unusual that Savely turned pale and almost dropped backwards with fright. His wife jumped up, and she, too, turned pale. "For God's sake, let us come in and get warm!" they heard in a trembling deep bass. "Who lives here? For mercy's sake! We've lost our way." "Who are you?" asked Raissa, afraid to look at the window. "The post," answered a second voice. "You've succeeded with your devil's tricks," said Savely with a wave of his hand. "No mistake; I am right! Well, you'd better look out!" The sexton jumped on to the bed in two skips, stretched himself on the feather mattress, and sniffing angrily, turned with his face to the wall. Soon he felt a draught of cold air on his back. The door creaked and the tall figure of a man, plastered over with snow from head to foot, appeared in the doorway. Behind him could be seen a second figure as white. "Am I to bring in the bags?" asked the second in a hoarse bass voice. "You can't leave them there." Saying this, the first figure began untying his hood, but gave it up, and pulling it off impatiently with his cap, angrily flung it near the stove. Then taking off his greatcoat, he threw that down beside it, and, without saying good-evening, began pacing up and down the hut. He was a fair-haired, young postman wearing a shabby uniform and black rusty-looking high boots. After warming himself by walking to and fro, he sat down at the table, stretched out his muddy feet towards the sacks and leaned his chin on his fist. His pale face, reddened in places by the cold, still bore vivid traces of the pain and terror he had just been through. Though distorted by anger and bearing traces of recent suffering, physical and moral, it was handsome in spite of the melting snow on the eyebrows, moustaches, and short beard. "It's a dog's life!" muttered the postman, looking round the walls and seeming hardly able to believe that he was in the warmth. "We were nearly lost! If it had not been for your light, I don't know what would have happened. Goodness only knows when it will all be over! There's no end to this dog's life! Where have we come?" he asked, dropping his voice and raising his eyes to the sexton's wife. "To the Gulyaevsky Hill on General Kalinovsky's estate," she answered, startled and blushing. "Do you hear, Stepan?" The postman turned to the driver, who was wedged in the doorway with a huge mail-bag on his shoulders. "We've got to Gulyaevsky Hill." "Yes... we're a long way out." Jerking out these words like a hoarse sigh, the driver went out and soon after returned with another bag, then went out once more and this time brought the postman's sword on a big belt, of the pattern of that long flat blade with which Judith is portrayed by the bedside of Holofernes in cheap woodcuts. Laying the bags along the wall, he went out into the outer room, sat down there and lighted his pipe. "Perhaps you'd like some tea after your journey?" Raissa inquired. "How can we sit drinking tea?" said the postman, frowning. "We must make haste and get warm, and then set off, or we shall be late for the mail train. We'll stay ten minutes and then get on our way. Only be so good as to show us the way." "What an infliction it is, this weather!" sighed Raissa. "H'm, yes.... Who may you be?" "We? We live here, by the church.... We belong to the clergy.... There lies my husband. Savely, get up and say good-evening! This used to be a separate parish till eighteen months ago. Of course, when the gentry lived here there were more people, and it was worth while to have the services. But now the gentry have gone, and I need not tell you there's nothing for the clergy to live on. The nearest village is Markovka, and that's over three miles away. Savely is on the retired list now, and has got the watchman's job; he has to look after the church...." And the postman was immediately informed that if Savely were to go to the General's lady and ask her for a letter to the bishop, he would be given a good berth. "But he doesn't go to the General's lady because he is lazy and afraid of people. We belong to the clergy all the same..." added Raissa. "What do you live on?" asked the postman. "There's a kitchen garden and a meadow belonging to the church. Only we don't get much from that," sighed Raissa. "The old skinflint, Father Nikodim, from the next village celebrates here on St. Nicolas' Day in the winter and on St. Nicolas' Day in the summer, and for that he takes almost all the crops for himself. There's no one to stick up for us!" "You are lying," Savely growled hoarsely. "Father Nikodim is a saintly soul, a luminary of the Church; and if he does take it, it's the regulation!" "You've a cross one!" said the postman, with a grin. "Have you been married long?" "It was three years ago the last Sunday before Lent. My father was sexton here in the old days, and when the time came for him to die, he went to the Consistory and asked them to send some unmarried man to marry me that I might keep the place. So I married him." "Aha, so you killed two birds with one stone!" said the postman, looking at Savely's back. "Got wife and job together." Savely wriggled his leg impatiently and moved closer to the wall. The postman moved away from the table, stretched, and sat down on the mail-bag. After a moment's thought he squeezed the bags with his hands, shifted his sword to the other side, and lay down with one foot touching the floor. "It's a dog's life," he muttered, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. "I wouldn't wish a wild Tatar such a life." Soon everything was still. Nothing was audible except the sniffing of Savely and the slow, even breathing of the sleeping postman, who uttered a deep prolonged "h-h-h" at every breath. From time to time there was a sound like a creaking wheel in his throat, and his twitching foot rustled against the bag. Savely fidgeted under the quilt and looked round slowly. His wife was sitting on the stool, and with her hands pressed against her cheeks was gazing at the postman's face. Her face was immovable, like the face of some one frightened and astonished. "Well, what are you gaping at?" Savely whispered angrily. "What is it to you? Lie down!" answered his wife without taking her eyes off the flaxen head. Savely angrily puffed all the air out of his chest and turned abruptly to the wall. Three minutes later he turned over restlessly again, knelt up on the bed, and with his hands on the pillow looked askance at his wife. She was still sitting motionless, staring at the visitor. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes were glowing with a strange fire. The sexton cleared his throat, crawled on his stomach off the bed, and going up to the postman, put a handkerchief over his face. "What's that for?" asked his wife. "To keep the light out of his eyes." "Then put out the light!" Savely looked distrustfully at his wife, put out his lips towards the lamp, but at once thought better of it and clasped his hands. "Isn't that devilish cunning?" he exclaimed. "Ah! Is there any creature slyer than womenkind?" "Ah, you long-skirted devil!" hissed his wife, frowning with vexation. "You wait a bit!" And settling herself more comfortably, she stared at the postman again. It did not matter to her that his face was covered. She was not so much interested in his face as in his whole appearance, in the novelty of this man. His chest was broad and powerful, his hands were slender and well formed, and his graceful, muscular legs were much comelier than Savely's stumps. There could be no comparison, in fact. "Though I am a long-skirted devil," Savely said after a brief interval, "they've no business to sleep here.... It's government work; we shall have to answer for keeping them. If you carry the letters, carry them, you can't go to sleep.... Hey! you!" Savely shouted into the outer room. "You, driver. What's your name? Shall I show you the way? Get up; postmen mustn't sleep!" And Savely, thoroughly roused, ran up to the postman and tugged him by the sleeve. "Hey, your honour, if you must go, go; and if you don't, it's not the thing.... Sleeping won't do." The postman jumped up, sat down, looked with blank eyes round the hut, and lay down again. "But when are you going?" Savely pattered away. "That's what the post is for—to get there in good time, do you hear? I'll take you." The postman opened his eyes. Warmed and relaxed by his first sweet sleep, and not yet quite awake, he saw as through a mist the white neck and the immovable, alluring eyes of the sexton's wife. He closed his eyes and smiled as though he had been dreaming it all. "Come, how can you go in such weather!" he heard a soft feminine voice; "you ought to have a sound sleep and it would do you good!" "And what about the post?" said Savely anxiously. "Who's going to take the post? Are you going to take it, pray, you?" The postman opened his eyes again, looked at the play of the dimples on Raissa's face, remembered where he was, and understood Savely. The thought that he had to go out into the cold darkness sent a chill shudder all down him, and he winced. "I might sleep another five minutes," he said, yawning. "I shall be late, anyway...." "We might be just in time," came a voice from the outer room. "All days are not alike; the train may be late for a bit of luck." The postman got up, and stretching lazily began putting on his coat. Savely positively neighed with delight when he saw his visitors were getting ready to go. "Give us a hand," the driver shouted to him as he lifted up a mail-bag. The sexton ran out and helped him drag the post-bags into the yard. The postman began undoing the knot in his hood. The sexton's wife gazed into his eyes, and seemed trying to look right into his soul. "You ought to have a cup of tea..." she said. "I wouldn't say no... but, you see, they're getting ready," he assented. "We are late, anyway." "Do stay," she whispered, dropping her eyes and touching him by the sleeve. The postman got the knot undone at last and flung the hood over his elbow, hesitating. He felt it comfortable standing by Raissa. "What a... neck you've got!..." And he touched her neck with two fingers. Seeing that she did not resist, he stroked her neck and shoulders. "I say, you are..." "You'd better stay... have some tea." "Where are you putting it?" The driver's voice could be heard outside. "Lay it crossways." "You'd better stay.... Hark how the wind howls." And the postman, not yet quite awake, not yet quite able to shake off the intoxicating sleep of youth and fatigue, was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire for the sake of which mail-bags, postal trains... and all things in the world, are forgotten. He glanced at the door in a frightened way, as though he wanted to escape or hide himself, seized Raissa round the waist, and was just bending over the lamp to put out the light, when he heard the tramp of boots in the outer room, and the driver appeared in the doorway. Savely peeped in over his shoulder. The postman dropped his hands quickly and stood still as though irresolute. "It's all ready," said the driver. The postman stood still for a moment, resolutely threw up his head as though waking up completely, and followed the driver out. Raissa was left alone. "Come, get in and show us the way!" she heard. One bell sounded languidly, then another, and the jingling notes in a long delicate chain floated away from the hut. When little by little they had died away, Raissa got up and nervously paced to and fro. At first she was pale, then she flushed all over. Her face was contorted with hate, her breathing was tremulous, her eyes gleamed with wild, savage anger, and, pacing up and down as in a cage, she looked like a tigress menaced with red-hot iron. For a moment she stood still and looked at her abode. Almost half of the room was filled up by the bed, which stretched the length of the whole wall and consisted of a dirty feather-bed, coarse grey pillows, a quilt, and nameless rags of various sorts. The bed was a shapeless ugly mass which suggested the shock of hair that always stood up on Savely's head whenever it occurred to him to oil it. From the bed to the door that led into the cold outer room stretched the dark stove surrounded by pots and hanging clouts. Everything, including the absent Savely himself, was dirty, greasy, and smutty to the last degree, so that it was strange to see a woman's white neck and delicate skin in such surroundings. Raissa ran up to the bed, stretched out her hands as though she wanted to fling it all about, stamp it underfoot, and tear it to shreds. But then, as though frightened by contact with the dirt, she leapt back and began pacing up and down again. When Savely returned two hours later, worn out and covered with snow, she was undressed and in bed. Her eyes were closed, but from the slight tremor that ran over her face he guessed that she was not asleep. On his way home he had vowed inwardly to wait till next day and not to touch her, but he could not resist a biting taunt at her. "Your witchery was all in vain: he's gone off," he said, grinning with malignant joy. His wife remained mute, but her chin quivered. Savely undressed slowly, clambered over his wife, and lay down next to the wall. "To-morrow I'll let Father Nikodim know what sort of wife you are!" he muttered, curling himself up. Raissa turned her face to him and her eyes gleamed. "The job's enough for you, and you can look for a wife in the forest, blast you!" she said. "I am no wife for you, a clumsy lout, a slug-a-bed, God forgive me!" "Come, come... go to sleep!" "How miserable I am!" sobbed his wife. "If it weren't for you, I might have married a merchant or some gentleman! If it weren't for you, I should love my husband now! And you haven't been buried in the snow, you haven't been frozen on the highroad, you Herod!" Raissa cried for a long time. At last she drew a deep sigh and was still. The storm still raged without. Something wailed in the stove, in the chimney, outside the walls, and it seemed to Savely that the wailing was within him, in his ears. This evening had completely confirmed him in his suspicions about his wife. He no longer doubted that his wife, with the aid of the Evil One, controlled the winds and the post sledges. But to add to his grief, this mysteriousness, this supernatural, weird power gave the woman beside him a peculiar, incomprehensible charm of which he had not been conscious before. The fact that in his stupidity he unconsciously threw a poetic glamour over her made her seem, as it were, whiter, sleeker, more unapproachable. "Witch!" he muttered indignantly. "Tfoo, horrid creature!" Yet, waiting till she was quiet and began breathing evenly, he touched her head with his finger... held her thick plait in his hand for a minute. She did not feel it. Then he grew bolder and stroked her neck. "Leave off!" she shouted, and prodded him on the nose with her elbow with such violence that he saw stars before his eyes. The pain in his nose was soon over, but the torture in his heart remained.

[FN] The Story of Sir Garnish of the Mount

Balin had been walking for ten days, but in those ten days eras had gone by. His boots were nearly worn through, and no matter how tattered his clothes got, a branch or a thorn still always seemed to find a new place to cut him. This was desolation. Fields were covered in ash which fell gently like snow, and when the smoke cleared the blue of the sky was muted. The beauty had been drained from nature, and the world stared bleakly back. The nights were grey, and fires raged on the horizon like fallen stars.

The first day after the Dolorous stroke he had seen a city burning. Bodies fell burning from the walls and broke on the ground with dull thuds. Even the buildings were screaming. But in one voice he heard the shriek:

You did this. Balin, you have done this.

And it was then that he thought back to the prophecies he’d been given. And he wondered if anyone had ever killed more innocents than he. Those screams never left him. They rang in his ears like a headache. But every day he walked through a new town, hamlet, city now destroyed, and the corpses stared at him with their flattened oozing eyes and the flies on their lips said:

You have killed us, Balin.

It would have been too much to bear. He felt rage at the broken world, but it quickly gave way to the anxiety of guilt. How could someone live with this? Nevertheless, Balin pushed on. His time was not to end here. He walked through the fifth and sixth day with the sword that had brought him this misfortune at his side, and the horror fell from him with the rain. The ninth day, he was barely able to walk one step at a time. Nevertheless, ten days had now passed, and Balin walked on through the shifting hell before him.

It was just after nine in the morning when he came upon a grove of trees less sinister than those he’d seen so often. Respite was not unseen to him at this point in his travels, though it was still welcome. The trees seemed to leer at him, though Balin wasn’t fully sure if he only thought that because everything else had. And the screams of the deaths he caused faded, as he began to hear the sound of a man crying. This sound was different from the others. It sounded more human. The sorrow was of a different flavor than the wails of grief he was so familiar with. He began to walk more quickly. With every quickening step, he came closer to himself.

After ten days of terror, hell, dread, guilt, and everything else, the thing that surprised him most was a horse. A surprisingly well groomed horse at that, tied to a tree, and with an uneasy aire about it that wasn’t from the descended apocalypse. Beside it, a knight in poorly made but well kept armor, holding a dull sword point first to his throat and trembling.

“Sir,” Balin called out more weakly than he’d meant. “Sir what’s troubling you?” He said, this time finding his voice.

“I came here to be alone before I died and you’ve taken that from me,” the man said, not quite a sob, not quite a scream.

“What troubles you, sir?” Balin asked again. The tip of the sword moved just an inch from his throat.

“My lord, he… I was nothing,” he began. “I was nothing. Poor, an orphan, I had nothing. I came to work in the Duke’s castle, and after years of work he gave me my own land and made me a knight.”

“You’ve done well,” said Balin, softly. The man shook his head and replaced the tip of the sword against his throat.

“Duke Hemel made me a knight, but when he found out that I loved his daughter and that she loved me, he forbade me to marry her. He knew, and even though she loved me he still forbade me from seeing her again. I cannot live without her, and so I must…” he tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

“Wait! What’s your name?” Shouted Balin.

“I… I am Sir Garnish. Sir Garnish of the Mount,” he replied. “And I shall end my life.”

“Sir!” Balin shouted again. “This can’t be the best answer. If the Duke is a tyrant we must fight for the sake of his daughter, the one you love! If he is not he will surely understand your plight!” Sir Garnish paused at that. After everything he’d done, Balin couldn’t just let another die. This would be the first step to his atonement.

“Yeah… hey yeah you’re right! Strong man like you, I’m sure he’d come around if he saw you with me! The castle’s this way, follow me!” Garnish leapt up and sheathed his sword, wiping the tears from his eyes. Balin took a step back. Such an odd boy. But then again, most were at his age—likely seventeen, give or take—and what was Balin to call odd anymore? So, he followed, regaled by the tales of the duke’s daughter. An odd boy, perhaps, but at least Balin could do some good. He smiled to himself as they went. Everything felt just a little different than he might’ve thought—it was the feeling of coming home after a long journey in another land. Come to think of it, that wasn’t too far off. They arrived at the castle not long after noon. Garnish led him to the door.

“Too heavy for me. Think you can push it open?”

Balin nodded. It was heavy for sure, but he could manage. With a grunt, he removed the bar and pushed the doors open.

“Thank you good knight! I will never forget this service you have done me!”

Beyond the doors was a huge room with a dozen pathways snaking off every way imaginable.

“We must find the Duke and his daughter!” Garnish shouted, full of bravado, before charging off.

“Wait!” Balin shouted after him, but he’d already disappeared around a corner. Dammit, he had no idea where to even start. It was smaller than most castles he’d seen, but he had no idea where to look. And what was this woman’s name…?

Why does he talk like that? Balin thought, irritated, before feeling a twinge of guilt at that. He sighed. Weird kid, but at least he was alive. Balin made his way to a door and began the search. Every room he passed made his unease grow stronger. They were all… empty. But not the kind of empty he’d become used to—they weren’t abandoned. Far from it in fact, he found nearly full wardrobes and dirtied clothes, he found beds made and unmade both, and in one room he even found a wine goblet with the dregs still wet. But nobody was there. Balin couldn’t even find Garnish. Where had everyone gone...?

He made his way to the second floor. There was still nothing but it felt wrong. He turned another corner to find a room, more ornate than the ones he’d previously investigated. Beside the bed lay a book with a name written in gold on the front: Rohese. Balin began to feel cold. It was her room. She was the duke’s daughter by the look of the place. He looked out a window to see a garden. Lying beneath a tree, sleeping, were two people, a woman and a man about Garnish’s age. There were rings on their fingers. His eyes snapped up to see Garnish creeping towards them with a sword drawn.

Balin vaulted through the window, but too late. As he hit the ground, Garnish brought his sword down, hacking into their throats. Again and again, he raised his dull sword, finally beheading them.

“Whore!” he was screaming. “You whore! I’m better than him!” And then Garnish looked up at Balin.

“This is your fault!” He screamed, dropping his sword and beginning to cry again. “If you’d come quicker I would have gotten to her!”

Just like all those months ago when he’d killed the woman in Athur’s court that burned his family and his friends, that single moment that sent him all this way, he felt a rage unlike any other. How hadn’t he realized that this kid was using him? How had he believed such an awful lie? How hadn’t he seen the evil in that kid? Balin curled a mailed hand into a fist, ready to cave in Garnish’s lungs, and then his skull. But seeing those heads made Balin remember the woman he’d killed, and how it had gotten him here. And he let out a long breath, staring Garnish in the eyes. The boy was shaking now. He was terrified. He had the look so many had before Balin killed them. But as the heartbeat in his ears faded, he began to hear distant hooves. They had been gone. They had all gone for the afternoon. And now they were coming back. Of course that was why the castle had been empty. Slowly and quietly, Balin said:

“However much you suffer, you deserve it.” And then, he turned and left. It pained him to think about what the duke would find. But if he thought about it anymore, he wouldn’t be able to keep walking. Balin left those wails behind him, and the world turned grey. Garnish didn’t know what he was saying, but he was right: it was Balin’s fault. If only he’d been a bit quicker. Sometimes, he thought he saw her face in the corpses that littered the road. Sometimes he thought he heard her name in the driving rain. But Balin had to keep walking.

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