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thewidowsghost · 3 years

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The Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 9

(Y/n)'s POV

It doesn't take me long to pack. I decide to leave the Minotaur horn in the cabin, which leaves me only an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush to stuff in a backpack Grover had found for me.

The camp store loans me one hundred dollars in mortal money and twenty golden drachmas. The coins are as big as Girl Scout cookies and have images of various Greek Gods stamped on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. The ancient mortal drachmas had been silver, Chiron had told us, but Olympins never used less than pure gold. Chiron said the coins might come in for non-mortal transactions - whatever that might mean. He gives Annabeth, Percy, and me canteens of nectar and Ziploc bags full of ambrosia squares, to be used only in emergencies, if we were seriously hurt. It is god food, Chiron reminds us. It would cure us of almost any injury, but it is lethal to mortals. Too much of it would make a half-blood very, very feverish. An overdose would burn us up, literally, Fun.

Annabeth is bringing her magic Yankees cap, which she tells me had been a twelfth-birthday present from her mom. She is also bringing a book on famous classical architecture, written in Ancient Greek, to read when she gets bored, and a long bronze knife, hidden in her shirt sleeve. I'm sure the knife is going to get us busted the first time we go through a metal detector.

Grover is wearing his fake feet and his pants to pass as a human. He wears a green rasta-style cap, because when it rains his curly hair flattened and you can just see the tips of his horns. Grover's bright orange backpack is full of scrap metal and apples to snack on. In his pocket is a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knows two songs: Mozart's Piano Concerto Number 12 and Hilary Duff's 'So Yesterday,' both of which sound pretty bad on reed pipes.

We wave good-bye to the other campers, take one last look at eh strawberry fields, the ocean, and the Big House, then hike up the Half-Blood Hill to the tall pine tree that used to be Thalia, the Daughter of Zeus.

Chiron is waiting for us in his wheelchair. Next to him stands the surfer dude I'd seen when I was recovering in the sick room. According to Grover, the guy is the camp's head of security. He supposedly had eyes all over his body so he could never be surprised. Today, though, he's wearing a chauffeur's uniform, so I can only see the extra eyes on his hands, face, and neck.

"This is Argus," Chiron tells me. "He'll drive you into the city, and, er, well, keep an eye on things."

I hear footsteps behind us.

Luke comes running up the hill, carrying a pair of basketball shoes. "Hey!" he pants. "Glad I caught you."

Annabeth blushes, the way she always does when Luke is around.

"Just wanted to say good luck," Luke tells us. "And I thought . . . um, maybe you could use these."

He hands Percy a pair of sneakers, which look pretty normal.

Then, Luke says, "Maia!"

White bird's wings sprouted out of the heels. The shoes flap around on the ground until the wings fold up and disappear.

"Awesome!" Grover exclaims.

Luke smiles. "Those served me well when I was on my quest. Gift from Dad. Of course, I don't use them much these days...." His expression turns sad.

Annabeth stomps down the other side of the hill, after arguing with Percy, where a white SUV waits on the shoulder of the road. Argus follows, jingling his car kees.

Percy picks up the flying shoes and then looks up at Chiron. "I won't be able to use these, will I?"

Chiron shakes his head. "Luke meant well, Percy. But taking to the air...that would not be wise for you."

I nod, getting an idea, "Hey, Grover. You want a magic item?"

His eyes light up. "Me?"

Pretty soon, we'd laced the sneakers over his fake feet, and the world's first flying goat boy is ready for launch.

"Maia!" Grover shouts. He gets off the ground, okay, but then falls over sideways so his backpack drags through the grass. The winged shoes keep bucking up and down like tiny broncos.

"Practice," Chiron calls after him. "You just need practice."

"Aaaaa!" Grover goes flying sideways down the hill like a possessed lawnmower, heading towards the can.

But before I can follow, Chiron catches my arm. "I should have trained you two better, Percy, (Y/n)," he says. "If only I had more time. Hercules, Jason - they all got more training."

"That's okay. I just -" I stop myself.

"What am I thinking?" Chiron cries. "I can't let the two of you get away without these." He pulls two pens out of his coat pocket and hands one to me and one to Percy.

Looking down at it, I see a teal-colored gel pen. Maybe cost thirty cents.

"Gee," Percy says. "Thanks."

"Percy, those are gifts from your father. I've been keeping them for years, not knowing you two were the ones I was waiting for. But the prophecy is clear to me now. You two are the ones."

Instinctively I take off the cap, and the pen grows longer and heavier in my hand. In half a second, I am holding a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edged blade, a teal and silver leather-wrapped grip. This is the first weapon that feels balanced in my hand.

"That sword has a long and tragic history that we need not go into," Chiron tells Percy. "Its name is Anaklusmos."

"Riptide," Percy translates.

"I have never seen anyone use that sword that I'm aware of," Chiron says, turning to me. "Yours is named Τυφώνας."

"Hurricane," I translate, surprised that the Ancient Greek came so easily to me.

"Use them only for emergencies," Chiron says, "and only against monsters. No hero should harm mortals unless absolutely necessary, of course, but neither sword would hurt them in any case."

I look down at the wickedly sharp blade. "What do you mean it wouldn't harm mortals? How could it not?"

"Those swords are celestial bronze. Forged by the Cyclopes, tempered in the heart of Mount Etna, cooled in the River Lethe. It's deadly to monsters, to any creature from the Underworld, provided they don't kill you first. But the blades will pass through morals like an illusion. They simply are not important for the blade to kill. And I should warn you two: as demigods, you can be killed by either celestial or normal weapons. You are twice as vulnerable."

"Good to know," Percy says.

"Now recap the pens," Chiron says.

Percy and I touch the pen cap to the sword tips and instantly Riptide and Hurricane shrink to ballpoint pens again. I tuck it in my pocket, a little nervous because it's pretty easy to lose a pen.

"You can't," Chiron says.

"Can't what?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Lose the pens," he says. "They're enchanted. They'll always reappear in your pockets. Try it."

Warily, I throw the pen as far as I can down the hill and watch it disappear in the grass.

"It may take a few moments," Chiron tells us. "Now check your pocket."

Sure enough, the pen is there.

"Okay, that is extremely cool," I admit.

"But what if a mortal sees one of us pulling out a sword?" Percy asks.

Chiron smiles. "Mist is a powerful thing, Percy."

"Mist?" I ask.

"Yes. Read The Iliad. It's full of references to the stuff. Whatever divine or monstrous elements mix with the mortal world, they generate Mist, which obscures the vision of humans. You will see things just as they are, being a half-blood, but humans will interpret things quite differently. Remarkable, really, the lengths to which humans will go fit things into their version of reality.

I put Hurricane back into my pocket.

For the first time, the quest feels real. I'm leaving Half-Blood Hill. I'm heading west with no adult supervision, no backup plan, not even a cell phone - Chiron said cell phones were traceable by monsters; if we used one, it would be no worse than sending up a flare. I have no weapon stronger than a sword to fight off monsters and reach the Land of the Dead.

"Chiron . . ." Percy says. "When you say the gods are immortal . . . I mean, there was a time before them, right?"

"Four ages before them, actually. The Time of the Titans was the Fourth Age, sometimes called the Golden Age, which is definitely a misnomer. This, the time of Western civilization and the rule of Zeus, is the Fifth Age."

"So what was it like...before the gods?"

Chiron purses his lips. "Even I am not old enough to remember that, child, but I know it was a time of darkness and savagery for mortals. Kronos, the lord of the Titans, called his reign the Golden Age because men lived innocent and free of all knowledge. But that was mere propaganda. The Titan king cared nothing for your kind except as appetizers or a source of cheap entertainment. It was only in the early reign of Lord Zeus, when Prometheus the good Titan brought fire to mankind, that your species began to progress, and even then Prometheus was branded a radical thinker. Zeus punished him severely, as you may recall. Of course, eventually, the gods warmed to humans, and Western civilization was born."

"But the gods can't die now, right? I mean, as long as Western civilization is alive, they're alive. So...even if I failed, nothing could happen so bad it would mess up everything, right?" I ask, feeling rather uncertain.

Chiron gives me a melancholy smile. "No one knows how long the Age of the West will last, (Y/n). The gods are immortal, yes. But then, so were the Titans. They still exist, locked away in their various prisons, forced to endure endless pain and punishment, reduced in power, but still very much alive. May the Fates forbid that the gods should ever suffer such a doom, or that we should ever return to the darkness and chaos of the past. All we can do, child, is follow our destiny."

"Our destiny...assuming we know what that is," I say grimly.

"Relax," Chiron tells me. "Keep a clear head. And remember, the two of you may be about to prevent the biggest war in human history."

"Relax," I say. "I'm very relaxed."

When Percy and I get to the bottom of the hill, I look back. Under the pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus, Chiron is now standing in full horse-man form, holding his bow high in salute. Just your typical summer-camp send-off by your typical centaur."

Argus drives us out of the countryside and into western Long Island, It feels weird to be on a highway again, Annabeth and Grover sitting next to me, Percy on the other side of Grover, as if we were normal carpoolers. After two weeks at Half-Blood Hill, the real world seems like a fantasy. I find myself staring at every McDonald's, every kid in the back of his parent's car, every billboard and shopping mall.

"So far so good," Percy tells Annabeth. "Ten miles and not a single monster."

She gives Percy an irritated loo. "It's bad luck to talk that way."

"Remind me again - why do you hate us so much?" Percy asks.

"I don't hate you two."

"Could've fooled me."

Annabeth folds her cap of invisibility. "Look...we're just not supposed to get along, okay? Our parents are rivals."

"Why?" Percy asks.

Annabeth sighs. "How many reasons do you want? One time my mom caught Poseidon with his girlfriend in Athena's temple, which is hugely disrespectful. Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her."

"They must really like olives," Percy comments, and I stifle a snort of laughter.

"Oh, forget it," Annabeth grumbles.

"Now, if she invented pizza - that I could understand," I add, in a slightly teasing tone.

"I said, forget it!" Annabeth says, hitting me lightly on the arm.

In the front seat, Argus smiles. He doesn't say anything, but one blue eye on the back of his neck winks at me.

Traffic slows down in Queens. By the time we get into Manhattan, it is sunset and starting to rain.

Argus drops us at the greyhound Station on the Upper East Side, not far from my mom and Gabe's apartment. Taped to a mailbox is a soggy flyer with mine and Percy's picture on it: Have you seen these children?

Percy rips it down before Annabeth and Grover can notice.

Argus unloads our bags, makes sure we get our bus tickets, then drives away, the eye on the back of his hand opening to watch us as he pulls out of the parking lot.

I think about how close I am to the apartment. On a normal day, Mom would be home from the candy store by now. Smelly Gabe is probably up there right now, playing poker, not even missing her.

Grover shoulders his backpack. He gazes down the street in the direction I am looking. "You want to know why she married him, (Y/n)?"

I stare at him. "Were you reading my mind?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Just your emotions," Grover shrugs. "You were thinking about your mom and your stepdad, right?"

I nod.

"Your mom married Gabe for you and Percy," Grover tells me. "You call him 'Smelly,' but you've got no idea. This guy has this aura . . . Yuck. I can smell him from here. I can smell traces of him o you, and you haven't been near him in a week."

"Thanks," Percy grimaces from Grover's other side. "Where's the nearest shower?"

"You should be grateful, Percy. Your stepfather smells so repulsively human he could mask the presence of any demigod. As soon as I took a whiff inside his Camaro, I knew: Gabe has been covering your scent for years. If you hadn't lived with him every summer, you probably would've been found by monsters a long time ago. Your mom stayed with him to protect you. She was a smart lady. She must've loved you a lot to put up with that guy—if that makes you feel any better."

I soften, looking down a the ground. I'll see her again, I think. She isn't gone.

You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend, the Oracle whispers in my mind. You will fail to save what matters most in the end.

The rain keeps coming down.

We get restless waiting for the bus and decide to play some Hacky Sack with one of Groer's apples. Annabeth was unbelievable at it. She could bounce the apple off her knee, her elbow, her shoulder, whatever. Percy wasn't too bad either, but I found that I wasn't that great at it.

The game ends when I toss the apple towards Grover and it gets too close to his mouth. In one mega goat bite, our Hacky Sack disappears - core, stem, and all.

Grover blushes. He tries to apologize, but Annabeth, Percy, and I are too busy cracking up.

Finally, the bus comes.

I am relieved when we finally get on board and find seats together in the back of the bus, Me and Annabeth in one row, and Percy and Grover across from us. The four of us stow our backpacks.

I glance over at Annabeth beside me, who keeps slapping her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh.

As the last passengers get on, Annabeth claps her hand onto my knee. "Look!"

An old lady had just boarded the bus. She is wearing a crumpled velvet dress, lace gloves, and a shapeless orange-knit hat that shadows her face and she is carrying a big paisley purse. When she tilts her head up, her black eyes glitter.

I see Percy slump down in his seat.

Behind her comes two more old ladies: one in a green hat, one in a purple hat. Otherwise, they look exactly like Mrs. Dodds - same gnarled hands, paisley handbags, wrinkled velvet dress. Triple demon grandmothers.

They sit in the front row, right behind the driver. The two on the aisle cross their legs over the walkway, making an X. It is casual enough, but it sends a clear message: Nobody leaves.

The bus pulls out of the station, and we head through the slick streets of Manhattan.

"She didn't stay dead long," Percy says, his voice quavering a little. "I thought you said they could be dispelled for a lifetime."

"I said if you're lucky," Annabeth murmurs. "You're obviously not."

"All three of them," Grover whimpers. "Di immortales!"

"It's okay," Annabeth says, obviously thinking hard. "The Furies. The worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem. We'll just slip out the windows."

"They don't open," Grover moans.

"A back exit?" she suggests.

There isn't one. Even if there had been, it wouldn't have helped. By that time, we are on Ninth Avenue heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.

"They won't attack us with witnesses around," I say. "Will they?"

"Mortals don't have good eyes," Annabeth reminds me. "Their brains can only process what they see through the Mist."

"They'll see three old ladies killing us, won't they?" Percy asks.

She thinks about it. "Hard to say. But we can't count on mortals for help. Maybe an emergency exit in the roof . . . ?"

We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, and the bus goes dark except for the running lights down teh aisle. It is eerily quiet without the sound of the rain.

"I need to use the rest-room."

"So do I."

All three demons start coming down the aisle.

"I've got it," Annabeth says. "Percy, take my hat."

"What?" he says with disbelief.

"You're the one they want. You killed one of them. Turn invisible and go up the aisle. Let them pass you. Maybe you can get to the front and get away."

"But you guys -"

"There's an outside chance they might not notice us," Annabeth says as she glances over at me. "You're a son of the Big Three. Your smell might be overpowering."

"I can't just leave you," Percy says, looking desperately at me.

"Go," I say, frowning and Annabeth hands him the cap.

The old ladies are not old ladies anymore. Their faces are still the same - I guessed they couldn't get any uglier - but their bodies had shriveled into leathery brown hag bodies with bat's wings and hands and feet like gargoyle claws; their handbags had turned into fiery whips.

The Furies surround me, Grover, and Annabeth, lashing their whips, hissing: "Where is it? Where?"

The other people on the bus are screaming, cowering in their seats. They see something, all right.

"He's not here!" Annabeth yells. "He's gone!"

The Furies raise their whips.

Annabeth draws her bronze knife. Grover grabs a tin can from his snack bag and prepares to throw it.

Word Count: 3222 words

#percy jackson x sister reader #percy jackson reader insert #female reader #reader insert #fem reader

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moonflower-31 · 4 years

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You Found Me - Gabriel x Reader

Warnings: Language? Somewhat? Oh and some self doubt, but not a lot. There is a looot of angst though. This is part of a two part oneshot. Hope you enjoy the feels.

Pairing: Gabriel x Reader

Character(s): Gabriel, Dean, Sam, Castiel

You were worried, to put it simply. Gabriel had told you three weeks ago he'd start to change. That he would take you out more. See you more in general. Not go off to Chuck knows where, doing who knows what.

You were worried. Yeah. That's the word. You were also pissed. Pissed he hadn't answered your prayers at all in those three weeks. Dean and Sam and Cas had all been through all the ways to try and bring him back, figure out what was going on, except to summon him. You had insisted that be the first thing they do, but Cas had intervened. He had said that if Gabriel was gone somewhere, that it was probably good reason. And that he would answer them in other ways.

But look where that got you?

"Look, kid, I know you miss your archangel douche of a boyfriend but-" Dean starts, looking up from the table he sat at in the main library. You rolled your eyes and looked up from your lore book on angels.

"But what? Dean? He might actually be in real danger! And you're sitting there--eating take out!" You exclaim, gesturing to his heart-attack-inducing food in front of him. Dean immediately gave you an offended glare and wrapped an arm around his food. You rolled your eyes again, and then put your eyes back to the book you were reading. No one would tell you the summoning for an archangel. And since the only archangel that would be able to be summoned would be Gabriel, you figured your chances of getting his ass back here were pretty good.

"Come on, let him live a little! I mean, I don't like the guy but every now and then, a guy has to have his alone time. Find himself. I did it. Sam's done it more than once." Dean reminds. You shake your head. Dean continues. "What I'm saying is maybe you should stop trying to summon him and let him come when he's ready. I'm sure he's fine, alright? He would have let you of all people know he was in danger if he was." Dean reminds again.

You grumble and slam the book in your hands closed. "You know what? I'm done. Done with you, and Sam, and Cas's petty excuses! It's like you don't even care!" You exclaim, and stomp out of the library.

You stomp off and slam the door to your room closed, locking it behind you as you collapse onto your bed, wishing and praying for Gabriel to return.

He hadn't returned in three weeks. Not even when you were in danger on hunts and you prayed to him. It made you question if he even loved you anymore. The thought of it made you sick. But it was possible.

You felt your chest heave and tears began to pour from your eyes as you sat back up and pulled the book from where you had dropped it beside the bed. You began wiping away your tears only for new ones to take their place. You opened the book and kept scouring the pages as a knock came to your door. You immediately hid the book under your sheets and then stood up, and went to the door.

"Who is it?" You ask.

"Castiel. Dean said you were upset."

"Go away Cas. I'm fine. Just distraught over your damn older brother, nothing new." You grumbled, walking away from the door and sitting back on your bed.

A flutter of wings sounds and you look up, finding the trenchcoated angel standing at the foot of your bed. "Y/N... Gabriel will be okay. I promise." He says, looking at you with as sincere enough eyes as an angel can probably muster.

You let out a sad chuckle. "Really Cas? Same speech as last time? I just want him back... I don't want to lose him..." you say, hugging your arms for a moment as you fight the incoming tears. Castiel walks over and wraps his arms around you in a comforting hug, letting you wrap your own arms around him as he holds you. You're appreciative of the gesture as he lets you cry, and lays you down on the bed when you fall asleep. Your first real sleep in days.

~~~~

When you reawaken, it's later in the day, around midnight. You sigh and check your bed, seeing the book still there. You bring it out and start flipping through it, until you find it. And after a few quick translations, find out what you needed for summoning your absent boyfriend.

You write a quick note of the ingredients you needed, and then got up. You had some of the ingredients. But lacked two. You needed some herbs and some leaves that were hard to come by. So you needed to talk to someone.

"Yeah, those'll do. Thanks. I'll be down to pick them up in a few hours. Thanks." You say, hanging up on the friend who owed you a few favors. He had some of the ingredients that you needed. And all you needed now was to put it all together. And say the chant, of course.

You were walking out of your room, when Sam stopped you. You raise an eyebrow as the tall, moose-like man stood in your way.

"Uh...Sam? What are you doing?" You ask, a bag of essentials on your back.

Sam gives you a bitch face. "Really? You really don't think I didn't see you sneak that book into your room? I've read it. And it has what we've been telling you we shouldn't be doing. Wait it out. Alright? I promise, it's all gonna be okay-" Sam starts.

At this point, you were done of hearing that. After so many instances of Dean, Sam, Cas, hell, even Charlie saying it, you were done. Absolutely done. So you snapped.

You immediately shoved Sam out of the way as soon as his guard was down, pinning his sleeve to the wall with one of your knifes. Sam calls out to Dean to alert him of your escape, but you're too quick. You race up the stairs behind you and then you exit the bunker, racing down the road as adrenaline fills your veins.

You didn't dare take the Impala, knowing Dean would kill you if you did. He rarely let Sam off the hook when he took it. So what's to say he wouldn't kill you?

You finally slowed down near a gas n' sip, and found an abandoned car. You went into the store for a moment, and picked out a few of Gabriel's favorite sweets. You took them to the counter and payed for them before going back outside, and hotwiring the abandoned car.

The adrenaline had finally left you after you'd been on the road for awhile. You'd left your phone at the Gas n' Sip, so you weren't able to be tracked. Damn Sam and Charlie's hacking abilities.

You finally pulled up to your buddy's place around 4 am, and parked in their driveway.

"Damn, Y/N, you look great for three years gone." Your old pal Brad said as he opened the door. He opened the door for you to come in soon after, drinking a beer.

You smile but shake your head. "I'm sorry, but this is an urgent hunt. I need those ingredients now." You say. Brad chuckled.

"Really? You ain't gonna sit down and tell me how you've been with those... those uh.." Brad starts.

"Winchesters." You remind, nodding a bit. "Yeah uh... not now. I don't exactly have the time. But uh... I promise, ill come by soon. Okay?" You promise. Brad chuckled.

"I'm just messing with ya. I know you're busy. Just lemme know if I can help at all. Okay? Any time of night or day. I've got open ears." Brad says, smirking at you with a broken smile. You smiled and nodded.

Brad soon disappeared behind the door, and after five minutes returned with the herbs you needed.

"Take care now. Call me if you ever need anything else." He says as he sees you off. You nod, and wave back at him as you climb back into your stolen car and pull back onto the dark road.

It wasn't until 5 am that you found the place. It was old, it was rusty. It was perfect. You found an old table and set everything up. You used your lighter and lit up the ingredients, soon after uttering the chant.

"Rah ah gah ee oh es Vee nu nohno kee ah seh peh teh poh ah ma lah deh zod" you utter, and a bright light enters the room. You shield your eyes and wait a few moments before you hear him.

"Really? You're resulting to summoning me?" Gabriel grumbles, looking at you annoyedly. "Im busy, Sugar." He says.

You weren't listening. You were merely relieved that he was okay. You walk around the table, and then wrap your arms around him, almost too tightly.

Then he pushes you away.

"Sugar, please. I'm busy. Can't this wait?" Gabriel asks. You look up at him dejected.

"Busy? You're just 'busy'?" You ask, venom and hurt in your voice. Gabriel looks a bit hurt by your words, but doesn't react otherwise.

"You promise me that you'll spend more time with me, cuddle more, hang out more, watch more movies, but no. No you're 'busy'" you hiss, looking at Gabriel with tears in your eyes.

"Yeah, I am. I’m not gonna keep having this conversation right now. Like I said, I'm busy. I have somethings I need to do." He says, looking at you.

You furrow your eyebrows. You stomp forward and you grab his collar. "You know what would have been appreciated? Gabriel? If you would let me know you were okay! I've been worried about you this entire time! 'What if he's been kidnapped and he's being tortured? What if it's my fault?' Wow, but you're too busy!" You spat, shoving him back and turning away from him.

Gabriel sighed. "Y/N, please, okay? I couldn't get back to you. And besides, this isn't something you should be worried about. I don't understand why you were so worried-" he says. You nod your head as you turned back around. You were done.

"Why am I so worried? Gabriel I have lost so many people, so many. So yeah, im sorry that I just don't want to lose another. Especially not you. But no, you can't understand that, can you?" You growl back. Gabriel rolled his eyes and went to speak again.

"Don't twist my own words against me-" he starts. You shook your head and pointed in his face.

"No, no you need to listen. You, don't understand how hurt you've made me. How badly, I kept thinking about myself. Thinking that you just didn't love me anymore. So you know what? I'm done. I don't care of you still do, or still don't. I'm done." You snap, shoving him back as you toss the altar over.

Gabriel goes to speak again, panick filling his eyes. But you shake your head.

"No, Gabriel. You've done enough damage." You hiss. "Come find me when you understand how I felt." You say before you cut your hand and start drawing a sigil on the wall.

"Sugar, please, we can talk this out-" he starts, walking towards you just as you finish the sigil and hit against it with your hand, sending him back wherever you'd summoned him.

You felt tears re-emerge from your eyes as you walk out of the building and climb into your car. You turn it back on and start driving down the road, sniffling a bit as you decided that enough was enough. You stopped by another Gas n' Sip and walked up to the pay phone.

You dialed a number in after using the last of the money you'd brought. After a few rings, the line picked up.

"Hey Brad... mind if I cash in that favor?"

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #gabriel x reader supernatural #spnfandom #spnfamily #spn fanfiction #gabriel x reader #gabriel #dean #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel

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gallavictorious · 4 years

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Top 5 Male Characters

I was tagged by @whaticameherefor - thanks, dear, this was fun!

Standard disclaimer: These are some of my favourites – I'd be hard-pressed to choose the actual top 5. Whom I love best varies a bit (though no 1 below will probably always be no 1).

Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars)

This one strode straight into my heart on Boxing Day 1994, and it's fair to say that my life might well have looked rather different if he hadn't. Star Wars was my first big fandom, and it's still the one I keep in my heart of hearts, even if I'm not into Disney's revisionist stuff at all. (Which is a shame, because Rey, Poe and Finn are darling and I would have loved to see good movies wih them.) Darth Vader is kind of like a fusion between two of my very early favorites: Shredder (from Turtles) and Zorro, so yeah. I fell for Vaderkin the second he said “I am your father” because in that moment I knew that a, there was an exciting history there, and b, he'd turn back to the light side. I was a dangeorusly genre savvy 10-year old, I just want that said – and I've been a sucker for a redemption arc since... forever. I have a vivid memories of dreaming of Duchess Ravenwaves of Lady Lovelylocks becoming fast friends when I was a 7 or 8.

Excellent things about my dumbass Chosen One include his dedication to being a Dramatic Bitch, him being very intelligent about some things while being so fucking stupid about others, his general prowess (Kee has a competence kink, y'all... ), and the fact that he loves enough to both break the world and heal it. Truth be told, though, I've loved him for so long that I can't really say what it is I love about him, the same way you can't really say that about siblings or close friends: I just know that I do.

Jim Moriarty (Sherlock)

Jim's an amoral genius with a thing for Sherlock Holmes, and not only does he dress well but he is fun, which is only all too rare in villains. (Unless you go for the actually insane and sadistic ones, which I don't so much.) If you gonna be evil, you might as well delight in it! When pulling off a complicated heist, Jim takes the time to design a completely bogus app with super cute icons, in spite of him being the only one who will ever see them. This is the kind of dedication I look for! Underneath the slick facade and wisecracks, there's the very occasional glimmer of utter ennui and loneliness, which makes his gleeful embrace of CRIME all the more compelling to watch.

Incidentally, Sherlock was the fandom that had me move from LiveJournal to Tumblr back in 2012. I'm extremely intrigued by Sherlock and Jim's relationship – foe yay dreams were made of this – and I have to say that my interest in the series dwindles since Jim's death (THERE WAS NO BODY! HE COULD HAVE FAKED IT! DON'T AT ME!), thought that might well be due to season 3 and (particularly) 4 not quite living up to the absolute glory that was the two first seasons.

Gabriel Gray/Sylar (Heroes)

Driven by a need to be 'special' (blame it on his mom), humble watchmaker Gabriel Gray adopts the name Sylar and starts murdering people to steal their various super powers, as you do. Sylar ticks several of my boxes: extreme competence, one-liners, into being super dramatic, proper enjoyment of being bad, strong eyebrow game, redemption arcs. Yes, arcs - there are several, as Sylar kind of goes back on forth on the whole being evil thing. Later seasons introduce a 'hunger' that's supposed to explain his descent into darkness, which I'm not a huge fan of (I'm more into people making horrible choices of their own free will; drugs, psychotic breaks and being possessed by dark powers bore me) but I suppose it'd be a little hard to sell his ultimate redemption otherwise, because he kills so many people and often seem to have quite a bit of fun doing it. To be fair, he kind of goes to prison for eight years (even if it's all in his head... ) but yeah.

Since Sylar interacts with and antagonizes pretty much all of the heroic main cast, and does have shades of affable evil, he is very easy to ship with a lot of the good guys. Catnip for a foe yay fan like me.

Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman, Lucifer)

Yes, this the comic book character the TV show is based on, but while the show has some charming qualities of its own, it's utterly rubbish as far as adaptations go. Comic book Lucifer is cold, brilliant, sardonic, never lies but manipulates like nobody's business. He plays the piano. He doesn't give a rat's ass about anybody's sins or immortal souls: he just wants to escape the tyranny of predestination. Which, you know, highly relatable. I'd want to do that to, if I believed in predestination. The people he feels anything but vaguely disdainful disinterest for are extremely few, and even those he does care about he'd probably be willing to sacrifice to achieve his own ends. He's not a charming character – but fuck, is he compelling!

The Lucifer introduced in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman is slightly softer than the version in Mike Carey's spin-off Lucifer, and I love them both. The Lucifer of the TV show... well, he does play the piano, I suppose.

Ian och Mickey (Shameless US)

Yes, this is cheating but you cannot make me choose! If I was forced to put only one, I'd put Mickey – though I miss Ian more when he's not around than I miss Mickey when he's missing from the show. In fairness to me, while they are both very interesting characters, they arguably become something else entirely and completely awesome when they're together. Mickey being such an utter thug while still retaining enough of a soft heart to be super soft for Ian, and Ian being genuinely kind and caring while at the same time being a little punk and generally ready to throw down.... Their differences, and their rather difficult circumstances, cause them quite a lot of problem over the years, but they complement each other in the best of ways: and they truly appreciate each other and have fun together. I love them, ok?

I’d like to tag @iwannabewhereyouaremickey @fiona-fififi @imberantiel and @sickness-health-all-that-shit - no pressure whatsoever, if this is not your thing though. :) Also, anyone else wanna do this, I’m always curious to know about people’s interests beyond Shameless, so have at it please.

#yeah i have a thing for villains #mickey is soft as fuck compared to most of my massmurdering faves #characters who I am a bit upset about not including #are sawyer from lost #he shares some qualities with mickey btw!#and scheming benjamin 'i lied' linus from the same show #i will never not love angriest boi zuko from atla #spike from buffy has been a fave for almost 20 years #but the older I get the more annoyed I get with his development in s6-s7 #i'm one of star wars' wrenga 'jix' jixton few but dedicated fans #he's incidentally not entirely dissimlar from eliot spencer of leverage #whom i also love #because holy fuck competence kink #danny mahealani from teen wolf is one of few genuinele nice characters i adore #because while villains are the type of characters i tend to stan #kindness is the trait i admire most in others #i will never forgive teen wolf for writing him out of the show #personal

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brawlingdiscontent · 4 years

Text

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 2/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(first part) (tl;dr for any of you, like me, who can’t remember what happened: Charles wakes alone, finds he’s trapped in the tent, snoops around and writes a secret letter)

(part three)

This part is dedicated to all you amazing anons and non-anons who have been checking up on me and sending encouragement. You know who you are!

Warning: this chapter contains minor descriptions of violence, graphic threats of rape and murder, and some misogynistic/feminizing slurs (none of these last from Erik)

...

As Charles is marched outside the tent and herded through the camp, guarded in front and behind, he reminds himself that Lehnsherr needs him alive. The thought is especially comforting as he hears the crinkle of the letter concealed up his sleeve.

There’s no Azazel this time to fetch him. In the bleak silence of the passage, marred only by the everyday sounds of the camp, he almost misses the other's cheerful if subtly threatening presence. Now there's just the crunch of feet on the compacted dirt of the camp. Of course, there’s no need for such official escort, nor for formality now, he thinks grimly. Formality is for guests, which he is no longer. Now he's caught.

He hears them before he sees them, in snatches of raised voices, as they approach the edge of camp. The voices echo as though carried on the wind, rising in pitch in the distinctive pattern of an argument, but words indistinguishable.

They round the corner and the narrow view of tents opens up onto the plains that demarcate the outskirts of the camp. Horses are tethered here, by a small copse of trees. He sees Lehnsherr attending to a horse, his figure—though by no means short—dwarfed by the hulking, agitated form of another man: the source of the argument. Despite the size difference and latent threat in the other’s posture, Lehnsherr, though tense, looks more bored than worried.

As they get closer, it becomes clear that the conversation is uneven. The large man seems to be doing most of the talking, his anger apparent. Lehnsherr’s reaction is subtler, but appears in the tight curve of his shoulders, gradually stiffening as the man goes on, like a bow drawn taught just before it’s loosed. Before Charles can begin to suss out the particulars of the dispute through tone and gesture alone, it erupts. In a flash Lehnsherr's opponent buries a dagger in the point of a nearby tree, and then tugs it out aggressively, brandishing it in threat. Lehnsherr, for the first time, looks up fully from his task. He says something, steady and so low that Charles can’t even make out the shapes of the foreign words. With a thunderous look the other man lowers the knife, and, sneering, retreats. Throwing final warning glare back over his shoulder, he stalks off into the thrum of camp heading somewhere off to Charles' left.

Curious though the scene is, Charles only half follows the man’s progress, for the sight of Lehnsherr sets off a flare in his chest that's been building, smouldering since he tried to leave the tent that morning. He forgets his apprehension at the ambiguous summons and breaks from the rank of his escorts. A breath later he’s standing before the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t be a prisoner.” The accusation spills out of him, sharp and hot.

"Charles," Lehnsherr says in dry acknowledgement. “A moment, if you would.”

He doesn't like the familiarity of his name as it curls across the other man's tongue.

Lehnsherr gentles the horse--who’d begun to flick its tail nervously at the commotion--and gestures off to the side. It’s only then that Charles sees the dark-haired woman beside him. She's much smaller than the man who just left, so much so that he failed to notice her. She doesn’t seem to be an alpha, but her dress is looser, freer than that he would expect of betas or omegas. Lehnsherr picks up the interrupted conversation, imparting a few more words; likely some kind of instructions. She gives a brief reply, perhaps an affirmative, and darts a curious glance at Charles before slipping off back through the camp—possibly following the path of the man who just left, but he doesn’t turn to look.

Lehnsherr watches her go for a moment. "Now then,” he says, sparing Charles a mere glance as he turns back to the horse, a mare with a silver-studded bridle—probably not his, “what was it you wanted?"

“I won’t be confined to a tent,” he repeats. Anger still colours the words, but of a more controlled sort, his initial outburst steadying to composed censure now that his displeasure has been given breath.

When Lehnsherr looks up at him, his eyes are shaded, obscuring his expression and any hint of whether he’s surprised or displeased by Charles’ outburst.

“For your protection, I assure you,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “I was concerned about you wandering around on your own in the midst of such unsatisfied men.”

Though it's seemingly said in humour, Lehsherr’s voice carries an acerbic note to it, as if to remind Charles that it was he himself who had forestalled that satisfaction by leading the omegas and beta women out of the city.

He ignores the warning in the twist of the other man’s words. “You’ve no right to keep me.” It’s a foolish statement to make. Even had he not the conqueror’s right to do as he pleased, then the right surely falls to Lehnsherr as his husband-to-be.

Lehnsherr tugs the lead to check it’s secured to the tree and steps suddenly away from his horse—and into Charles' space. Charles feels his pulse pick up, despite himself, not sure what to expect.

Were they commoners, it might appear to be the close conference of a newly-engaged couple; young lovers tentative in their newfound intimacy or drawn together by the animal urges of youth, like the amorous shepherds sung about in the bawdier ballads. But for people of their station such marriages do not exist. Marriages are made for political reasons, not romantic ones, and whatever else may lie between them Lehnsherr’s gesture denotes not intimacy but a desire to shield their conversation from those around them—the scattered remnants of his guard and runners scurrying back and forth—and most of all, a power play. To lean back would be to cede ground, so despite Lehnsherr's uncomfortable closeness, Charles stands firm.

��In the past day you’ve proven yourself more capable than my top generals combined." The words slip silkily from Lehnsherr's tongue in almost an accusation as he fixes Charles with a piercing stare. He notes Lehnsherr’s arm where it hangs loosely, aligned with but not quite touching his. It burns with the potential to grab his wrist and close the final distance between them--in violence or in something else.

“Beyond that,” the other man continues, “you've all too readily shown that your loyalty lies with your people. I would be a fool to ignore the evidence I am presented with and underestimate you."

Charles feels a burst of regret, then, at the necessity of showing his hand and drawing Lehnsherr’s scrutiny—though never at its result—while at the same time he's somewhat relieved that Lehnsherr had confined him in order to protect himself, and not in demonstration of his beliefs on the place of spouses.

His point made Lehnsherr steps back, leaving a gap in the space where he stood, and returns to the horse. He grabs a coil of rope hanging from a nearby branch and begins to fashion a hitch, when Charles’ mind suddenly catches up to what he’s seeing.

"What are you doing?"

With an efficient tug, Lehnsherr finishes tying the hitch, securing an oilskin bag to the saddle.

“Leaving.”

“Leaving?” For a split second Charles imagines he means the island; withdrawing to the longships and departing, leaving the shores of England bloodied and battered behind them—before reality catches up with him. Such an undertaking would require the disassembling of the entire camp, yet the preparations around him suggest a smaller party, a group of men, only. His hopes raised deflate once again, dropping back into the reality of the present moment.

“Yes,” Lensherr continues, unaware of his brief flight of fancy. “It's what I summoned you to tell you. We’ll be married when I return.”

“Why, what’s happened?” He ignores the latter point in favour of more pressing concerns.

Lehnsherr doesn’t respond right away. He seems to be considering whether or not to tell him. He holds out a hand in gesture, and a man, one of Charles' guards, offers over the casket from the tent. Charles very deliberately does not look at it, wondering if Lehnsherr will be able to tell that it's been disturbed, will notice the missing vellum.

“I've received report of a disturbance near Eoforwic," the other man says at last, relenting. "I’m heading off to investigate.”

A disturbance...what could it be? What force in the land would dare to rebel? He now sees the reason for Lehnsherr’s hesitation. Regardless of the distance to Eoforwic, Charles’ actions have certainly marked him out as a suspect. But one thing Charles knows for sure...

“I’m coming with you,” he asserts confidently. “And beyond that, I’ll need my men back to accompany me.”

“I’ve just told you I can’t trust you, Xavier,--” he starts at in suprise his family name -- “what makes you think I would ever allow that?" Hardness and wariness are the dominant notes in Lehnsherr’s tone, yet they make way, in part, for exasperation and a hint of something further—humour, even admiration at his daring, and, unmissable now that he knows it’s there, the faintest undercurrent of desire. Lehnsherr has relaxed his barriers, perhaps; or else he is starting to be able to read the other man. He can use this.

“If you don’t trust me, wouldn’t you rather I was somewhere you could watch me?”

“And your men?” the other’s amusement is such that Charles can hear the implied finish...how are you going to justify them?

“You yourself have just told me that you keep a dangerous company. Who better than my own men to protect me?" His tone offers a hint of challenge. "Call it a demonstration of good faith, a show of Danish spousal respect,” he adds, recalling Lehnsherr’s words the previous night. Bold, but he thinks he can get away with it. “Furthermore, I’ll need to fetch my travelling clothes.”

Lehnsherr looks at him, now, with a calculating stare, as though he’s weighing his options carefully. His blue eyes appear quite grey in the afternoon light.

“No,” he says at last, tone firm. “I’ll let you send someone to the city for your things. But that’s it.”

Charles opens his mouth to object.

“If it’s so important to you to be near your men,” Lehnsherr presses on before he can utter a word, “you’re welcome to stay here with them.”

The glint in the man’s eye is the equivalent of a victorious grin on his reserved countenance, and Charles closes his mouth, accepting the temporary defeat.

He submits once again to the escorts when Lehnsherr gestures them back over and directs them curtly in Danish. Their presence no longer chafes as much, having tested Lehnsherr’s limits and found some slack. If he’s caught now in Lehnsherr’s grasp, there’s give; and if he’s careful enough, strategic enough, he can use it in order to wriggle free.

…

Going through the camp a second time, Charles notices what he should have seen sooner: the signs of a journey in the making. The camp is buzzing with potential, like a dragonfly touching down on the water, its surface thrumming with tension. As they walk he sees a few more of those he assumes are beta women and omegas, moving with the camp’s rhythms. There’s even a child or two, ducking into tents and scampering underfoot.

The guarded tent they are approaching is a familiar sight. This particular tent is big, large enough to require the support of a central wooden pole that shoots up towards the sky. A place for meetings, likely, or even dry goods storage.

“Be quick about it,” the group's leader says sharply when they stop outside. She's a female alpha, demonstrable, as Northern custom dictates, from the braided sash she wears across her shoulders. With the tinge of red in her hair she might remind him of his daughter, were it not for her lethally sharpened teeth.

He wonders if her keenness to hurry him along is based on an explicit order from Lehnsherr, or if she’d just prefer not to waste time watching him. Whatever the case, he's relieved to note that her instructions don't seem to extend to surveillance, and he’s free to duck in under the canvas flap alone, stepping into the muted light of the tent.

There's a moment of hesitation at first, as the tent’s occupants attempt to identify the intruder, and then a voice calls out, “M'Lord!” and the title spreads through the tent’s close quarters. As his eyes adjust from the brightness of the day outside, the shapes of his men, his formal escort of the day before, emerge. They snap to a semblance of attention, those seated scrambling to stand even as he waves them to rest. They look bored, restless, but other than that, fairly well.

The tent floor is unlined, sparsely sprouted with grass that’s gradually giving way under the churn of feet, and he can see little in the way of what they might have used to pad or warm their sleep. But there are much worse ways to pass a night, and such conditions certainly shouldn’t have troubled the hardened warriors Logan had selected. The most offensive thing in the space is the strong stench coming from the bucket in a corner.

He gets this all in a quick glance, holding off on further assessment: he has a task to complete. Acknowledging their bows with a tilt of his head, he passes through the group, seeking his commander, and finds him leaned up against the tent’s central pillar.

“Logan---what on earth?--”

The man’s left eye is a bloodied, bruised mess. A split in the skin near his temple oozes blood, most of it drying or tacky; and besides the purple bruises raging like a storm across his face, the white of the injured eye is inflamed with the red of burst blood vessels.

With evident difficulty, he attempts to stand, pushing off the pole to support himself as Charles rushes forward to stop him.

“Stay down, please!”

He settles a bit as Logan somewhat complies, not so much lowering himself as collapsing back into the pole. Logan’s eyes, both the bruised and the normal, are active, taking Charles in as though seeking assurance that he remains unharmed. The last time the other man saw him, Charles realizes, he was dragged off by Lehnsherr’s guards to uncertain fate. He senses Logan struggling with the desire to question him about what’s occurred--prevented, Charles suspects, partly because as Charles’ subordinate it’s not his place to ask. But more, perhaps, because no matter the answer there’s not a thing he can do about it. While Logan’s not up to questioning, however, Charles certainly is.

“What happened to you? Who did this?”

“It’s nothin’. Probably had it coming.”

Logan’s brusque reply prompts an imperious eyebrow, which yields a few more words of explanation: "Got a little worked up is all.”

It’s bullshit and they both know it.

The two stare stubbornly at each other, at a standoff. While Logan is fiercely loyal, and would never withhold something of strategic use or relevance, obdurate man that he is, Charles thinks with mixed emotion, he would certainly keep something back if he felt in doing so he was protecting Charles.

Charles examines Logan’s face carefully, the desire to know warring with external pressures. At first glance his injury seems to be mostly superficial, but his hunched posture and stiff movement suggest damage that extends beyond his face. And yet he may not have much time here, who knows how long the guards’ patience will last? Logan’s looking back at him like he knows it, too.

Reluctantly, he lets it go, but not without shooting Logan a warning glance to signal that they will discuss it later.

“I need someone who can take a message.” He can’t send Logan, now. Were he in shape to make the journey, his injuries would attract unnecessary attention—though the choice of his commander would have been suspicious, regardless, for such a trivial task.

"Alex."

"Alex. Which one is he?” Charles asks, scanning the assembled group.

“Over there,” Logan offers. “Far side. Blond kid, skinny.”

Charles looks over and catches sight of the youth that Logan means. He’s younger than most of the men and seems somewhat scrawny, not strong enough to have joined the honour guard, but perhaps that's why Logan selected him: he is unlikely to be seen as a threat by any of Lehnsherr’s men guarding the gates. Then, once he’s in, he will pass through the city relatively unnoticed.

He nods and briefly claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder in thanks, communicating in the wordless language that is their shorthand both the reassurance of a commanding officer and the support and gratitude of a friend, and goes to find Alex.

As he passes near it, the flap at the tent’s entrance flutters—doubtless a signal from one of his guards telling him to hurry up. Drawing close to the membrane, he calls out in his most regal tone, “I’m not yet finished,” and hopes it will appease them for a few more moments.

He stops before the young man Logan had pointed out.

“Alex.”

“Sir! Your Highness.” He ducks his head, as though slightly awed at being addressed, and only Charles’ firm hand on his shoulder keeps him from jumping to his feet. He looks a bit peaked. Charles crouches down to speak to him which will serve better to hide what passes between them, even from the rest of the tent.

“Have you all been fed?” he asks first. It’s something Logan certainly would have concealed, should the answer be negative.

“Yes, your Grace—I mean, your Highness—”

“Good.” Charles says, cutting off any further attempts at formalities. “Now, listen to me. I’m sending you on a mission of the utmost importance. I need to know that you can follow my instructions exactly.”

Alex nods, his eyes widening at the seriousness of the task with which he is to be entrusted.

“I need you to go into town. I’m sending you under the guise of retrieving some items from the keep, which you’ll do as well, but more importantly I need you to arrange to have this message passed on. There’s a person in the village, Roz, white hair. You’ll find them in the Blacksmith’s forge. It’s vital that you deliver this to them."

He slides the paper, the letter written in Lehnsherr’s tent, free from his sleeve. “They’ll know where to send it.”

The letter is for his children. Despite the promise of their safety he'd extracted from Lehnsherr their position remains precarious; worse, if he can't find a way to let Raven know what has happened. Before she took the children to safety Charles impressed on her that should she not hear from him within two month’s time, she was to assume the worst: that the negotiations had failed and he was dead, and was to flee with the children out of the reach of the assassins would likely follow. Lehnsherr will have spies in and around Normandy, and now that they've come to an agreement would likely read Raven’s flight as a sign of Charles' treachery—that he was moving his children to safety before striking back. He's not sure that he fully trusts Lehnsherr's promise, but fleeing again now is the surest way to get them all killed. Thus: the letter. Phrased tersely, it instructs Raven to remain in place. It's not exactly treason, but taken in the wrong hands, it could easily, perhaps willfully, be misunderstood, and so demands utmost secrecy.

Charles reaches into the folds of his tunic and draws out Sebastian’s seal, which also he presses into Alex’s hands. Since he couldn’t risk signing it, the letter will require another form of authentication.

"Hold this separate and send it with the letter,” he instructs. “If anyone sees it before then, tell them it is for the guards at my chamber, to allow passage. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.” The look in Alex’s eyes, which resolves from uncertainty into determination, affirms for Charles that Logan suggested the right man. “I will guard it with my life.”

This most important task secured, Charles takes a moment to consider something else.

“Alex,” he says, hesitating only slightly, “what happened to the commander?”

There’s a reluctant pause, as the other almost squirms under his gaze.

“They were provoking him....saying things about you, Your Highness, about your character.” He looks embarrassed and this, if anything, confirms Charles’ suspicion that Alex is a new recruit. Embarrassment and shyness don’t last long in the company of warriors.

Charles looks back at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.

“That is...about you and Lehnsherr...and the things you might be getting up to...together…”

Ah.

While Alex hadn’t managed to finish the sentence, the redness in his cheeks makes his meaning unmistakable.

Even knowing the tenor of what was most likely said, Charles is too weary to bother to muster up embarrassment or indignation. Especially not when it’s so close to the truth.

“I see,” he says, realizing he has one important task left to fulfill. And then: “Don't forget your commission. Lives beyond mine rest in your hands.”

Once Alex gives his solemn confirmation, Charles rises and makes his way to the front of the tent; waits until he has the group’s attention.

“I thank you all for your service and loyalty,” he begins, pitching his voice to carry, so all of his men can hear. The faces of the hardened warriors looking back at him are defeated, set with grim expectation in place of hope. The fact that he’s addressing them at all is indicative of how far they’ve fallen. When the battles were still raging their orders were conducted through Logan, a matter of practicality that also allowed those of them (of whom he’s sure there are many, even here among Logan’s chosen) who respected him only as Shaw’s consort the pretense that Charles was not in charge.

“I’m working to secure your release, but in the meantime, I’m sure you all want to know where things stand.” He swallows, clears his throat. “An accord has been reached. Erik Lehnsherr has promised to honour the treaty and guarantee the lives of the citizens. Your families should be safe.” He hesitates on the final words, not quite wanting to speak them into being; as though this moment, insignificant though it is, marks the point of no return. “And to seal the bargain...I am to marry him.”

The news should be comforting. The marriage will afford the Saxons another layer of protection; much more than they had before. And yet there’s much resentment towards the Danes over the violence they have wrought, the Saxon lives they’ve taken, and the air is clouded with mixed feelings. This union, advantageous though it may prove to be, forever ties the Saxons to their enemies in the final sign of their defeat.

While Charles surveys the assembled men, there’s one area of the tent he can’t bring himself to look, to the one man who won’t find much comfort in the knowledge that any outrages done onto Charles will be overwritten, any stains on his honour restored by marriage. He doesn’t want to meet Logan’s gaze, for fear of what he’ll find there. Anger, maybe. Accusation; pity. Or perhaps, most painful of all, the loss of something that never could have been.

The fabric near the tent opening flutters again, this time with more impatience. Somewhat relieved at the chance to duck out from under those eyes, both seen and unseen, he moves back through the flap to scold his overhasty guard.

“Yes, what is it?” he demands, falling back on imperious, “I told you--” ...I’d be a few minutes. The words die in his throat as he almost bumps into the man waiting outside the tent.

It’s not one of his minders. For a split second he entertains the absurd notion that he’s nearly walked into a bear; until he looks up and realizes it’s a large man wearing a bear cloak, the man’s barrel chest before him covered in the cloak’s thick fur. His gaze travels further up to a heavy brow, banded by widows’ peaks. Masses of unkempt hair sprout from the man’s head, separated only by several braids, dotted throughout, which are threaded with what seem to be teeth. It takes him a moment, overwhelmed by the man’s presence, to realize he’s seen him before. This morning, talking to Lehnsherr. Angry.

“Your Highness.”

The title on the bear-man’s lips is not sardonic like it is on Lehnsherr’s, or histrionically obsequious like Azazel’s. Nor skittish as on Alex’s. But hard, flat, and raw, as though he’s chewing the words and spitting them out. While preserving the physical distance between them, he looks Charles over in a way that feels as intimate and violating as unwanted touch.

“Lehnsherr may be willing to forgive,” the man says, “he’s long scorned our ways. But I know it was you who robbed us of our rightful spoils.”

Spoils. The word sends a chill up Charles’ spine, knowing he’s not talking of treasured objects.

“You’re a pretty little bitch, aren’t you?” the man continues. Despite vitriol of the words, he maintains an impassive, solemn countenance, his expression fixed except for his mouth, which now twists up into a sneer. “Pretty enough that he spared you. But if I were Lehnsherr I would have stuck my cock in you and gutted you while I was still inside you. Then fucked you until your screams died away.”

The afternoon light barely reaches the shaded side of the tent, and darkens farther in the man’s gaze, seeming almost to vanish into it. His yellow eyes glitter, burning like the dense centres of coals in a brazier. And swallowing all the light.

…

----

And 5000 years later, here’s an update. Hopefully the next one will not be so long.

To anyone still hanging around, thanks so much for reading and for putting up with my shameless misappropriation of history for personal edification! Apparently this fic now has shades of Xavierine, which is akasanata and gerec’s fault!

#cherik #viking au #historical au #Charles Xavier #Erik Lehnsherr #x-men #subtle a/b/o #cherik fic #brawlingdiscontent #twtbg #not happy with this part #but time to move on and edit later #encomium carolis regis

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averil-of-fairlea · 6 years

Text

Honor your promise

Based on this from @thorinoakenshieldconfessions: “My new head canon is this: Just before Thorin’s love dies in his arms from a battle wound, she tries to comfort him. With her last bit of strength, she smiles weakly and jokes, “No sulking or frowning, my love, or I shall come back and teach you a lesson.” Then she dies. His heart shattered, from that moment on he often has a dour face, hoping in vain that she will someday make good on her promise.“

And this from @imaginexhobbit: “Imagine making up with Thorin against a tree.”

Notes: Angst, slight NSFW, humor. Flashbacks are in italics. I changed the “battle” in the head canon above to Smaug’s breach of the Lonely Mountain.

Written in loving memory of my husband, who died unexpectedly on August 5, 2017. He was my real-life Thorin, a complete Tolkien nerd who introduced me to “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was the absolute love of my life.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when Thorin last cradled your head to his chest under the canopy of a serene oak grove, the scene of so much passion and love, good-natured needling and laughter. But only a little while had passed since that bliss.

Farewell hurdled toward you, between you, as fast as the blood spilled from your body.

“You were supposed to hide.” Thorin didn’t mean for it to sound like a reprimand. You saved his life. Gratitude and a desperate plea rested behind the sharpness of his words.

“You knew I wouldn’t.” You touched his face and found comfort in the softness of his beard. But his heavy, wrinkled brow, falling like an avalanche, broke your slowing heart.

His tears fell onto your chin. He could hardly hear you through the din of sorrow and anguish, echoing inside his heart and all around him, strong as the overwhelming smell of fire and smoke.

“I have a better promise,” you continued through a hoarse whisper.

“Stay.” Thorin touched your cold cheek. “Stay with me.”

You managed a small smile. “No sulking or frowning, my love, or I shall come back and teach you a lesson.”

***

Thorin wakes up with your last words etched on his mind as always, and with a shred of hope in his heart that today will be the day.

As he collects his bedroll, pipe and the excellent pipe weed he stashed for himself, he hears but doesn’t participate in the company’s early morning chatter. Topics of conversation include Beorn’s monster-sized bees, the hearty breakfast the skin changer has prepared, and Dwalin’s nightmarish belches and farts lasting from a bean stew supper two nights ago.

In the midst of it all, Thorin catches chitchat between his nephews about him.

“Best to stay out of his way, Kee. He’s already grim. It’s written all over his face.”

“Of course he is. Mum said ever since his wife -”

“No, no, he smiles every now and again. Remember when Bofur sang in Rivendell?”

Kili nods with a wide grin. “Aye, he was tapping his foot and enjoying his wine, too!” The younger of the princes snaps his fingers, his eyes shining. “And he smiled at Mr. Boggins’ house - right at Mr. Boggins himself!!”

Fili nods, then with caution slides his eyes to Thorin, who does an excellent job feigning oblivion to the talk as he collects his bedroll into an uneven lump with fast, angry folds.

Convinced his uncle isn’t paying him any attention, Fili turns back to Kili and adds: “He had a little chuckle at Bilbo’s expense, too.”

“Didn’t everyone chuckle at Bilbo’s expense?” Kili’s words trip over his giggles.

Fili clearly wants to explode with laughter, but his shaking shoulders and several hard boot stomps on the hay in Beorn’s barn will have to do.

Within seconds, the brothers move onto the next subject - “what are the odds we’ll find a decent tavern during our travels? - while Thorin ponders Fili’s observation: “He smiles every now and again.”

Thorin’s mind moves as quick and as sharp as lightning, his musings piercing his heart.

Perhaps you had planned to fulfill your promise at the very moment his countenance changed from grim to blithe, he thinks. You may have mistaken his expression to mean he has forgotten you. That explains why you haven’t appeared to him as you promised.

“I have failed you,” Thorin mutters under his breath. “Again.”

And with those words filling his head, the memory of his last day with you plays out, as it does every day.

***

“You have failed, Prince Thorin!”

Wrapping your legs tight around his waist, you moved together as one through the last few waves of ecstasy. Thorin’s loosened belt kept his dark trousers from completely revealing his naked backside, but not by much. The rough bark of the oak tree behind you clawed at your hiked frock and scratched your skin, but the slight sting only added to the thrill of your torrid lovemaking.

“Failed?” The smile played on his lips sent you back to the sky. “Your moans tell me differently, amrâlimê.”

Oh, the power the simple act of smiling had on you. Your body quivered as you held each other for dear life, the pleasure between you generating such high heat that you were sure the whole of the Erebor could sense it, two leagues away.

“My turn…for failure…” He grinned that grin again. Your clenches below pulled deep growls and thrusts from him that took you both by surprise with their intensity.

Several minutes later, as you lay under dappled sunlight on a plush gray blanket, surrounded by trees and birdsong, you clarified your earlier statement.

“What I meant was, you failed to take my mind off the fact that we argued yet again about you forbidding me to wield a sword over the next year.”

Stretched beside your body, his arm protectively around your shoulders as you rested your head on his chest, Thorin released a rugged chuckle before answering.

“I would say you wielded my sword very, very well a moment ago.”

Your face hot, you slapped his hand, making him laugh louder. When he settled down, his voice turned low and serious.

“Amrâlimê, please. Isn’t it enough that you still carry it?” He gestured toward your treasured weapon resting in its scabbard against a large rock. “And as I recall, it was not I who forbade you, but your midwife. It’s for the best. It’s for our child.” He patted your slightly rounded belly. You lifted your head to look him in his beautiful blue eyes, the royal tailor’s inspiration for his striking cobalt tunic. It took everything in you not to rekindle passion’s fire.

“Well, if sparring is off limits,” you teased, “surely coupling should be also. Especially against trees.”

Thorin cocked an eyebrow - his “don’t-dare-think-it” look.

“That was no mere coupling, my lady. That was -”

“Magic.” You reached up to give him a gentle peck on the lips, and lay your head back on his chest. “Fine. I’ll follow the midwife’s orders. But I must tell you, I can hardly wait to practice again. I think I have some lessons to teach you.”

He scoffed. “Lessons? Need I remind you that I’ve been through more swords and battles than you’ve seen sunrises?”

“Defending yourself and what you love is not always about experience. It’s about what’s in your heart.”

Thorin groaned. “That sounds like poetry.” He rolled his eyes, taking advantage of your turned head. If you’d caught him, his hand would get slapped again. He sighed and held you closer. “Heart alone doesn’t win battles or save lives.“

“Depends on what’s in the heart, my love.”

Thorin knew you would say that, and he had a response that he hoped would lead to more romance: “You’ll just have to show me.”

But he never got a chance to say it. All at once, a shadow of great and terrifying proportions crossed the sky directly overhead. The beast’s sweltering whoosh swept the forest floor across your embraced bodies.

You both scrambled to your feet and looked up, but the creature had already disappeared from your immediate sight. Its heat lingered, however. You thought you would burst into flames.

“What was that?!” you cried as you shook off the dried leaves, sticks and pine cone bits from your hair and clothes, followed by dousing yourself with what remained in your water skin.

No sooner had you asked the question did you hear a clamor of far-off screams and warning blows through a symphony of horns.

“Dragon!” Thorin stomped into his boots. “It’s headed for the mountain!”

Dragon. The word sent your heart into frenzied pounding. You fumbled into your shoes as Thorin tossed your coat to you. He grabbed your sword and secured it to his side on his belt, next to his own weapon.

“Thorin, give it to me! I’m coming with you!” You dove toward him, but he extended his arm and held his hand against your shoulder, keeping you back.

“You will hide here,” he said. Somehow, the urgency in his voice did not take away from the uncanny calmness in his tone. He sounded kingly, resolute. You’d never heard quite so authoritative a tone from him. He would make a fine king someday, and you, an exquisite queen, you thought. But first, the dragon needed to die. “I will send the first guard I see for you,” Thorin said. “Until then, put the blanket over you and wait quietly in the thicket.”

You reared your head back and widened your eyes. “A blanket?” you shrieked in disbelief. “You would leave me alone and defenseless?”

“I would leave you hidden and alive!” He approached you with fast, determined footfalls. In an instant, he took you into his arms and kissed your mouth hard. You knew what it meant. If his journey home resulted in his death, he wanted to make sure you knew how much he’d loved you. More than anyone. More than his own life.

He placed his hand over your navel, covered by your wrinkled dress.

“Promise me you will -” Thorin began, but another set of distant screams and distress calls interrupted him.

“Go!” You pushed him toward his pony.

He realized halfway to the mountain that you had deftly detached your scabbard from his belt during your embrace.

***

As he pulled his grandfather from the mountain, Thorin heard you shout his name and scream for him to watch out.

“I am dazed…imagining things,” he thought. “She’s in the woods and hidden.”

But Thorin would learn much later from the guard he sent to protect you that you overtook the gentleman’s steed and rushed off toward the Lonely Mountain without him, hollering an apology in your wake.

Thorin heard your voice again: “FIRE!” you yelled that time. The dragon had its eyes fixed on him and his grandfather. An inferno glowed in its chest as the dragon opened its mouth.

Thorin couldn’t move as fast as he wanted, and he couldn’t get to you. He, along with elite fighters and commoners alike, raised swords to fend off the beast.

He didn’t want to believe what he saw next. You, charging. You, roaring. You, screaming, “move!” You, drawing that blasted sword.

But too much rubbish, too many frantic people, and too little foresight got in your way. You lost your footing just after pushing Thorin and Thror out of the direct path of the dragon’s hot fury. You dropped your sword and stumbled in front of it. The blade got wedged in broken stone and sat upright, waiting for a victim.

Thorin lunged toward you just a hair too late. The sword sliced his fingers but slipped from grasp. He could only catch you after the fact.

“You were supposed to hide…”

***

“Where are you? Honor your promise! Show yourself!”

The king’s mighty voice, deep and rough with anguish and madness, bounces off the streaked jade walls inside his reclaimed homeland. Outside, armies surround the mountain. Inside, his relatives and friends wring their hands and gnash their teeth, awaiting word from their troubled king.

He looks around the vast halls for any sign of you. For the shape of you. Your voice. Your smile. Everything tugs at his mad mind, just as your heavy scabbard that he insists on fastening tightly to his belt weighs him down: War. Power. That sneaky, deceitful Hobbit. That conceited Elf. That dull bargeman, his loosing of a black arrow his sole redeeming quality. That daft, pointy-hatted wizard who egged Thorin on in the first place, practically ushering him into this disaster. That panicked Dwalin whimpering about Dain’s forces getting slaughtered instead of worrying about protecting the mountain’s wealth.

But at his core, Thorin wrestles the most with something else.

He remembers Fili’s remark months ago: “He smiles every now and again.” Thorin recalls laughing, merrymaking and feasting over the years, and those memories plague him.

Because as hard as he tried, he failed to stay absolutely solemn all of his days, the very thing that would have summoned you to return and teach him his lesson.

Because as much as he scowled and frowned, something would eventually remind him of life’s goodness: friendships, new and old; the kingly potential in his nephews; loyalty, honor, and a willing heart.

Dejected, he walks away from his fractured throne, off to the Gallery of the Kings and its dazzling gilded floor - yet another memento of his failure, when he led the company in an attempt to kill Smaug by drowning him in molten gold.

At that moment, as his mistakes and voices from his past overlap in his mind, your scabbard crashes beside him, right atop a vision of the dragon swimming beneath the floor, and your sword slides out, as if drawn.

***

Thorin’s injury is grave from his final battle with Azog, but his healers tend to him day and night, cleaning the wound, applying fresh bandages and making sure he has every available remedy and comfort. A touch of Gandalf’s healing power seals his fate: Thorin will live.

The king’s closest friends, including Bilbo, Dwalin, and the rest of the company, bring him regular reports of his nephews’ slow but steady recovery and the rebuilding process. He’s gotten word that his sister and other Dwarves from Ered Luin will soon make the journey to Erebor.

As soon as his caretakers feel he can do it, Thorin takes on a few duties from his sick bed. The plans for a grand front gate and other repairs receive his approval. Along with the recently crowned king of Dale, he proposes new trade agreements and reinstates old ones. The Elven king, not yet a business partner but no longer a foe, has visited once, keeping a chilly distance but unable to conceal the relief on his face that Thorin will survive.

And Thorin’s most formidable enemy lies dead in a lake.

All of this gives the King Under the Mountain a reason to smile; in Thranduil’s case, smirk.

Everything makes sense now. The love and devotion in his heart for his people and his home saved lives, won the mountain once and for all, and delivered him from madness and failure. .

Thorin finally understands what you meant when you said, “it’s about what’s in your heart.”

He still aches for you and the future you didn’t have, the child that never came into the world. He longs for your eventual reunion, many years from now if Mahal allows, to see you in all your beauty, magic and wisdom, just like the last time in the forest.

#thorin fanfiction #thorin fics #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit #J.R.R. Tolkien #tolkien

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Silver Secret pt2

By popular demand, chapter two of Silver Secret!

@life-is-righteous @filisleftmustachebraid @littlemergirl4779 @aidanturnersass @childoftheshire @ilikechocolatemilkh

“Mjoll?” Fíli’s voice was quiet, but you stiffened anyway, an ember of fury lighting in your gut. Had you not told him never to speak to you again?! Beside you, Ori squeaked, making to get up and go elsewhere, but your powerful grip on his thigh stopped him from leaving the bargeman’s table where you’d been mending a few articles of torn clothing. On the other side of the table, Dori looked up with a glare. Behind you, Fíli sighed. “Look, I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I’m sorry, I really am… sorry.” You did not look up, did not acknowledge his words, ignored him completely.

Once, you’d thought you knew what was in his heart, but obviously you’d been mistaken, and now… you thought you might break if you had to look at him. Firmly telling yourself that you did not love him one bit had done little to change the heart that had stubbornly belonged to him since you were old enough to understand the meaning of love – even the past five years of careful distance had not changed your mind, had done nothing to stop the way your heart beat a little faster when you saw the sunlight catching in his golden hair, knowing how softly the strands would glide through your fingers.

“I think, Prince Fíli,” Dori’s voice was frosty, and you suddenly realised that without knowing how, you’d come under the same maternal aegis of protection as Dori. It made you feel warm; Dwalin had found you as a small dwarfling, begging for food after Jofur had been taken away by the bad men, but he was single, so you’d never had a real amad, even if Dwalin was the best adad a little girl could want. “- best get you gone now. Mjoll was quite clear that she did not wish to speak with you anytime soon.” You’d missed some of Dori’s tirade, though you caught sight of Dwalin nodding silently over the tailor’s shoulder. Smiling gratefully at Dori, you returned your focus to the stitches you were making in Dwalin’s undershirt, wondering how he’d managed to burst the especially reinforced shoulder seams you’d made before the Quest began. Not many knew it, but Dwalin couldn’t sew to save his life, and he’d made sure you were taught – Balin had some skill with a needle, but it had been the Dowager Queen Frís who had shown you how to work thread and cloth together to make durable clothes – all the skills he didn’t know, though he had personally trained you in every weapon imaginable, turning you into one of the best warriors in Thorinuldûm. You heard Fíli’s steps shuffling behind you, but he didn’t say anything else, and eventually peace was restored.

“She won’t even acknowledge my existence,” Fíli whined. Beside him, Kíli was looking feverish – Thorin had demanded he go to bed until he was doing better – but he sighed anyway.

“Did you apologise?” he asked hoarsely.

“I tried to, but she wouldn’t hear me!” Fíli cried. “Dori made me leave. Mahal, Kee, what if she never speaks to me again?” he groaned, hiding his head in his hands. “Mjoll wouldn’t even look at me…”

“If at first you don’t succeed…” he began, nudging Fíli when his older brother didn’t continue Amadel’s favourite response every time they’d come home complaining that something was too hard. Fíli sighed, giving his brother a tortured look.

“Try, try again.” Fíli drawled. Kíli nodded.

“She’s Mjoll, Fee, did you really think she wouldn’t put up a fight?” the archer added, slightly condescending in Fíli’s opinion. He scowled, but Kíli just kept looking at him like Fíli was the daft one. Playing with the small pendant on its chain, catching the light of the setting sun as the silver disc spun in the air, the small jade mountain with its silver snow and the stylized eagle in flight nearly coming alive; the runes of her name standing out starkly every time that side caught the low light.

Kíli should not have gone inside the armoury, you thought, looking at him. His brow was beading with sweat, though he’s carrying less than the weight of his pack. You gave the bandage a suspicious look – was the wound worse than you had thought? Clearly Thorin’s mind followed the train of yours, stopping Kíli as he was about to hand his nephew another sword.

“You all right?” he asked, frowning. Kíli nodded, but you were not convinced, moving to offer your help.

“I can manage. Let’s just get out of here.” Kíli said harshly, which was unlike him. Frowning, you watched him turn before you could reach him and make for the stairs. You watched it happen in slow-motion, as though time itself had slowed to the consistency of treacle, watched his leg buckle beneath him, the weapons flying from his grip as he uttered a pained cry; the sound nearly drowned by the loud clanging of metal striking metal and wood as the weapons continue to fall, hitting every step with a sound that made you wince.

“Run!” Dori gasped out, but you had no time to do so, had no means of fighting your way past the well-armoured guards who levelled pikes and spears at you. One of them had grabbed Kíli, holding a blade to his throat. Thorin growled.

For a moment, you thought all was lost, as you were being dragged before the Master of this pitiful town. You had travelled with caravans, and you’d thought you’d seen Men brought low, but this town was one of the worst you had ever seen, the hollow-cheeked faces that stared at you only confirming what you had already thought; Bard using your money to buy fish was an act of desperation; not for your sake, but for the people of the town, who obviously did not have enough to feed themselves well. You had wondered at the time, why Alfrid didn’t ask him how he’d paid for the fish, but you’d waved it off as minor oddity; now you were beginning to think he had only objected to be seen to object, a thought reinforced by the sheer theatricality of the scene before you; the fat Master of Laketown trying to appear grand, but falling far short of the mark. Haughtily, you smirked; Thorin was far more dignified, even standing before the Men with little more than the clothes on his back and a head filled with dreams of a better future to offer them. You smiled. Your King knew what it was to starve, and you felt proud to be one of his subjects, watching him masterfully play the crowd.

You sat quietly throughout the party, watching from the shadows as Bofur taught some of the Lakemen a merry jig. Kíli pretended to be unaffected, but you could see the strain in him, caught the way his mug of ale wasn’t refilled a single time throughout the night. Beside him, Fíli sat, the sight of him in the light of the candles enough to make your blood heat – you squashed the thought ruthlessly, blaming the weak thing these Men called ale and went to find Dwalin, engaging him in a spirited retelling of your battle with the Goblins that made quite a lot of the women gasp with awe, staring at his bulging muscles. Spending the night with merry laughter and story-telling might not fit your mood, but it was better than pining for your prince and catching yourself feeling for the familiar weight of your necklace. As you tried to sleep, you wonder what had happened to it, whether Fíli had already thrown it away or not.

In the morning, you’d been dressed in armour; it was ill-fitting, but better than mere cloth you told yourself, striding along beside Dwalin towards the docks, where you’d been told you would find a boat to sail across the Long Lake. The Master generously gifted you supplies to reach the Mountain, though you were certain he did so only because the townsfolk favoured you; an attempt at winning their goodwill, nothing more. A few musicians attempted to liven up the chilly autumn morning, but you did not feel cheered, worried about the pale face of Kíli, who seemed worse than the day before.

“You do know we’re one short,” Bilbo pipes up suddenly, looking around in alarm, “where’s Bofur?” You hadn’t even realized he was missing, too worried about Kíli, whose night of rest seemed to have done little good.

“If he’s not here, we leave him behind.” Thorin replied, his eyes turned toward the lonely peak that seemed at once so close and impossibly far away. For a moment, Bilbo looked angry – an incongruent expression on his face, you mused – before both your attentions were stolen by Balin.

“We have to, if we’re to find the door before Durin’s Day. We can risk no more delays.” That was putting it bluntly, you knew, though he was indubitably right. Still, it sat ill with you to think of leaving a member of the Company behind, opening your mouth to offer to run back and look for Bofur – perhaps he was still passed out drunk? Dwalin’s arm around your shoulder made the words stick in your throat, as he easily lifted you onto the boat, swiftly following along. You’ve been on boats before, but it hadn’t happened often; for a moment, all your focus is spent on keeping your balance as you move to the front end; Bombur would have to sit in the middle, the fishermen had decreed, to ensure the boat did not tip over.

“Not you. We must travel with speed, you will slow us down.” At first, the words did not register, but when you looked back, you saw Thorin’s hand on Kíli’s shoulder, gaping as you realized he was serious; Kíli swayed a little. Concern lurked in Thorin’s blue eyes, though you did not think Kíli saw it; he was grinning as though Thorin was joking.

“What are you talking about?” he objected, “I’m coming with you.” Staring at the two dark heads, you already knew Thorin would not find the words to convey what was in his heart, would not phrase his command in a way that conveyed his deep concern. Growing up close to the princes, you had heard more than one account of Thorin’s wooden and stiff wording hurting feelings when he meant to be soothing; you saw it happening before your eyes in that moment. At the other end of the boat, Fíli had turned around too, his shoulders stiff as he waited for Thorin’s verdict.

“No.” Just that; simple denial. You gaped; even for Thorin, that was harsh.

“I’m going to be there when that door is opened,” Kíli assured him, “when we first look upon the halls of our fathers,” but Thorin is not swayed, not even by his name turned into a fervent plea, “Thorin…”

“Kili, stay here. Rest,” Thorin tried, but you knew Kíli wasn’t listening; this moment was the one the both of them had dreamed of for so long, you knew. Around you, the Company were silent. Thorin offered some comfort, though it fell on deaf ears, “Join us when you’re healed.” No one spoke as Thorin stepped onto the boat, but then Óin scrambled off, coming to stand near Kíli.

“I’ll stay with the lad. My duty lies with the wounded.” He tried to examine the prince, but Kíli would have none of it, staring after Thorin with an expression of abject betrayal on his face.

“Uncle, we grew up on tales of the mountain.” Fíli tried to object, but even he knew it would be pointless, you knew, seeing the glance he shot his brother. “Tales you told us. You can’t take that away from him!”

“Fili.” Thorin’s voice is hard, but clear; this is the King’s will, and it will be done, you knew, no matter how it made your heart bleed to see Kíli so defeated.

“I will carry him, if I must!” Fíli cried, but Thorin was implacable. Dwalin’s hand found your arm, squeezing lightly. You looked up at him, knowing he’d read the sadness in your eyes.

“One day you will be king,” Thorin sighed, “and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf, not even my own kin.” Fíli simply stared at him, horrified. Looking back at Kíli, he suddenly stepped off the boat, throwing off Thorin’s restraining arm.

“Fili, don’t be a fool.” Thorin demands. You wished for someone to give you the power to turn back time, to make him see what his words were doing. “You belong with the Company.”

“I belong with my brother.” Fíli didn’t look back at his uncle once, simply taking his place beside Kíli. For a moment, you tried to join them, but Dwalin’s hand pulled you back down as the boat is pushed away from the dock.

Musicians were playing, and the Master was making some sort of speech, but you could only stare in silence as the three Dwarrow on the quay were joined by a panting Bofur, while the Men around you cheered your departure. “...Bring good fortune to all!” You caught the last words from the Master joining the Company in waving at the Men as the boat picked up speed, but in your chest your heart was torn. This wasn’t right. With effort, you pretended not to notice the way Fíli’s eyes were burning his gaze into your soul, keeping your attention on Kíli. Just as you turned a corner, the crowd blocking your view, Kíli’s leg buckled. You gasped, but there was nothing you could do; the Lakemen getting smaller as you sailed out onto the Long Lake.

(If I’ve missed out tagging someone, i’m sorry, but I haven’t written a taglist for this fic...)

The currently published chapters [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

#fili #fili/reader #kili #the company #laketown #hobbit #hobbit imagine #Silver secrets

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mrmichaelchadler · 5 years

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Short Films in Focus: Bartleby

It’s hard to believe that in all the years of covering short films that I had yet to write about one based on a classic short story. Herman Melville’s “Bartleby” (first published in 1853) has been adapted into two features, but the story works perfectly well as a 10-minute, wordless, animated short. True to the original story (mostly), this new version offers no clues into the inner workings of one of the most frustrating and baffling co-workers anyone could ever encounter. He’s an anomaly, a paradox and seemingly not from our world, except that he looks human, knows how to land a job, where to show up for work and can wear a tie.

But he's functional: When Bartleby shows up for his first day at work in a Wall Street office to do some mundane data entry, he does so at great speed that puts all the other workers to shame. He talks to no one. He has nothing to say, but he can do the work, at least until he “prefers not to,” a phrase that will haunt the boss man in charge for the rest of his days. “I prefer not to” is the only answer Bartleby will give when asked to do his work or show up for a meeting. He has simply stopped and refuses to budge. He also never leaves the building. He remains stuck in the corner and requires no help from anyone.

Directors Laura Naylor and Kristen Kee have modernized “Bartleby” for the age of computers and email, making Bartleby’s behavior that much more confounding. They have also smartly chosen to tell the story almost entirely visually—when characters speak, letters spill out from their mouths, sometimes forming words, while we hear the sounds of old printers and fax machines take the place of human voices. This reminded me of another claymation marvel, Aardman’s “Shaun the Sheep Movie,” which also did away with dialogue in favor of grunts and mumbles. It works especially well here, because what else do we need to hear from them besides those four annoying words?

Naylor and Kee have made a wonderful adaptation that is laced with dark humor and a real sense of tension and despair at having to deal with this oddball. The character renderings are perfect. Bartleby himself looks like a human blank page and the boss looks like the kind of guy who has seen it all—until today. “Bartleby” is a story maybe we’ve seen or read before, but this version, like Melville’s original story, will still have some mysteries and unanswered questions by the end, but nothing that will feel unsatisfactory. Decades after first reading Melville’s story and seeing the 1971 version, I still have no idea what Bartleby’s deal is and that’s just the way it should be.

How did this project come about?

KRISTEN KEE: We were both smitten with Melville’s “Bartleby” and with the medium of stop-motion. One thing Laura and I bonded over early is we were both raised Mormon, but dropped out as young adults. Right around the time I was thinking about leaving the church, I found Bartleby—the idea of preferring not to make a ton of sense from that angle. In a stubborn, teenage way. Fast forward several years, both of us out of art school working drab office jobs in midtown, with art as a side hustle. We both definitely preferred not to spend all day in cubicles, and almost literally rediscovered Bartleby as a kind of self portrait. So that’s how we came to the story. On the medium, Laura’s background was in film, and mine was in sculpture, so stop-motion seemed to be this perfect intersection of our skill sets. And with Bartleby as stop-motion, there’s also a beautiful rub: you have a lead character who prefers, by the end, to essentially do nothing, and we’re telling his story in this incredibly time and labor intensive medium. It’s a perfectly backwards choice because there is no “preferring not to” in stop-motion. Plus Melville’s Bartleby is so open-ended, and so ambiguous in its visuals, it was ripe for an experimentation-friendly, build-your-own-reality medium like stop-motion. We kept asking ourselves, “how does this not exist already?!”

Where did the idea of the floating letters and dialogue come from?

LAURA NAYLOR: We wanted to layer in repeated references to the physical world of text, to Bartleby and Melville’s world and to the way we both first experienced the story. On a more abstract level we were also trying to have the text effectively become a character of sorts. The animated letters were also this great tool we could play with to express the mounting tension between Bartleby and his boss. The mutated, evolving text hive also points to some of the liberties we took with the story itself (setting it in ~2011 Wall Street, adjusting names/genders of characters, changing the ending). Frankly, it was also a kind of elegant and hacky solution to one of the constraints of stop-motion—specifically, it’s incredibly time and labor intensive to animate speaking parts in stop motion, so making the film “silent” enabled us to actually, well, make it at all.

What sounds are we hearing in place of dialogue?

KK: The audio you hear when the characters are speaking is sampled from old, early tech printers. That was another way for us to subtly allude to Bartleby’s literary and textual origin story. The printer sounds were actually the brainchild of our amazing sound and music team, Deniz Cuylan and Brian Bender of Bright + Guilty. We were kind of shocked by how rich the collaboration with them was. We would give those guys notes—a couple of artists and a few tonal descriptors (minimalist, dissonant, occasionally wistful, saggy with ennui)—and they’d consistently come back to us with clearer, purer, better versions of what we’d tried, but largely failed, to describe. We felt like we lacked the vocabulary to articulate what we wanted, but they understood us anyway. They made the film so much better.

The lighting here looks very specific. What were some of the challenges (if any) related to the lighting?

LN: Our wildly talented DP, Zach Poots, lights a stop motion set like you would a live-action film: lots of practical lights (all of lamps and computer screens actually emitted real light), lots of lights shining in windows from all angles, just all teeny tiny. One of the main challenges with stop-motion is the tight quarters (working on a set ~1/8 the size of humans), and Zach had to figure out a place to put all the lights while still leaving our awesome lead animator, Josh Mahan, room to manipulate the puppets. When you’re lighting 20,000 photographs that will be stitched together to create a film, consistency is key. Bumping a light during the middle of an all day 8-10 second shot could mean starting over from the beginning! Zach was a master at the fun technical stuff, too, like creating lightning and TV flicker by calculating shifts over a series of photographs. Kristen's and my directorial vision was to create the rich, subtly moody, jaundiced palette you see in the final film without over-indexing on those dark creepy vibes—and ending up in some uncanny valley of horror or pastiche. It was also fun to use lighting shifts to echo the interior world of the characters. For example, as the employer starts unraveling, the lighting breaks from realism and reflects his exaggerated, fractured fears.

I like that you kept the original names. Were there any other elements of the original story you felt you had to get just right?

KK & LN: So many things! One big one was maintaining Bartleby’s enigma-like nature. We didn’t want to over-explain him, or narrate away the many possible interpretations of the original story. We also really wanted to retain the dynamic between Bartleby and his boss that Melville drew so well. Bartleby’s boss—who does not have a name in the book, thus we named him REM after Melville’s description of him as a “rather elderly man”—has a wide and complicated range of reactions to Bartleby’s refusals, and we were really trying to capture the full spectrum. We also loved some of the little details, things like the Roman statesman bust, Nippers’ irritability, Turkey’s drinking problem, and the little partition that separates Bartleby from the rest of the office (“the green screen” as we called it). The things we felt comfortable tweaking (time period, gender, REM’s death fantasies, ending) were the components we felt weren’t integral to those core character traits or to the meat and bone of the story. Our editorial adjustments were meant to extend and amplify, more like asking vs answering questions about Bartleby’s story. What does “preferring not to” mean in contemporary Wall Street vs the developing Wall Street of the mid 19th century? Questions like that.

What’s next for you?

LN: I’m in post-production on an observational documentary feature following a group of laborers who harvest grapes every year at a famed champagne domaine, but am eager to jump into another stop-motion project soon.

KK: I’ve been focused on (non-animated) neon sculpture and learning Javascript for an upcoming generative art exhibit, but am also working on a stop-motion script about young mormons. Would love to dive back into animation when this wraps!

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