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the-heaminator · 10 months

Note

go on then, let's have some horror. i'll give you a choice between prompt 8 or 22 - and why not have it include the uk bros? :)

[ 8 ] "you're insane!"

[ 22 ] "wake up!"

Ao3 Link here

They're so bloody fucking insane so much of the time, and a good half of the time they don't realise it, the rest of the time it is gloriously premeditated, I'm not frankly sure which one is worse. Have what essentially became a very shitty character study 2012 ff.net edge lord style. I am SO sorry Helia. Tw animal abuse, general gore and just like, flesh, all the bullshit of the past Cannibalism, Torture, death, mentions of insanity, gore, non-consensual drugging, Hansel and Gretel bullshit, not in that order, burning, just, bullshit.

Look do not expand this unless you want to kill your dash. its like 15k. so be warned

Alisdair knew that nations tended to have a considerably looser grip on their sanity after major conflicts, hell even he was feeling the effects of The War, he often found himself standing on the edges of cliff faces with no idea of how he got there, he moved in from the coast after these instances happened one too many times, drowning was not a pretty way to die after all, though it kept happening even in the city, finding himself next to blitzed roads and in the woods with not a clue of how he got there.

He needed to stop doing this, he needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

___________________________________________

He also knew that his brothers never had a particularly sturdy grip on what would be considered sanity ever since he had known them, it was a little more subdued when they were younger, but that was a long, long time ago, and even then he could viscerally remember how...transfixed Rhys was with flames even back then, a tree burned because of lightning and Rhys would stare at it for hours afterwards, not entirely present in this world as he did so, he watched the little creatures skitter away from the inferno, not making any attempt to help them.

It was odd the first time, he never seemed to be the type to enjoy others suffering, not then at least, gentle and stout he was, it was odd to see him take so much pleasure out of burning as he did, Alisdair thought nothing of it then, perhaps found it a little strange, but as long as he wasn't hurting anybody nor himself...it couldn't be too bad.

He found Cymru burning a rather large rat.

Albion was there too, all bones and teeth yet, could just about walk and talk, though half the time he gabbled to himself in a tongue that nobody else understood. This was one of those times, smiling and clapping, he prodded the flaming mouse with a stick more than once yelling "Fire! Fire!" over and over again, though not in an urgent way, he seemed to be enjoying it

Cymru had squatted next to him, he was barely moving, scarcely breathing as he watched it screech and scream as it went up in flames, he almost looked like an owl, it was in a little clumsily dug pit, just about big enough for it to not be able to scale its walls, he could smell tallow, this was pre-meditated, he felt sick.

He stood there frozen, Albion noticed he was there first, and picked himself up with some difficulty, he must've been in that position for a while for him to be so stiff, he didn't know how long it took to burn a rat, it was still alive, though its screams were dimming slowly as it was charred, Ma had told them about how nations could bend each other to their own wills, he had never experienced it before, he didn't think he could be swayed so easily, especially by those two, Cymru was kind, not like this, and Arthur was small enough that he still tended to crawl around because it was faster that way.

But he found Albion's chubby little hand in his, gently tugging him to the fire, he couldn't even bring up a shred of resistance, he felt sick, he felt overjoyed, he couldn't take his eyes off it, he found himself laughing.

He didn't know he was laughing, everything in his field of vision was going odd, the rat had finally silenced but its screams were still echoing through his ears three-way, his mind, Albion's and Cymru's, he could hear all of it, he could feel all of it, he could see all of it, Cymru hadn't seemingly noticed him there until now, he had been here a while, how hadn't he?

He sounded giddy, he could just about register him screaming at him, his mind felt a rush of fear which turned to anger as soon as Cymru noticed him being there, he was not like this, he was mild-mannered almost to a fault, Albion was positively howling in joy, his head spun, he vomited anything he had eaten earlier today out, Cymru was near a head shorter than him yet those eyes, usually full of joy or love or just something that wasn't this, he couldn't even name what this was, it was dangerous, like splintered wood almost, glinting like iron in a furnace, he couldn't name it, but he knew he didn't like it.

He ran back to Ma, things didn't scare him much, he was strong, but everything about this had shaken him to his core, both she and Éire looked scared for him, he didn't usually rush in like a storm and immediately cling to Éire's side, she thought he looked clammy and ill, she called Ma, she gently asked whether he had gotten a fright, he didn't have fever, but his eyes were darting around almost mad, his head felt full, it was a wonder he didn't have a fever.

Albion and Cymru walked in not long after, the sun was starting to set and they were always in before it grew dark, Ma wouldn't have it any other way, it was dangerous after dark, as soon as they walked in however, Ma stared at them, something was off about them, both smelled strongly of smoke and tallow, Cymru never looked so owlish, she could feel him lightly prodding her mind, she could feel Albion sleepily draping himself all over it, he was tired, but it was unusual to feel his presence as strongly as she did now, she looked at Alba, staring at the two like they had two heads a piece, Éire bit her lip, she could feel them trying to get into her mind, Cymru felt like a bludgeon of sorts, there was something wrong about him, he smelled like smoke, his mind always grew a little more active after he saw something burn, but never with the fevered intensity of this.

The room started to spin, he could feel Albion getting into her head, different to Cymru, worming its way into the cracks that Cymru had created, his felt less threatening, more docile, but he felt muffling, her head felt full of wool.

She clung to Ma, this was not normal, she understood why Alba was acting the way he was, both were so small, why did they feel like that.

Ma opened her arms to hug them, Alba felt warm and vomited again, he could feel Cymru's mind brush against his, too close for comfort, he could feel Albion worm his way in.

She didn't let them in, that would not be a good idea, even if they were small they could do plenty of damage, though she underestimated how strong it was, Cymru buried himself into her arms, she could smell burning on him, Alba blubbering something about tallow and a rat seemed to have its merit, she could smell a very strong smell of it on the both of them, Albion was tired, usually when tired he grew cranky, not as he was right now, bright-eyed and still laughing, though she could feel on his presence that he was tiring.

Cymru looked at Éire oddly, he did not understand why she was acting so strange, neither why Alba was, he understood a little of Alba, but not why he looked so ill, not why he was staring at him and Albion like they were the fae, what was wrong with him.

He opened his mouth, his voice was a little hoarse from disuse, he sounded childishly concerned "Alba, Éire what happened?" Albion was trying to curl up in the blanket with him after he got out of Ma's arms, he was cold to the touch.

He had stopped his prodding though Alba knew that it wasn't out of mercy, he was simply too tired, it was unlikely that he realised he was doing in the first place, he did still smell something terrible, he curled up in his arms and fell asleep oddly quickly, she told Éire to look after the two, and herself, she needed to go talk to Cymru.

Alba didn't hear the conversation, but Cymru came back looking odd, not scared exactly, but close enough, Albion and Éire had fallen asleep a good while ago, he could almost forget the whole thing had happened but as soon as Cymru came back he could hear, see and smell the rat like it was right in front of him, though it smelled sweeter, burned brighter and sounded louder than he swore it actually did.

He felt sick again and retched though now there was nothing left and drifted into a fitful sleep. Albion small and warm in his legs.

__________________________________

Ma passed and the Romans came, he and Éire were safe, too far up in the mountains to be of much use, practically ignored.

He hadn't seen either Albion or Cymru in a long time, he had no idea what was happening to them, there were occasionally incursions to his land, but even then he could always feel the pressure of the empire on the edge of his mind, though after a while that dimmed, there were no more attempts to take over his territory, it finally was gone, replaced by a different pressure, barely present, sluggish and disorganized.

The Romans must've left, he wanted to see his brothers again, he hadn't seen them in centuries, the journey was oddly quiet, met with next to no resistance, he could feel the presences of more than one, it explained why it felt so disconnected from where he was, it took some time, he was travelling alone after all.

It took some difficulty to find him, he could feel a dull tug towards him, sluggish but present, but he did eventually. Not where he wished to find him, but he found him nonetheless, he was free to roam as he pleased, not tied down by a household or any particular occupation just yet, he still had to earn his bread but even that was not too difficult, he could find or grow it himself more often than not.

Albion was tied firmly to both a house and a job.

When he first saw him he expected less, he himself had certainly had gotten taller since they last saw each other, but he did not expect Albion to age so much over the few hundred years, he was still shorter than him but he was catching up, he was met with fear, he may have looked a little wild, that must be it, Albion had his hair cut short, he was fidgety, when he offered help to cook he refused vehemently, more out of fear than of anything else, he looked ready to bite if he didn’t back down, with a type of fevered intensity that made Alba believe that he would actually do it.

He could not be older than maybe 8 or 9, yet he was living alone, not good enough, he spoke oddly, what he used to speak felt wrong out of his mouth, the syllables slid together oddly, softer than they should sound, he muttered to himself more than he used to, the gabbling he used to do became words, though not in any tongue Alba understood much of, he knew a lick of Latin, but most of what he was muttering was borderline unintelligible, he sounded deranged, he was too young to be going mad wasn’t he?

He didn’t have the bluish film over is eyes that spoke of a weakening mind, they were bright as ever, sure they were a little yellow, yet he was worried, he could be worried for his brother, no? But Albion didn’t let him, he forced him to sit down, the home wasn’t even that, a place behind the stables of the King he had stew, stashed away somewhere cool, it wouldn’t spoil anyways with how the weather was, but it wasn’t particularly much, there wasn’t much to sleep on save for a manky and scratchy wool blanket, it was frankly a little sad, he looked ill, pale and gaunt, still just bones and teeth, he had gotten taller, but hadn’t filled out whatsoever.

He gave what he thought was a lot to Alba, he was stingy with his food, it wasn’t nearly enough to fill him up, but he didn’t ask for more, the stew was watery with barely anything to it, he got half a nibble of something that resembled meat, but that was it. He seemed to have heard something, immediately forced Alba to hide somewhere, there wasn’t too much room, he didn’t see Albion’s face, but it mustn't have looked too good.

Somebody walked in and barked something Alba couldn’t understand, he seemed to respond to Edmund now, he left the place without even half a look at where he had stashed the other, he waited a long time, Albion must’ve hidden him for a reason, so coming out was a bad idea. He finally returned, sweaty despite how cold it was, grimy and shaking ever so slightly, Alba could see he was tired, he looked wrong, sort of scared, he must be sick to be acting like so, he was shaking so much he forced his hands into his cloth to stop it being so visible.

Albion's eyes narrowed seeing him "Why are you still here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You wanted to make sure I was alive, as you said, I am alive, and it is not safe for you here. So, leave."

That was blunt, but not incorrect "You are not well Albion, let me take you with me."

"I'll be fine, I swear, it is not safe for you here. Leave."

He wouldn't stop moving, Alba wondered how he had enough energy to move so much on so little, it was a little dizzying "Sit first, then we can discuss. Do you have any bread?"

"No, we just ate, didn't we?" He didn't even seem worried, he didn't continue with that, this was awkward, Albion had sat next to him, folded with his head on his knees, how would he even go about this, they hadn't spoken in an age, Albion seemed too tired to care "So you answer to Edmund now?"

"I needed a name, and it was popular enough that I wouldn't stand out, do you not have a human name?"

"No, why would I need one."

"Do you not need to communicate with your..." he stumbled for the word, said it in Latin, and mumbled "Job person, or the people?"

"I do not need to do not often enough to need a name. No. I assume you do."

"Yes."

Conversation died of quickly after that, he wanted to ask how Rome was, he really did, but Albion had fallen into that state just adjacent to sleep while sitting, he hoped the other would relax a little in sleep, too much tension in sleep made the shoulders hurt. He did not in fact relax, not even slightly, tight as a coil of rope, the night was cold and while both their clothes were thick (his rather thicker than Albion's) it still wasn't enough to keep them warm, he knew for a fact that the other probably wrapped himself up tight in the blanket and hoped for the best.

He couldn't sleep like this, not at all, Albion wasn't even leaning on him but he could hear and feel him shivering, he needed to wrap the blanket around him or he was genuinely convinced he would freeze to death, he was still awfully thin, no insulation to speak of on him, he moved, small, slow and quiet, he knew what he was doing, nearly silent, yet Albion woke up and looked around wildly, like he half expected someone to come at him with a knife, he saw no-one, only Alba and convinced himself that it was a figure of his imagination and went back to sleep, this time laying down and covering himself as much as he could without taking all the potential blanket that Alba would take, he was larger than him so he would need more blanket.

Under the pale light of the moon he could see that Albion was feverish, shivering under the blanket, though that could just be because of the cold, he hoped so at least, he wouldn’t interfere, with how skitterish he was, it was unlikely that it would go down particularly well, he wasn’t even meant to be here, he would leave in the morning, he swore.

He still wasn’t the most sure why he made this trip in the first place, it was long and by no means was it easy, it was early spring, the days could be very cold and the nights even worse, frosting over still sometimes, as well as wet, he wasn’t sure what compelled him to do this, yet he did, he knew at least one of them was alive, though the conditions were admittedly not as good as they should've been, not nearly, but he was alive and it was something.

Albion always slept deep, now he woke with the slightest sound, he tried to be quiet moving about, Albion hadn’t moved an inch since he laid down, he could still hear breathing, so he was at least alive, he was in bad enough condition that Alba would easily believe that he could just pass then and there, and even now he knew dying hurt, he had died a few times, drowning, infection, drowning, injury.

He slept with this thought on his mind, not ideal, but he slept nonetheless, he was tired, he had walked a lot, he slept deep once he did.

He was surprised that Albion was up before he was, pale and clammy, afraid looking, but awake “Och, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, what happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you, no.”

“What is it.”

“Nothing.”

“It is something or you wouldn’t look like that.”

“Look, I have church in half an hour, I need you to go, I cannot be seen with a Pict, I would be hanged, as would you, it does not feel very good. So go, please.”

“Eh? You’ve been hanged before.” Alba swore church wasn’t today.

“You haven’t?”

“Why on earth would I be hanged?”

“Robbery, plotting, stealing food, the like.” His eyes were darting about almost violently as he was saying all of this, his voice took a crack he tried his hardest to hide, he started to fidget uncontrollably again, before nothing, everything seemed blanketed, gone all of a sudden, he took in a deep breath “Just go, it is the safest, for the both of us, go a little after I would.”

He nodded, he couldn’t really say or do anything about it anymore, Albion wouldn’t have it, he wondered a little detached why he was taking orders from his younger brother, but he seemed so vehement about all of them that he believed them “Will you not eat anything?”

“No, as I said, church, bread and wine, and on Sunday the household gives me provisions, I will be fine, you can finish the rest of the stew if you wish to.”

He was dressed in particularly grimy clothes though, things didn’t add up, but he didn’t want to call him out on it.

Now he waited, he took up Albion’s offer for the stew, he didn’t finish all of it though, goodness knows Albion could use it better than he. It took a while to make sure everything was clear, he headed out, heard shouting, and hurried back in, this was something he could understand only a little bit of, he heard Albion’s name, what sounded like lashes, a scream, silence, more screams, sobbing, he heard angry shouting, later soft words, and Albion came staggering back.

In his arms lay the remains of a few long dead rabbits, mostly bone with the smallest amount of meat left on them, the meat may have been Albion’s himself, he was bleeding, and badly, chunks of flesh hanging off his face and arms, a finger or three was missing, enough that Alba most certainly would be dead, he seemed not to notice the other, perhaps because of his vision blacking out, or he refused to acknowledge him. He panted, put the rabbits somewhere mostly clean, sat on the floor with a pot of sorts, and started putting his blood into it, his eyes were closed, but he was still very much alive, just about, he kept slumping down, head lolling on his shoulder like a corpse, but he jolted himself back to wakefulness each time that happened.

Scared of death he supposed, his flesh was knitting itself back together as he sat, where his fingers were missing soon grew bone, muscle, on wept as his skin grew back, unblemished and fresh, salty tears making the pain only worse, dripping into the bloodied pot. Least his stew will have salt, he couldn’t afford it normally

How had he the energy to fix himself to such a degree, gaping wounds on his arms slowly stitching itself back together with sinew and whatnot. Not a pretty sight, Alba felt beyond ill, and Albion seemed resigned to this, he could not care less.

Alba didn’t expect to feel him attacking his mind so strongly, he likely couldn’t muster it physically, the jabs were sharp and rapid, but not well aimed, all Alba could feel was fear, what he could feel from Albion was similar, mixed with resignation, almost pleading him to leave, the pot was half full of blood, he knew they could fix themselves if it wasn’t too serious, but whatever this was looked serious, yet the bloodflow was slowing and drying to the clothes, Alba simply stood in the corner, he was too scared to leave, he didn’t want whatever happened to Albion to happen to him, and he wated to make sure that he was all right. He certainly didn’t look it.

Albion managed to croak out, barely “Alba, leave. Please.”

He didn’t reply, how was he still fine after this, what was even going on?

“Leave, Alba.”

The bloodflow stopped, Albion forced himself up off the ground, sloppy and unfocused, he stumbled his way to Alba, he looked worse now, ashen grey, dried blood clotted all over him, hair matted with it and mud, a large chunk of his flesh was simply hanging off his cheek, going blue as his skin stitched itself together as Alba watched in horror, going blue then black, and falling off, dead onto the ground, Albion eyed it, contemplating whether to pick it up, he chose not to, it was filthy now anyway.

Some small colour returned to his cheeks, eyes yellowed and sunken, “Leave, Alba.”

He didn’t want to, he really didn’t, he wanted to hold him, tell him everything was all right, like Ma did, this wasn’t the same Albion, not the one that curled up in his lap when cold and tired, not the one that screwed around in shallow water with stones, gabbled to himself happily as he stared at birds doing their own businesses, he had seen Éire die, she was different after she did, she seemed not to realise it, he had changed too as he died and came back, but this was dramatic, had he died enough times to near become a whole new person, Albion hadn’t realised it himself if that was indeed the case.

He knew he should leave, he pulled Albion into a hug, he could feel all his ribs and his backbone, sharp and with no give, he reeked something demonic, but he was still his younger brother, a small child at that, still just brittle bones and chipped teeth, he sounded so much older than his years “I can still take you.”

Choked, nearly sobbing “N-no, it is not worth it, it will be better soon, this King just hates me, as do his goons, usually I am fine, I swear, he is getting old now, I know he will die soon, his son likes me, I take care of his horses well, he will treat me well.”

Alba didn’t know who he was lying to exactly, himself or to him, but he kept holding him until heavy breathing became slowed to near the point of suffocation, before bursting into painful sobs, Alba could feel him trying to curl into himself, embarrassed maybe? He was not like this normally by any chance, but he was so tired, he shouldn’t do this in front of Alba, he hadn’t seen him in centuries yet he did, he knew he shouldn’t have, yet he did, he hadn’t been held in a long time, and Alba was warm, he was getting blood all over him, he should apologize, he would, he would, once he could bring himself to words that is, he hadn’t missed Ma this hard in a long time.

He couldn’t remember too much before Alba was gone, he was sitting on his blanket, clean and in fresh clothes, but with no idea how he got there, strangely full, where had he gotten so much food from, was that a fever dream, it certainly felt like one, he had ended up places with no idea how he got there, this felt like one of those times.

The pot of blood was stored in a cold dark place, it was growing dark now anyways, he was so tired, always was after he had to fix himself, and he was asleep without a second thought,

Alba was worried, Albion, Edmund, he wouldn’t call him that until his life depended on it, it felt wrong, everything about that felt wrong, sick, frail, and afraid, he felt ill after seeing that, he never wanted to see him with chunks of flesh hanging off him.

_______________________

Alisdair knew that was a lie, Alba didn't

_______________________

Raiders were at his shores, he could feel them, he could feel them stealing, burning and looting from outlying islands, he was old enough to fight now, he had grown accustomed to it after a while, a burning on his peripherals that he couldn't stop, but managed to ignore, he had caught sight of their personification once, he could feel him at all times otherwise, cold, calculating.

His entire arm seized up once, luckily his non dominant one, he couldn't move it for all the pain, what even were these people, what did they want, he was not tied to a house per se, more as the guard to the monarch, not a formal part of the millitary, but he was allowed incursions, the monarch knew of his strange set of circumstances, he knew he couldn't die, not in any way that mattered and acted accordingly, through these incursions he learned a lot about this odd personification, he was younger than he was, by a good couple centuries, shorter than he was, though that might've been just because he was tall, his beard was coming in now, and he was quite proud of that fact, magical in the same way he and Ma were, he didn’t know any more of the type existed, pale hair, almost like snow in the light, braided, eyes that looked like the depths of the sea, he was a good fighter too, for all his lack of physical strength, he made up for it with mind-numbing agility, they had singled each other out on the battlefield more than once, an unspoken agreement that whenever they encountered, they would only fight each other, they were the only ones fit to go against another, they knew they could not die.

So why waste their expertise on people they know could, more fun that way really, and it was good to know the enemy anyways.

The burning dulled when it was in his blood, the burning was doused and extinguished only in his blood, he looked like ice and his blood acted the same, never mind that if fresh it was warm like it, or as any other humans, should be, though over time they settled onto the islands on the vestiges of his mind, they soon stopped being is, they were the Northmen’s now, he could do nothing to stop it, it was calm for a while, the Northmen had stopped trying to take over them, content with their island holdings.

________________________________

Norway, not the best first impression, Alisdair thought, turned out far better than he could’ve conceived then.

________________________________

Edmund was doing worse, far worse than Alba, he wasn’t sure if he had a human name now or not, he was not sure if he needed one yet, currently that didn’t matter, simply musings to keep the mind busy, he had been brought in front of the personification of the Northmen, he could scarcely breathe with how much he ached now, fire, all down his back, he had cramped so hard that his lungs wouldn’t inflate correctly, let alone be able to stand and walk with some sense of dignity.

Yet he did, he forced himself up, he forced his breath to slow, he forced himself to ignore the searing pain, the numbing dizziness, he had to adapt, or he would die, simple as, the personification of the Northmen was so much younger than he was, though a good head taller, if not more, steely sky blue eyes, far better fed too, fighting him would be worthless, he wouldn’t survive no matter what he did, he would get snapped like a dry twig.

A guard came, and he presented himself, not only to the personification but also to the highest-ranking warrior on this expedition, still no official governmental body, the personification stared at him, nearly dumbfounded, he had never gotten a good look at this wild island child before, only seen glimpses of green eyes and sneering teeth, he looked so small, starved too, he thought Noreg was small, this, this was still a child.

The Jarl thought the same, not exactly the highest-ranking warrior, but yet the most senior there, he spoke, the tongue unfamiliar, yet just about understandable to Edmund, English, not Norse, just about “You are the personification of this land?”

“Yes, I am, this area of it, there are more, further out, my brothers and sister.”

“How old are you, child?” He sounded gentle, why did he sound so gentle, they were not supposed to be gentle with him. He didn’t know how old he was.

“I do not know, I have seen the Romans, and a time before them too”

The Jarl was more than a little shocked, this tiny, fragile looking thing had weathered at least 800 years, perhaps more, the personification more so, more visibly so, he spoke up, his voice had started to drop, Edmund’s hadn’t, yet that boy was over twice his age, he could see it only in his gaze, the way he held himself was odd, stiff, as if he was in pain, the same way men injured after falling onto their backs during harvest held themselves, the Jarl kept talking, he kept replying, answers short, snappy and growing increasingly pained and panicked.

“Jarl, I do not think he is well.” Said in a manner that the boy could not understand, pure Norse, old fashioned to be at that.

“I can see that, yes, he is not healthy, could you take care of him for the time being?”

He blanched, he had only ever taken care of Noreg, for short periods of time, he was an invader, this boy would not go quietly, “I-I, look after him? Yes Jarl, I shall try my best.”

He turned back to the boy “Child, what is your name?”

“Edmund.”

“Edmund, this is Magnus, you shall go with him.”

Edmund squashed the blind panic that came with that announcement, that would not help him here, he would have to get out smart, he couldn’t do this by fighting, his face flickered for but a second, fear, panic, resignation all in one, then it was gone, replaced by a dull look undertone by pain, Magnus left, all he could do was follow.

Walking was hard, Magnus walked fast, his legs were longer and he was healthier, he could scarcely breathe enough to walk slowly, his legs barely obeying his orders, let alone fast enough to keep up with this pace, he tried, forced his legs forward, forward, forward, follow, follow, follow, Magnus was far ahead not even after a few minutes, practically panting he tried to run, that didn’t work.

Magnus had sharp hearing, he could hear the uneven footsteps getting farther and farther, and the breathing becoming louder and more laboured, occasionally interspersed by a cough, when he finally looked behind him he could see the personification, Edmund was it, quite far away, stumbling, he was scarcely walking now, held up mostly by the wall and by what he could feel was fear, when he stopped to wait for him, the mild feeling of fear at the edge of his mind spiked violently, his mind registered deathly fear, Edmund was getting into his skull and twisting things inside of his head, Noreg did this sometimes, but it was always far duller, this was sharp, searing, and it was gone.

Edmund had put his head to the cold of a stone, it was the height of summer now, he was sweating both from exertion more than his body could support and from the heat, all that was gone, leaving Magnus disconcerted in his own mind, the boy looked dizzy, far beyond that, he needed to rest or he would fall any second now.

“Edmund, rest, you look like you will fall over

"I…shall be fine, continue, I will follow." An obvious idea to run, but he couldn't of anything better now, he felt like he was to collapse at a moment's notice, he couldn't, the personification could do anything to him while he was down, he couldn't.

Magnus didn't even consider escape, he was too frail to pull it off even if he tried, practically only bone and skin, he waited for Edmund to gather himself, he had been given orders to look after him for the time being, and that was what he would do, Edmund vomited, nothing much, bile, water, and stale bread, the bread wasn't even too bad, a waste of it really.

He couldn't fall.

He wouldn't.

Though he practically did, leaning on a tree for support more than he should do, his stomach was cramping now too, hunger, fear, pain, anxiety, nothing good, he retched again, nothing came out, again and the smallest bit bread, something his guts had seemingly held onto, came spilling out.

White spots dancing around his vision, this wasn't so bad, he was floating, free, somebody was holding him, he was no longer flying, a bottle pressed to his lips, "Drink."

Even now he could come up with a reason not to trust it, slurred, near delirious "Mmm. Could be poisoned."

Magnus could've hit him right there and then, but he looked in bad enough shape that it could finish him off for good, he didn't want a dead personification on his hands, he could deal with people, their existence was fleeting anyways, not a nation, and not somebody whose health had been entrusted to him "It isn't, see." He took a swig, and very resolutely stayed stable, "I swear it is not poisoned, and why would I waste it on you if it was, you would die without it anyways."

He had a point, he could come back though, and it would be terribly embarrassing to go of sickness, he would rather go by poison.

He took a swig, then a gulp, not of his own volition, Magnus held the bottle to his lips, and he was limp enough to let it in, not sure if that was his body conspiring against him or he actually wanted to, he couldn't think, wool for brains bastard he was.

This would be gotten him killed in Rome, he couldn't trust any of those bastards, any food not made by his hand was poisoned, he always saw the jeering faces of Rome's grandsons as he faded from life, he couldn't remember their names anymore, maybe he did, it didn't matter either way now.

All he had to do was wait, wait until his body either have out or had enough strength to properly stand.

It frustratingly did neither, closer to the latter than to the former, he gingerly pulled himself up, Magnus had sat in a nearby rock, eyeing him with what was either concern or distaste, they were very separate but the face could meld together well, maybe his vision was just swimming, he stood up, the lack of blood to his head made him fall down, hit his head hard on the tree, and then nothing once more.

He awoke to Magnus fretting quite like Éire did directly over his face, worried, a stream of obscenities "Fuck, fuck, fuck, wake up, wake up!"

He was awake now, his body wasn't responding, he hadn't died, but had come close, slowly he managed to open his eyes, a harder task never performed.

Immediately he got crushed, he took what he thought was his last breath, it was not, it was a hug, this man barely knew him, a rival personification, yet he was hugging him, he was warm, still had some puppy fat that refused to melt away, he hadn't been hugged in centuries.

It felt nice, warm, he felt real, his lungs struggled painfully, but he didn't pull back, not sure if he had the strength to do so, Magnus put his ear on his chest, the heart was beating, slowly, it should be more panicked, even Edmund knew that, but again he couldn't muster the energy for string fear, he had run out of fear to run on, he was starved, and exhausted, he hadn't slept proper in days, it all was catching up to him at once, the pain of the invasion, he wasn't old enough, at least physically for his joints to be acting up like so.

Magnus was still holding him, not even a hug at this point, simply a grasp, to make sure he wouldn't dissolve in his arms, like honey in warm water.

He finally eased him down after he made sure he wouldn't just die then and there, he pushed himself up, Magnus pushed him down, roughly, but not enough to hurt "No, you rest, I will not travel with somebody as weak as you are without making sure you are healthy enough to walk."

Weakly, lying through his teeth, he was normally too timid to lie, his voice wavered when he did so, his voice wavered now enough as it was, it wouldn't be noticed "I-I shall survive, continue, I shall he following as closely as I am able to."

"That is not very close, we would make faster pace if I carried you, you seem very light, I probably could."

This was mortifying, he couldn't stand being carried, he wasn't so weak he had to be "No, no, I shall be fine in a few moments, do hold.”

Magnus was now having nothing more of it, he was smaller and much lighter than Noreg, and he could carry the other like he would do to a child, Edmund weighed about as much as a lamb, a small one at that, he lifted him, as gently as he could, he could feel his heart rate spiking, all of a sudden he could feel it inside him, before banishing it, he would not be influenced right now, he squirmed to the best of his ability, but failed to go anywhere particularly well, he could no longer swallow down his panic, nor could he keep down much of the water, he tasted bile, he couldn’t vomit it out now, that would be disgusting, not on top of Magnus, he swallowed it, sour and viscous, it was nearly funny how much smaller he was compared to Magnus, he passed into sleep, or sickness, currently the line was blurred.

He healed quickly, he always did, it was a little frightening to see how just a little food and drink, none of which were particularly rich, allowed himself to fix himself up from the inside, at least for now, he could stand straight, though even then he held himself with an injured back, his pride, black and pulsing, often where it had no place to be doing so, only occasionally did it turn on its heel for a burst of yellow cowardice.

Magnus found Edmund to be a better warrior than he could have ever hoped, completely subservient, while frail looking, he was stronger than he looked, in hand to hand combat he was still miles away from even getting close to Magnus, but he healed frightfully fast, and the subservience was borne, he hoped so at least, more out of obedience than fear, fear could very quickly become burning hot anger; Edmund was too timid for anger, it was not easily found within his constitution to be angry, he could try, but that only made him scared, so he stopped trying, it only made things worse when he did, clouded his senses and made him behave odd, imperative to stay focused or he would get thrown around like a rag doll.

He was good at picking himself up and licking his wounds after training, he usually had the element of surprise, no matter what was told to them, mortals did not understand that Edmund had been fighting for enough of his life that he was good at him, he had been running for even longer, he was quick to run and quick to strike, not good in a battle, but enough to keep himself safe, he hoped so at least, it would be murder if it wasn’t.

______________________________

He survived the Vikings because he was adaptable, he adopted their cultures as his own, he hated to say that he grew accustomed to them, but he did.

_____________________________

Rhys worshipped the earth for longer than his siblings had, few looked upon the ground, the leaves in the trees like he did anymore, at least what few were left were rebellious, but even then he was growing weaker, disconnect with ones people tended to do that, he did not wish to convert, he really didn't, but clinging onto the vestiges of a dying population had its effects on him, constantly tired, weak, not something that appealed to the royalty.

He was short and stout by nature, but recently he couldn't keep much food down, and it showed, he was still quite young, his voice had dropped but he hadn't grown a beard, he wasn't even close to adulthood, and he was ageing slower now, Edmund had started to catch up, all limbs, teeth and hurrying.

He was forced under the Normans, rather he gave himself in, he was too weak to continue running for too much longer, he was taken into the household, much as Edmund had been, converted, he felt empty afterwards, but he felt healthier, he put up more resistance.

He never thought he could bring himself to hate Edmund, yet he did, he did as he was told by these Frenchmen without questioning, he said it was because he lacked free will, as nations, personification, they lacked it, they were not human without free will, they were not human without the ability to die stay dead, rejoin with the Lord afterwards, they were not bound by law, nor by morals, for they had none, they had no genuine thought, only a combination of others.

He thought himself immune to human follies, though it was very visible that he wasn’t, he saw how he acted around food, one moment it was there, the next it was gone, he ate with fervour, like somebody would take it if he didn’t eat it as fast as possible, he had seen him falling asleep for seconds while standing, he rarely slept otherwise, his back was horribly burned, healing slowly, but still there from the Harrying, yet he followed around the very same people who did it to him like a well behaved dog.

Rhys didn’t understand why he didn’t even try to fight back, taking what he was given and never asking for any more, quiet and skitterish, he disliked how Edmund looked at him blankly sometimes, nothing in his gaze, no joy, no fear, no contempt, no distaste, it was not known to him how he could empty his gaze so wholly, nothing behind his eyes when he carried out orders, blank, methodical. Most of the time, the rest he saw was fear and anger, he wasn’t sure which one he preferred, though he relished in the mild look of fear he could see in Edmund’s eyes whenever he did something visibly that he was not supposed to, even something small.

Edmund was still small, though now the same height as Rhys was, he believed himself simultaneously above and below humans, above many, below only the lords and the monarch, but he could see Edmund was envious of them, envious of their life, rather, envious of their death, and recently he could feel him fraying, he had been so composed the entire time, but now he was fraying, it wasn’t visible, not just yet at least, but William was getting old, his son was not popular in England, that’s what Albion had become, nor was he very popular in Cymry, he hadn’t changed much.

They carried on doing as they did, mostly separate, he could feel discontent brewing in his own lands, dull and ever present, but not the type that he could see in Edmund, he started to do his orders wrong on accident, harried and stretched like vellum, nearly thin enough to be see through, he waited after every mild misstep like he would be executed, it hadn’t come, not just yet, though that seemed to only make it worse, the blankness he had perfected started to slip more often now, Rhys decided he liked the anger more than the fear.

With the fear he still looked like a child, his younger brother no less, not the leashed dog of the Normans that he had become, talking to nobody in particular during stress, he knew he wasn’t talking to the fey folk, he had been prohibited to do so, and the fey confirmed he hadn’t communicated in a long time, genuinely talking to nobody but his own mind, the king continued to deteriorate, now more rapidly, an accident with the saddle, he had burst his bowels, least that was what the physician said, and now he had to wait to die.

It took longer than it was supposed, 5 weeks, before he succumbed finally to his injuries, Edmund had taken to disappearing for periods of time when he was not needed, the fey informed him that he was in the woods not too far from here, always on one specific tree stump, staring at nothing in particular.

Rhys sought him out once, he knew he felt next to none of the brotherly pull Rhys had to him, if he did it was incredibly fragile and dull, Rhys had made the slightest sound, twigs cracking underfoot, Edmund leapt up from where he had curled up, tried saying in his most authoritarian voice possible, first in English, then in French “Who are you, show yourself, Coward.”

“It is not wise to insult your enemy when you do not know who it is Albion.” Only Rhys still called him that, why was he here.

Rhys didn’t miss the overwhelming look of relief on his face before it was quickly masked “Rhys, what are you doing here?”

“Seeing what you do when you go to rot in the woods, apparently nothing.”

“Yes, nothing, it is quiet here.”

Quiet wasn’t the exact word he would choose, the animals were loud, as was the wind, but it was peaceful, “Do you not speak with the fey anymore? You loved them as a child.”

Edmund stiffened “I was ordered not to; besides I do not wish to be mistaken for a changeling any longer, they already think I’m mad.”

“You do act it sometimes.”

“I do not!”

“You do speak to yourself often enough though.”

“You can hear that?”

“You think I cannot?”

He crawled back to the position he was sitting in, cloak over his eyes as he curled back up, Rhys sat next to him, he lightly poked his side, pinched it while he was at it, he was a little surprised he could grab anything at all, Edmund yelped and curled into himself further, Rhys gave a light little laugh, like the tinkling of bells “You’ve been eating well recently, you’ve filled out a little.”

He looked embarrassed for some reason “I’ve been eating too much you mean, ‘ve been stuffing myself at every chance I'm given.” He sounded mortified “I never eat this much, not a good idea to eat so much, but I'm so hungry all the time.” he pulled out the last syllable, he was whining.

“Nonsense, you are too thin still, don’t you freeze in winter?”

“A little, but if I am working, then I am warm, and the cold has no reason to bother me.”

“You are strange."

"As are you."

They sat in silence for a while, Edmund heaved himself up, hissed slightly as the material brushed his burned and blistered back, muttered to himself something foul "I need salve again."

He said louder "We should head back, lest our presence, or lack thereof is missed.”

He did have a point, neither particularly wanted to leave, yet they had to.

The king died the day afterwards, at least that was when the news came to reach them, William Rufus was crowned, both braced for the inevitable revolts, they came as expected, though Edmund noted that these revolts were less from the people, more from the nobility and clergy, William Rufus was not popular it seemed.

Only under Henry where they put to proper use. They were immortal, at least functionally, they were stronger than other boys their age, neither had yet become men, and since they could not die, their souls, if they had them, could not be judged once and if they died, nor at the Biblical judgement day, they could not suffer after death, they could do their dirty work.

They were good at it too, they understood what they were meant to do, and considering how young they looked, very few of those being tortured expected much from them, especially with the Welshman, he had soft eyes and a soft face, they expected nothing much from him, they expected more of Edmund, he had grown to be older than Rhys by this point, taller too, barely, he seemed much like a fox, eyes darting around wildly until fixed upon a victim, but he still looked frail, he could not do much.

That was often the worst thing they could make themselves believe, they showed no mercy, none at all, and the worst thing, the worst thing was having them force their eyes into yours, it could drive a mortal man insane in moments if they wished to, often they were saved just moments before their minds were shattered, information extricated from the husks of their minds, before being driven to insanity anyways, Rhys tended to drive people to inanity, the type that made them seem possessed, animalistic, crying and screaming until he finished them off slowly, he never rushed these things, slowly cutting bits and pieces of flesh off of them, never enough to kill them in one go, he had been seen tasting the flesh too, others had seen the glee on his face as he did so, it was wrong, but he couldn’t go to hell when he died anyways, they didn't have souls, they were not human, not alive precisely either.

Edmund was less surgical, he could drive people to death simply by allowing himself to feel the cracks in one's mind, finding even the smallest fissure and pulling it apart with such fervour that the mind and body collapsed unto itself, he only did that sometimes he preferred to get his hands dirty, he had perfected opening a man up through the middle, deep enough that he could see the entrails within, without killing him immediately, elbow deep in entrails, pulling open the ribs with his bare hands, the sounds of bones cracking was just lovely, he searched about the cavity, the prisoner usually died after this, some lasted longer, if they did he found their heart, lifeforce of their body, either stilled or pumping with fervour, and pulled it out, still warm, discarding it onto the floor, occasionally he took an ill-fated bite, the bites became more common, he started going for the liver too, if it wasn’t diseased he tended to eat the whole thing, raw too, there was nothing behind his eyes save for contentment after he did that.

They were both going mad, their behaviour had changed over the decades leading to the crusades, so much so that occasionally they seemed like entirely different people. Gone was a timid Edmund and a mild-mannered Rhys, the monarchy praised them, and they lived for that praise, they lived for the death of others, and they seemed perfectly fine with it, they had no morals, they never needed any, selfish and self-centred, obedient to a fault, Rhys occasionally acted up, Edmund was sent to deal with him when this happened, brutal force, and it worked well on him.

They had gone mad, no question of it, and there was nothing to be done about it now, you can lose your sanity easily, it is far more difficult to find it once it is gone, they would say it was freeing, getting rid of the shackles of sanity and normalcy of the mind, they were free, only shackled to orders and scarcely anything or anybody else, it was an interesting existence frankly, terrifying to an outside observer, but great in its own way.

_______________________

They grew to love the thrill of the kill, it was exhilarating, a feeling impossible to recreate, they loved it enough that they sought it out later, the start of a delicious spiral.

______________________

The Anarchy was terrible, everyone suffered as his people, rather his nobility turning on itself, he had felt stretched out before, obviously, but this was something else entirely, he felt not like a person, he was in places and didn’t remember how he got there, he had to support the king, it was his job, but of the found himself sabotaging his own tasks, it was frustrating, but even that passed.

The war with France went badly, he felt ill constantly, he had been sent off to fight, Rhys remained in the country, he had jobs to carry out and the like, he came back wrong, the insanity had rooted itself deeply in his mind, poisoning it and festering, it practically fed on his rational mind until scarcely anything was left, he had been sent to fight for a long time, he had seen a lot of deaths, he had caused plenty, experienced many more, had been tortured, did the torturing.

He came back berilligent and with a fondness for alcohol that bordered on illness, his hands shook if he was properly sober for too long, Rhys hadn’t been doing well either, he had picked up both of their duties, there were more incursions and invasions into his lands, trying to fully cement control over Wales, he vented out his frustrations when he was assigned to torture, he went all out then, it felt good, they were above the natural moral law “Thou shalt not kill.” that only applied to creatures favoured by the Lord, they were not, why would He create them if He wished for them not to return to His arms.

It was bullshit frankly, but he darent to say that out loud, he did as he was told, only occasionally misstepping on purpose, his people were angry too, as were the people of England, he could feel their malcontent without even being their personification, Edmund returned, Arthur now, Edmund was growing rather too old fashioned now, Arthur returned, bruised, battered and angry, and then not long after, the wars of the roses broke out.

Those finished too, Arthur often had to be wrestled, solely by Rhys into a state in which he was somewhat complacent, often he had to be filled with alcohol or he would at like a caged feral creature, Rhys had half a mind to join him, he was detached enough as it was, a little push and he would be reduced to the same as Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t the type to cry, he was too proud to do it, yet as he slept, on the off chance he did, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep, too scared that he wouldn’t wake up, he envied mortals because they could die, yet feared true death, odd, he wept in his sleep, this was worse than the Vikings, worse than the Anarchy, it lasted so much longer, so much more bloody, too many monarchs, he was exorcized a few times, it didn’t work, the priest died as soon as he entered the room, Arthur knew he shouldn’t have done that to a man of the Lord, he forced himself not to as he was bound and crossed, these servants didn’t deserve to be driven to insanity and then death.

His resolve did not hold up, the priest died, and luckily nobody, at least not for a good while, tried to kill him for witchcraft or possession or to exorcize him.

This cleared up eventually too, Henry Tudor coming out victorious, they returned to sanity, the best they could, Arthur now had more official duties, he was taught how to read and write again, he was a smart child, he had the potential for great things, taught in a monastery he fared badly, he was not cut out for the cloistered life of a monk, he was too wild for it, Rhys fared better, he could force himself to be more quiet, Arthur barely could, Rhys stayed in the monastery for longer, as soon as Arthur could read and write he was pulled out, put into official duties.

Rhys liked it, it was quiet, empty, beautiful in a queer way, stone was still, the air was slow, he could pray to the lord, whether he was up there or not.

He stayed there for a long time, came the dissolution of the monasteries, Arthur had grown, he had been forced to adapt to the court, stiff backed with a bland face, again like a glorified pet, he had gotten relatively plump, he ate all he was given, he never dared to reject any, the food was often too rich for him, he ended up vomiting a lot of it out afterwards, Rhys found it easy to tease him now, morseo than usual at least, but harder to get a rise out of him, his face was bland, his eyes held pleading, the country forcibly converted to another church, neither could do anything about it, the dissent surged again.

The ebb and flow they should have gotten used to, but they never managed to.

The new boy-king came in, he died in a blink of an eye, he was fond of Arthur and Rhys, apparently the only ones not trying to push him around, he liked discussing theology with them, looked more than a little scared when the boys of not much older than he was talked about death so casually, spoke of their contempt of the Lord, spoke about war and torture, he knew they were old, but how old always astounded him, he was nothing but a blip in their time.

Then Elizabeth, she also had a soft spot for them, Arthur had reverted back to barely restrained ferality, he was chosen to be a deckhand on Drake's rendezvous to the new world, he was more than an able seaman, he knew what he was doing, even then Rhys was worried for him, drowning was amongst the worst ways to die, especially out at open sea where he would die, come back to life, die, come back and so and so until he contacted land.

He came back with sun bleached hair that had some parts bordering on white, skin darkened by the sun and a filthier mouth than he left with, Rhys was of the more tame sort, at least relatively speaking, he was kept for the court, and he was frankly rather good at it, charming when he wanted to be, calculating at others, he was bitter, of course he was, but he had scarcely any other choice, so he played along, and frankly this wasn't as bad as it could be.

When Arthur came back the first thing Rhys did to him was fuss over him like a mother would, making sure he was indeed alright, most of Drake's crew had died after all, he admitted he had died once, not of drowning, rather of illness, which was fair, it was a small cramped place with a lot of men, it made sense, he was thinner now too, stronger though it didn't look it.

The Queen never married, never sired an heir, Arthur braced himself for a civil wat that never came, simply the monarch of Scotland, it was Scotland now, became the monarch, James I.

_______________

It was a delicate connection, but it stood the test of time more than anyone thought it would do.

_______________

Alisdair hadn't seen either of them properly in centuries, their queen died, they needed his king to be their monarch, it was an odd arrangement, but likely the only thing saving them from all out civil war, James the first of England and Wales, the Sixth of Scotland.

He didn’t know precisely what to expect when he did see them, somehow fate had separated them, and through some divine intervention surely, they would be back together as one, he could just about remember their faces, at least from when they were young, the details escaped him, but all of it was shattered when he ended up seeming them again for the first time, Albion practically looked wicked, Cymru was not too far behind, though he seemed a little more mild, Albion was scanning the crowd, but as soon as he made contact with him, Alisdair could feel the prodding of his mind against his, it felt different than it used to, less like honey, thick and cloying, but still generally benevolent, now it felt less suffocating, but stronger, now like that new laudanum that seemed to be gaining popularity medicinally, he had it once, too much really. It was overpowering and controlling but ecstatic in the maddest way possible, that is what Albion felt like right now.

Cymru seemed not to be trying, his gaze watchful and more searching than he was particularly used to, both of them were unnerving, he had had to have fought the English a lot before, but neither personification seemingly cared enough to write or communicate, they had caught glimpses at battles, but that was all, he hadn’t seen Cymru in nearly a thousand years, they were getting quite old frankly.

He forcibly broke eye contact, they would have to talk later, the crowns were unified, they were now all under one house, they met politely, Scotland’s English was bad, he managed to introduce himself as Alisdair though, they reverted to Latin, all were fluent in the language, it was the best they could do right now, they had all but forgotten the tongue they used to speak with each other, so they had to adopt another.

They finished introducing themselves, Albion was Arthur now, Cymru was Rhys and Alba was Alisdair, they all felt wrong to Alisdair, something in Rhys’ gaze was mad, he had no idea why or how, but he didn’t want to be at his mercy, more so with Arthur, his hair was still bleached for God knows what reason, he must’ve spent a lot of time at sea for it to be that way.

They were all colder to each other than they should have been, a thousand years was a long time though, all were dressed in their finest clothes, yet it felt like things were being mashed together that shouldn’t have been, very little discussion occurred on that day.

_____________________

Alisdair wasn’t sure if that was the best or worst thing to have ever happened to him.

_____________________

Alisdair thought fatherhood suited Arthur, he didn’t expect him to come back from the new world with anything, much less a child, rosy-cheeked, plump and happy even after months of being fed on nothing more than dampened ships biscuits, Arthur had already named him, Alfred, it suited him, he was the type of child that always felt heavier when you carried him no matter what you prepare yourself, like a cannonball of a baby, he had broken Rhys’ nose once, simply because he was moving too much and had hit him.

Happy in the way that he crawled about on all fours chasing insects and occasionally chasing the fae, the fae chased him back sometimes, he always had a cast iron bracelet toward them off, happy and simply all the best thing about the human constitution, Rhys missed seeing one of their kind so carefree, he was so young, still very much a babe in arms, he loved to be carried, Arthur had the arms strength to do so, Alisdair did, Rhys not so much, it always felt like his arms were being removed from their sockets.

The kid was strong that was for sure, but he was still a child, a fragile one at that, Rhys had never seen Arthur care about anything as much as he cared for this child, he cared for himself less than he did for this child, he was never scared for his own life no matter what was happening than he was when Alfred was sick, he got fevers that spiked so high he would start moving like a possessed thing, Rhys hadn’t seen Arthur pray in earnest for centuries, he found him crying over his cradle once after a particularly bad episode, praying to whoever would listen, he never believed in a benevolent God, yet he was still trying, and he hadn’t the heart to interrupt him.

He was a happy child, burned hot as the sun.

Their stance as personifications had faded into myth at this point, only the monarch knew what they were, no longer were they part of the royal household, there was suspicion that they were witches, they aged slowly, 3 men and a child living alone, they all did have their jobs, Arthur was in the navy, Rhys had an apprenticeship as a baker and Alisdair in the masons Alfred, once he was old enough, was left home often, Rhys stayed with him the longest, Arthur was out at sea more often than not and Alisdair was busy.

One day he was just gone, no trace of him, Rhys usually heard childish noises of delight when he came home, usually because he brought bread, and he was always hungry, Arthur had come only yesterday from his latest voyage, immediately fell asleep, he wasn’t even drunk, just bone dead exhausted, he didn’t find Arthur in his bed.

Rhys understandably panicked, he checked the orchards, he checked wherever he had found Alfred before, but he wasn’t there, Arthur could be anywhere, maybe he had Alfred, something told him that was not the case.

Burning was perhaps the most painful way to die, save for drowning, especially their kind, their flesh burned but it regenerated, constantly, constantly, until the fire grew hot enough that they couldn’t keep up.

Alisdair had gone to see what all the kerfuffle was about, he saw Alfred tied to a stake, Arthur next to him, the former was crying, of course he was, dying for the first time could never be rivalled in how much it hurt, Arthur had burned before, he wasn’t worried about himself, he couldn’t see Alfred crying, the ropes were thick ropes, the type used for rigging in ships, this was not the normal rope they used, blessed, Arthur could feel it burning against his skin, while he wasn’t fae, cast iron still burned them, his penance for being so far from God he supposed.

The fire was lit, Alfred screamed and screamed and screamed, Arthur resigned to his fate, it wasn’t as bad if he didn’t struggle, as the fire caught hold of them, Rhys showed up, Alisdair was watching in shocked silence “DO SOMETHING ALISDAIR!”

Alisdair sounded numb “What can we do. We will be burned alongside.”

It took longer for both to die than expected, Alred wailed and cried even as his throat practically was full of flame, he spat them out and screamed, Arthur barely moved, he had done this before, he could feel his flesh burning off and being replaced anew, an odd feeling, he screamed near the need, he knew he couldn’t keep this up longer, someone went mad as he screamed, jumped into the flames themself, Alfred had passed now, he was close to, Rhys held his head in his hands, Arthur was practically flaying his mind right now, another went mad, started attacking the crowd with her teeth and fists, eyes leaking black blood and teeth falling out as Arthur controlled her, she died too, Arthur collapsed on the fire, one last push, telling Alisdair and Rhys to run, and they did.

Rhys loved fire, even now he was enraptured, he just wanted to stare, it might’ve been his brother, but it was just so pretty, Alisdair grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his reverie, he wanted to stay, watch, Alfred’s screams were in his ears but he couldn’t care less, it was beautiful, it was fire!

He died, there was no doubt that they were witches now, Rhys and Alisdair ran, they would be burned next if they stayed.

__________________

Alfred barely remembered this, he was so small, he had blocked it from memory, he didn’t remember hiding in forests and finding another town, he didn’t remember how scared he was if he wasn’t in somebody's arms, and he would have like to keep it that way

_________________

The revolution hit Arthur harder than any of them thought it should have done, Rhys bore the brunt of it, Arthur was now the oldest out of them, Rhys the youngest, Alasdair was more focused on the French bastard child that Arthur had acquired, the child was small and scared, obedient to a fault, Matthieu, it reminded him painfully of when Arthur was small, and while now he was beriligent, often drunk and angry, or quiet and focused to a painful degree, the quiet obedience scared him, he didn’t want Matthew to turn out like that.

Matthew was clingy if given the chance, Arthur eyed him with an odd mix of contempt and...guilt, that was very clearly guilt, he was physically at least not more than 10 years younger than Rhys, he was old enough to look after himself, in theory, he was the type to silently sit in a corner with a crust of bread and not speak even if a dog was ripping his leg to shreds, more than once had shown up and fallen asleep on Alisdair’s or Rhys’ bed with them, or sitting in Arthurs study in silence just to make sure someone else was indeed there, Arthur usually knew when he was there, told him to go to bed, these were some of the few times he didn’t listen.

Arthur put him to bed himself in such instances, they were rare, but they did happen, he usually wanted to hurt Francis, but this was something else, why was his child like this, what did he do to him, he mustn't be too good of a parent if Alfred fought to leave, but he was, at least relatively, he was normal, not with the fear of the Lord that Matthew had.

He liked Alisdair the most, called him uncle Alisdair, which felt like it aged him a decade, fuck he wasn’t that old, Matthew liked sitting with Alisdair when he was in the family house, they had taken the family name of Kirkland, no one could remember their original family name, it was an age ago really, the kid didn’t know how to read, barely knew his letters at the age of what must be 7 or 8, that was bad, the combination of the three taught him his letters, they couldn’t afford a governess at this time, the revolutionary war, and the 7 years' war before that had been quite the drain on their coffers, and they preferred not to have staff over, save for a washerwoman twice a week and a cook

They barely had any reading materials for his age, Alisdair had a lot of books about plants and mechanics that he barely understood, the best they could do was the Catechism, but he learnt his letters eventually, he learned when he had to hide from each of them, he knew to hide from father when he smelled like sweet smoke, liquor and a whorehouse, Uncle Alisdair when he smelt of cheap gin and damp, Uncle Rhys when he smelled like wood smoke and blood, he had to learn, he picked up on their painfully suppressed tics and behaviours, a particular look in Arthurs eyes could spell the difference between a harsh shutdown and a soft cuddle, even if that look was barely different from any other.

A particular way in the way Uncle Rhys held himself, lax or stiff, spelt the way that he might not be welcome in his bed that night, the way that Uncle Alisdair’s voice sometimes went dangerously soft that showed that finding blood on the floorboards the next day should not be surprising, and finding Father deathly pale on the settee should be expected, little details, the little things kept Matthew safe, and warm, curling up in the library near the anaemic fire that they kept in there to stop the books moulding when he was shooed away from the roaring kitchen fire. He treaded on eggshells, but he was noticed as a person, the lesser of a couple evils.

Like Arthur as he grew it was clear he was mostly arm and leg, he was taller than Rhys and the same height as Arthur by 1820, Alfred had tried to invade a couple years prior, he understood why Rhys loved watching fire burn, untamed and wild, powerful, Matthew wished he could be like that, he was closer to the snow that coated his country, fragile, pretty and cold, cold can kill too, he liked Alfred, normally he did, but it was nice to have him get what was coming to him, older than Matthew, taller and certainly sturdier, it was nice to see him missing a limb or three, Arthur wasn’t even disgusted, he had done the same to so many, he had done it to Alisdair at some point, he had done it to practically half of Europe by this point, he was proud.

Alfred didn’t want to be so hardy; he didn’t want to be alive to see his brother dismembering him, it hurt, fuck, it hurt, he looked mad, “Y-you're insane!” It fell on deaf ears, he heard little twittering voices sometimes, this sounded like one of them, he paid no mind to it, father had told him not to listen to the voices, and it made sense, so he didn’t.

Fire, blood, he understood why Rhys liked it so much, it was a bit of an odd thing to realise, but he did understand.

The rest of the 1810s had gone in a haze, Father was practically never available, Jack was clingy and practically impossible to control, Eleanor was still too small to be much of a problem, Aunt Brighid stayed as far away from the rest of them as she could, for good reason, Matthew was pretty sure father hadn’t even noticed, too busy, rushing around, twitchy and most certainly going through cocaine like a snowplough, busy, busy, busy, Alisdair too, always busy, practically never home, always somewhere in Glasgow or Edinburgh, maybe abroad, personally Matthew didn’t mind too much, there was always someone at odds when all were at home at once.

Rhys was home the most often, but even that was rare enough, Eleanor and Jack both had a governess, father was of the opinion that she must be taught the same as Jack, that “She must receive a prime education for a young woman in the contemporary era, she will not be taken seriously otherwise.” and to her credit, despite being younger, she was a fast learner, faster than Jack by any account, and he was a bright boy, just with an incapability to sit still.

She was scary in an odd way, she gave Alisdair heart attacks in the same way that Matthew used to, sitting in the rafters with a book with large eyes staring down at him like an odd owl, one pair blue, nearly purple, and one pair grass green, Matthew liked her, as did Jack, that boy was practically sunshine personified, his memory was utter shit and he had moments of manic disobedient violence, but generally he was practically the sweetest child the world had seen. He practically channelled the sun when he smiled, gap toothed and ruddy, he didn’t deserve to be in such a family, he liked being hugged, the only one who would hug him was Eleanor and even that wasn’t a given. He didn’t deserve this, he deserved so much better, what cruel trick was the Lord playing to make him one of them, immortal, he would slowly be worn done and Matthew did not want to see that.

It should be said that Alasdair never wanted to see Matthew as worn as he had gotten, but it was par for the course for them, they scarcely had a choice in this matter.

Napoleon defeated for the second time returned some semblance of normalcy, Father had started coming back sober and normal-looking, less likely to shout or immediately retire to his study for the foreseeable future, not very often, but more often than before, Eleanor regarded him coldly, which even he didn’t seem to mind very much, it was fair, nothing more could be said about it, but she did eventually warm up a little to him, Alisdair took the piss out of him often, he had apparently started to grey, Matthew thought it pretty par for the course, he was nearly 2000 by this point, he was unaware that Father was the youngest by quite a good margin, Rhys was a good century older than him, Alisdair even more so, yet oddly enough, physically speaking father looked significantly older than Rhys, frown lines, crows feet and grey hairs, and frankly speaking Alisdair wasn’t that far behind, he was dependant on his spectacles to read.

More nations added under the belt of the mother nation, the glorious British Athena was certainly a better personification, one that people could die for, than who it actually was, mechanical and without freedom of thought, starting to age and practically empty without orders, an echo chamber if you would.

When he had no orders, Father often would barely do anything, he usually did have orders, but on the off chance that he didn’t, he seemed not to know what to do with himself, nearly to a frightening degree, Alisdair and Rhys were only marginally better, how long had they been under orders to have completely lost freedom of thought. How long did it take to no longer have a sense of self strong enough to know what to do with oneself if not told what to do. A frightening concept, Matthew didn’t want the same to happen to him over the centuries, he was mostly obedient, yes, but he did know what he could do if he chose to disobey, he doubted they did. How long did it take, he feared it happening to him at some point.

The unification of the many German states sent shockwaves throughout the continent; Matthew wouldn’t have given half a flying fuck if it wasn’t for how paranoid father had been growing. Odd, but questioning it would always be worse.

Jack and Eleanor were old enough to go to a boarding school, Jack came back frightened and beaten, Eleanor came back much better off, shrewd as usual, bitter that she was not allowed to get a proper degree, but oddly lonely, Matthew recognised that look, she had gotten attached to a human, and then the human likely died,, they had all experienced it, they had been warned, but they never learned did they. Jack was quiet, his schooling seemed to not have gone very well, father frankly seemed not to care that he was beaten and belittled, he got a good education and practically it made sense, at least to him, sticks and stones could break bones, but they could heal that without much hassle.

Matthew didn’t oft see red, anger, hot anger especially wasn’t his forte, yet if feelings could kill Arthur would commit mass murder through sheer apathy alone, he did not frankly care, he practically tore his throat out shouting, for a moment he saw fear, half a second if that, fear quickly bred anger, Jack and Eleanor had hidden somewhere, or out in the grounds, they never wanted to hear the fight, Jack hated that it was happening because of him.

It simmered for a good long while afterwards, Matthew could hold a grudge, Arthur still did not honestly understand the problem, but he left it, he had better things to be doing than dealing with whatever this was, he was not used to being challenged anymore, the first and foremost empire of the world now, he was rarely challenged, let alone by his own children, Matthew was simply being odd, had gotten too big for his britches so to speak, he would deal with that later, he had orders to complete right about now.

_________________

Matthew regretted he had a lot of regrets for his relatively short life. One of the things he regretted the most was not killing father at least once during peacetime, he knew he would face the consequences, but occasionally patricide was the best course of action.

_________________

There was a lot to be said about the first world war, and the Second, too much, so I shan’t, what you need to know is that a nation's mind tends to grow a little befuddled over long periods of conflict, and by far were these the deadliest conflicts anyone had seen, this wasn’t a dull ache, it wasn’t a slow poison for the mind, sharp, quick and angry, easily drove mortal men to madness, to a nation it was worse, the youngers had never experienced very much of war, this being a first experience was not particularly good, the nascent personification of Germany had never fought any war before, before being thrust into the two most deadly wars of history in practically everyone's living memory. It frayed them, stretched a couple to madness, Matthew being one of the latter, though relatively speaking, his thread was a lot thinner than most his age was, why that was the case was mostly the fault of Arthur and Francis.

For older ones, it snapped what little thread was holding their humanity, their sanity, their rationality, and their body together, they all did odd things after the war, America and Russia, started another war, cold, not direct, the old empires were fading, all clutched to their power with a white knuckle grip, they had gotten used to having power, unused to being challenged, Arthur didn’t want to be upstaged by his own progeny, but he as a person was too practically unstable to do very much about it, cities were still bombed out, he was missing people, running out of money, colonies were vying for independence, all rational thinking shut down, too much happening for the logic that frankly had only started to come about in the last 2 centuries to remain, reverting to a more animalistic existence, at least for now, until he mind stabilized.

Alisdair was considered the safest right now, the child Northern Ireland was sent to stay with him, Connor, he didn’t know exactly why he couldn’t see Arthur or Rhys right now, whenever he asked all he was met with was a stare that went through him instead of on him “You do not want to know Connor, you really do not.”

Alisdair did not know exactly what he was doing, he did find himself far from home on occasion, but he generally stayed in the vicinity, he would normally wander farther, but held by what must have only been duty towards Connor, had he never wandered too far in his empty minded, tipsy hazes, he could have gone far, he was known to wander.

He needed to stop doing this, he needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t found himself elbow deep in entrails yet, he had done that before, it was never a pretty experience to have to go and hide the body afterwards, nor was it particularly quick either, he counted himself lucky that he was mostly sane right about now.

Arthur and Rhys were not, Arthur couldn’t remember a lot of the year after the second world war, not much at all, Rhys could, and he relished in it, they rarely did this, but their thirst for blood had to be quenched before it got any worse, the lesser of a couple evils, no one would miss just one person, especially now, so many had lost family members that stealing a person off the street could not have been reported as anything, good, dead of night. Rhys looked far less suspicious than Arthur, younger and still with a soft baby-faced look that spoke nothing of his intentions, a crowbar to the head, and he was out.

The man, who fucking knew who he was, they certainly didn’t and didn’t particularly care either, he just had to fulfil their needs and nothing else, he couldn’t remember who he was by the end of it either, woozy as if drunk, tied down to...something seemed to be a bed, he couldn’t remember any faces, only the smallest snippets of voices, he remembered a lot of food, too much food, more food than he had eaten in his life prior, sickly sweet puddings and food too rich for him, he wasn’t allowed to vomit it up, when he tried there was always a punishment, or he was forced to swallow it, where did they have so much money for so much food, the bonds started to cut into his sagging flesh, he couldn’t move, he had been tied up for too long, how long had it been?

Occasionally he could feel himself going mad when one of them entered the room, he could tell there were two of them, at least, they had different voices, one was higher and painfully sickly, the other was terrifying, he didn’t want to do what they told him, he couldn’t remember how they told him, they were in his mind, his body wasn’t his own at times like these, he felt both wonderful and terrible after they left, so empty, he could be used for anything and h wouldn’t mind, mind blank and empty, slow as molasses, he liked molasses, and honey, sweet was it, going mad was a strong word for it he decided, going mad was a bad thing, all he felt when they came was obedience, not even borne out of fear, completely obedient, he didn’t want to think for himself eve if he could, Rhys lowered the amount of drugs given to him dramatically, to see how he was like when on his own mind, he was practically the same, Arthur had done a very good job of breaking into his mind, filling it with sweet nothings, blind obedience, lack of feeling connected to the physical body, Arthur was good at this, he gave no mind to the complicated little scenario Rhys was doing right now, he was getting impatient, but even Athur could be bribed quite easily if you knew how, and Rhys certainly did, Rhys was more interested in before the death, Arthur more interested in during, the man had a soft spot for the human body, he liked to see what was inside it, cadavers could only do so much, yellowed and mummified practically, not how the human body truthfully worked, or rather stopped.

“Patience is a virture Arthur.”

“Rhys we wouldn’t know what a virture was if it bit us in the ass, how much longer are you going to take?”

“Not much longer, he is scarcely human, we need to wait for the rest of it to go, then we can, I swear.”

Arthur had a lot more to do than Rhys, he still had to deal with increasingly finicky international relations, he often came back stressed to the point of violence, their victim bore the brunt of it, Arthur afterwards made sure none of the lacerations would get infected, that would simply just be a waste of good meat, no one would eat infected meat, bullshit, the man scarcely noticed that he was being bled, he couldn’t think straight, or at all frankly, he hadn't noticed his eyes were no longer in their sockets, he could scarcely see before always.

Gone.

No one would miss him, slow cooked was best for such fatty meat, though first Rhys let Arthur play around a bit with the corpse, there was a lot of flesh to get through, and the organs frankly were all shrivelled due to deficiency, the food was rich but not particularly nutritious, the min was physically mush, there was no shape to it, the way he was killed perhaps had something to do with it, Arthur had not been prior aware that it actually liquidized the brain, frankly it was interesting, but he would not look into it too closely right about now, this was not the time, he tasted good when cooked and seasoned correctly.

Alisdair could only wish he didn’t know what was happening, he vaguely knew, he wanted to know no deeper, why were they like this, Alfred had stumbled in Lord Father's footsteps now enough that Alisdair was seeing the similarities and he hated it, he hated this all, Matthew had disappeared off into the woods for too long before he came back little of his well-formed humanity intact, Brighid had distanced herself, she was independent now so she had all reason to, he was left with Connor, he would have easily gone mad as everyone else had had it not been for him.

“Connor, go to sleep.”

“’M cold.”

“Come here.” He climbed onto his lap, he was still small, only about 5 or 6, he was the thing keeping Alisdair sane right now, and he would like to keep it that way, he had fallen asleep not 2 minutes after he lay down on Alisdair, who fell asleep on the armchair not too much longer after that. This was nice, good.

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ravenknockss · 6 months

Text

CHAPTER THREE: HAUNTING PAST

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin rejoin the others as the adults grapple with information of Marceline’s past.

SUMMARY: A war of centuries has been raging on Neverland, Lost Girls versus Lost Boys. When they escape the island and the grip of Peter Pan, the two factions must reconcile with each other in a brand new world.

WARNINGS: implied cannibalism, child abuse, child soldiers, dehumanization, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of gore, misogyny, implied underage teenage sex, implied sa, religious trauma

AUTHOR’S NOTE: cross posted on ao3, MDNI 16+

The shadow’s cold grip released itself, sending Neal plummeting through the humid night air and into the twisted canopy of rough branches and damp leaves. He grunted and groaned, haphazardly trying to shield himself from the blow of the trees, before he fell to the ground with a loud thud. Letting out a pained grumble, Neal stood up. Despite his predicament, a wave of nostalgia pushed through him. He was actually here, on Neverland, after so many years away. Neal let out a sharp breath, steeling his resolve. If he wanted to reconnect with his family, with Henry… he’d have to go through Peter Pan first.

Just as he prepared to traverse the jungle, a familiar drawl from behind him spoke, “Welcome home, Baelfire.”

Neal turned, meeting the eyes of Pan’s second, Felix. Neal let out a breath through his nose, watching as Felix straightened himself from the tree trunk he leaned on and sauntered over to him with his usual swagger.

“Felix,” Neal sighed. “What’s all this about?”

Felix held up a length of rope, staring down at Neal with his cold steel gaze. “Let’s not make this messy, Baelfire.”

“Oh that’s too bad… I do like messes…” Another voice rasped from behind them. Neal and Felix froze. Turning, Neal locked eyes with a small girl who couldn’t be older than fourteen, bones sewn together as makeshift armor. She looked over at Felix, charcoal eyes sparkling wickedly behind a few loose strands of her fiery red hair. “Been a while, Felix…”

The hooded Lost Boy pulled his club off of his shoulder, surveying her cautiously and readying himself for attack. Neal gulped, watching as the girl stepped toward them, eyeing Felix as if he were prey.

“Annabel,” Neal murmured, body tense as he watched the bones move on her form, mind wandering as to who those bones belonged to.

As if flipping a switch, Annabel turned to the older man and beamed happily. “Bae! You’re back!”

“I’m not here for you,” Neal snapped. “I’m here for my son.”

“Oh that boy that got dropped here a few days ago?” Annabel scoffed. “Yeah, Pan’s toys got to him first…”

“You’re not getting the boy,” Felix snapped, stepping toward Annabel and pushing her into the tree trunk with his club. “Neither of you. The Heart of the Truest Believer… belongs to Pan.”

“Oh my god!” Annabel groaned ostentatiously. “Again with all of this truest believer bullcrap.”

“What’s it to you?” Neal asked.

“All this time spent on this stupid war over some scroll that Marceline drew up for Pan centuries ago?” she scoffed. “You’d think that little green chucklefuck would have gotten bored by now…”

Felix pushed his club further into her ribcage.

“What did you say?” Neal murmured. “Marceline told Pan about my son?”

“That kid’s your kid?”

“Yeah!”

“Shit.”

“You’re kidding me,” Neal seethed, pushing past Felix and grabbing Annabel by the collar. “You’re saying I trusted her? And she’s the reason Pan’s been after my son!”

“Uh… what? No! No. What I meant to say was—“

“Shut up! Don’t lie to me. Don’t you fucking lie to me!” Neal roared, furious tears building in his eyes. “I trusted you girls…”

“You knew us as well,” Annabel chuckled impishly before lunging forward and sinking her teeth into Neal’s arm. He screamed, releasing his grip and stumbling back. She stepped forward, blood smeared on her lips as he cradled his bleeding arm in his hand. “If only you’d remember I bite… Now, that’s going to get very infected if you don’t treat it soon. Thankfully I know just who to go to! And you can work out your issues with her when you stop bleeding. C’mon, Baelfire! It’ll be just like the old days and Kathy’s cooking has only gotten better.”

Felix stepped in front of her, his club keeping her at arm’s length. “Like hell I’m letting either of you go. Now… hand over Baelfire and Pan’ll get you situated in a lovely cage fit for the beast you are.”

Annabel let out a chuckle. “Who says you were going to let me have Bae? No, Scarlet…”—Felix rolled his eyes at the nickname.—“We’ll take him.”

“We?”

Just as Neal realized she did not come alone, a small girl jumped down from a well-hidden tree branch behind Felix and knocked him out with one blow to the head. With Felix down for the count, Neal gaped at the girl in shock. She was young. Too young to be on the island and in Pan’s grasp, but definitely too young to take out a gargantuan seventeen year old boy with years of combat experience, even if the boy was distracted.

“Good job!” Annabel beamed.

“Thanks!” the girl grinned back. “Just like you taught me!”

Neal stared down at the girl. “How old are you?”

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “Seven, maybe?”

Staring at Annabel who nodded in confused agreement, Neal asked, “So you’re turning seven year olds into child soldiers now?”

“This island is literally filled with children!” Annabel scoffed. “We’re all child soldiers here.”

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

“The Echo Cave Outpost.”

“I thought your crew operated in Pirate’s Cove.”

“Bimonthly meeting with Marceline. Strictly business.”

“I’m not going anywhere near that place.”

“Not yet,” Annabel sighed. “We’re making a little pit stop on the way.”

“Where?”

“Rumplestiltskin’s camp.”

Baelfire sat in the mess hall, surrounded by the crystalline statues under the Mermaid Lagoon. After spending months running from the Lost Boys, hiding out in a cave, he enjoyed having a place to return to. As he stared down at his lobster stew, he smiled and took a bite. A home, that’s what he missed.

“Bae!” a cheerful voice called. He looked up to see one of the new girls waving him down. He nodded, picking up his bowl of stew and walking over to her table.

Sitting down, Baelfire noticed a few familiar faces at the table. Imani, head of escape research, happily ate her stew while pouring over neatly drawn charts. Esther, the head guard and high siren of Neverland, who had always surveyed him with suspicion and made him feel small under her piercing gaze, sat next to the dark-skinned scholar with the same accusatory glare. Marceline, the leader of the Lost Girls and former Queen of Neverland, the one who had welcomed him and sheltered him in the Echo Cave Outpost, sat across from him and took a break from her books.

“Hello Baelfire,” she smiled kindly. “How are the clothes? I hope we had some in your size.”

“Oh no, these are perfect!” he answered sheepishly. “Better than the ones I got when I was with the Lost Boys…”

“Speaking of which,” Esther began, nodding over to the new girl. “That’s Annabel, my new apprentice.”

“You have apprenticeships here?”

Annabel piped up happily next to him, pushing her wild red hair out of her face, “Yuh-huh! Esther saw me escaping from the Lost Boys and offered to train me.”

“How did you get away? Those boys know the island backwards and forwards!”

“I grew up in a butcher shop,” Annabel giggled. “And I know human anatomy backwards and forwards.”

Baelfire froze, staring at the young girl apprehensively, “I… I don’t follow.”

“Well I didn’t have a knife to… butcher them up so I just took a few chunks out,” Annabel shrugged, giving an emphatic bite on the piece of lobster in her mouth.

“You… ate them?”

“Only a little bit of them…” Annabel sighed, putting her hand in her chin and balancing the spoon in between her finger and the table. “I mean, I did try to warn them. Then they said that I was all bark, no bite… I really showed them, huh!”

Baelfire stared at her, frozen, as she devolved into a fit of maniacal giggles.

“So… Marceline?” Baelfire inquired in a squeaky voice.

“Yes?” answered Marceline.

“Do you choose who gets to be here or…”

“Oh of course! All girls—or boys in need of shelter from Pan—are welcome.”

“Huh,” he squeaked before turning back to his stew, unable to stomach the sight of the lobster floating on the surface.

Annabel leaned toward him. Baelfire swiftly recoiled, face screwed into an expression of confusion and terror as she sniffed softly.

“Patchouli! That’s it!” she beamed loudly, making him jump out of his skin. “Hey, you gonna eat that stew? It’s gonna get cold.”

“Uh… I guess I’m done…”

“Okay!” she smiled, snatching it from under him and hastily digging the pieces of meat out. He stared at her, stomach going queasy as she bit into the lobster noisily. “Oh! Sorry, it’s just been a few weeks since I’ve eaten…”

“That’s fine,” he answered quietly. “Uh… that butcher shop you grew up in, what kind of meat did they carry?”

“Human.”

“Human?” he shrieked. “You mean that you grew up in a slaughterhouse?”

Annabel turned to him and stared at him blankly for a bit before shrugging nonchalantly, “I guess so.”

“Why were you hanging around the prelude to a cannibal cookout?”

“I was the example for the others in the cages,” Annabel answered. “Y’know, starved, whipped, beaten, and stuff… to make sure they didn’t get too many ideas in there.”

“Oh my god… Annabel, I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Annabel shrugged. “And besides, I have a really strong jaw and super sharp teeth because of it! So… what are you in for?”

“Sorry?”

“Why are you here? I mean you had to have come to Neverland because you felt unloved or lost or something.”

“My father abandoned me.”

“Oh jeez, that sucks. Who’s your dad?”

“Rumplestiltskin. The Dark One.”

Standing in front of the fire, Rumplestiltskin surveyed the flames, getting lost in the dancing heat. The ferns behind him shook in a faint rustle, too big to be an animal.

“Come out, dearie,” he said with his usual lilt.

“Hello again Papa,” Neal’s voice answered.

As quick as lightning, Rumplstiltskin turned, finding his son standing in front of him. “Bae! What are you doing here? You’re dead! This must be one of Pan’s tricks!”

“It’s not a trick, I promise!” Neal answered, hands raised in surrender.

“How are you alive? You were shot!”

“I survived. Oh and Robin Hood’s debt to you has been paid.”

“You were back in our land?”

“Yeah,” Neal breathed. “When I was falling through the portal, I started to get a bit sentimental.”

“To be expected of course,” Annabel’s voice grinned from behind them. “After all, when you’re about to die your life flashes before your eyes.”

“Who are you?” Rumplestiltskin snarled.

“I’m Annabel, leader of the Pirate’s Cove Outpost, Lost Girl, and a lieutenant to Marceline—Queen of Neverland,” she answered, giving a bow. “You must be Bae’s father, Rumplestiltskin! I’m a big fan of your work!”

“What?” Rumplestiltskin and Neal asked in unison.

“Oh not the ‘ruining people’s lives’ thing, but I mean the business model you’ve built and not to mention the incredible schemes!” Annabel gushed. “It’s masterful!”

“Don’t think you can win me over with flattery, girl.”

“Oh I don’t need to win you over,” Annabel giggled as Neal blew poppy seeds at the Dark One, watching him fall to the ground with a thud and a light snore. “Well, that’s our errand done! Help me lug him to Echo Cave Outpost?”

Neal paused, but nodded begrudgingly, slinging his father over his shoulder. “My son, Henry, he’s been taken by Pan and you say that he has the Heart of the Truest Believer that Marceline told Pan about centuries ago. Do I have that about right?”

“Uh… yeah, sounds good to me.”

“And so why the hell would you ever think I’d just go with you to the main Outpost!” Neal snapped, preparing to run off into the jungle. Just as he was about to, the younger girl brandished a knife up at him with a sinister grin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?”

“I may not be able to reach your throat, but I can definitely make sure that Henry’s the last kid ya have,” she grinned.

Annabel chortled under her breath as Neal stared down at the girl, shocked at the fact a seven-year-old threatened to chop his balls off. Staring into her eyes, he recognized the same bloodlusty glint in her eye that had made its home in Annabel’s.

“Fair enough,” he answered, stopping in his tracks.

“Great stuff! Now, tonight’s pierogi night! You two do not want to miss that!” Annabel rambled. “It’s gonna be a feast because of the meeting!”

“Well, I am hungry. As long as I’m not eating people pierogi…”

“Don’t be silly! We wouldn’t eat people, only Lost Boys!”

“What?” Neal yelped.

“I’m just kidding!” Annabel giggled. “Their meat’s too tough anyways.”

Emma sat on the wall of the Echo Cave Outpost, looking over the thick layer of Dreamshade below. The more she stared at the sinister briars, the more she noticed about them. It was blooming. Dark pink flowers grew along the vine with deep green stemen and blood red pollinators sticking out of it. She wondered if the pollen from the deadliest poison in the realms was also capable of killing.

A happy voice rang out below. “We’re ba~ack!”

Wondering who, exactly, was back, Emma turned and craned her neck over the edge of the wall. What she saw nearly made her fall. It was Neal and a young, red-haired girl carrying a limp-bodied Rumplestiltskin into the compound with an even younger girl next to them.

“Neal!” Emma cried. “Neal! You’re alive!”

Upon hearing Emma’s voice, Neal dropped his father and ran up to meet her. “Emma! Emma!”

When they met in front of the stairwell, Emma and Neal locked lips tearfully. “I never thought I’d see you again! I thought you were dead!”

“I know, I know,” Neal answered. “But hey, I’m here now, and we can all find Henry together.”

“We will! Oh! I need to introduce you to Marceline!” Emma smiled.

Neal’s eyes darkened at the sound of her name. “No need. I’m familiar.”

Annabel gagged and nodded at her young apprentice to pick up the other end of the middle-aged man dressed in black leather. Just as she took his feet, Rumplestiltskin stirred quietly before frantically kicking the girls off of him and snatching Annabel’s throat.

“Where am I? Where’s Bae?” Rumplestiltskin snarled.

“Welcome to the Echo Cave Outpost!” Annabel smiled, easily escaping his grip. “As for Baelfire, he ran after some blonde lady.”

“Emma’s here?”

The voice of Regina answered from behind him. “We all are.”

Rumplestiltskin turned and glared at Regina. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t we getting Henry?”

“It’s a work in progress,” Regina sighed. “But here is better than out there. We’re protected from Pan’s magic here.”

“Are we? Or are we caught in another one of his traps?” Rumplestiltskin snapped before walking off. “Stay here and enjoy your vacation, Your Majesty. But I’m getting Henry.”

He approached the main gate and tried to open it, jiggling the handle before realizing that it was locked. Growling, he lifted his hands to the wood and began to mutter an incantation under his breath. Regina watched amusedly as the door glowed green and launched Rumplestiltskin to the other side of the compound.

“Yeah, I forgot to mention,” Annabel sighed, appearing at the groaning man’s side. “Ya can’t leave.”

“Well then, if I can’t leave then I’ll kill you all and break out,” Rumplestiltskin growled lowly.

“Be my guest, but you won’t get out,” Annabel said before gesturing to the doors. “Those wooden doors, they’re constructed of the wood of pixie dust trees. These stone walls? Hewn from the walls of the Echo Caverns, now called the Echo Cave. You have no hope of leaving unless Marceline wants you to.”

“Well then, take me to this Marceline,” Rumplestiltskin snapped.

“I dunno,” Regina said. “You might like her…”

“She’s trapped me in her pixie fortress! What’s there to like?”

“Her magical prowess… knowledge, potential,” Regina answered. “She’s our best bet at getting Henry back. She’s been fending off Pan for centuries! Just meet her.”

As Marceline stood in her room, looking out onto the jungle canopy below, the door burst open. Turning expectantly, Baelfire—aged quite a bit—storming over to her, with the rest of the adults following close behind.

“What the hell kind of game do you think you’re playing?” he roared.

“Hello, Baelfire. It’s been quite some time,” Marceline answered before quietly adding, “Though that time has not been kind…”

“You gave Pan the scroll that led him to Henry?” Neal spat.

“What? Neal! How could she have known that?” Snow scoffed. “She’s been isolated on this island for so long and Henry just got here a few days ago!”

“Not entirely true,” Tink’s voice piped from the corner. “Marceline can do something that others can’t. Bae?”

“Marceline here… she can see the future,” Neal chuckled mirthlessly.

“That’s impossible,” Rumplestiltskin answered, surveying the bubbling substances on the workbench. “Time stands still in Neverland.”

“Not true,” Neal replied. “According to Marceline, Neverland is separated from other timelines, which makes the future hard to read. Hard enough that you can’t see the future, but Marceline can. She told Pan about Henry.”

“What?” Emma asked.

“You…” Regina seethed.

“I did,” Marceline answered softly. “But before any of you try to kill me, at least allow me to explain… everything.”

“Knock yourself out,” Neal scoffed. “It won’t change a damn thing.”

“My father left me to be raised by a nunnery because he was frequently on expeditions. I was born a curious child and the nuns weren’t exactly open to me questioning their faith. They beat and abused me until I did it myself. I would have breakdowns, panic attacks, and psychotic episodes frequently. Eventually, they sent me out to work in a textile mill when I was old enough. The pay was crap and the work was grueling, not to mention I saw threads that weren’t there. The day I turned eight, I had one of the worst attacks of my life and damaged a year’s profits worth of equipment.

“They sent me to a hospital—Danvers State Hospital, to be exact—for treatment. I didn’t get what I needed, only got worse. Eventually the hospital got crowded and I had two roommates, Katherine Morozov and Evelyn Torrer. Katherine’s quiet and Evelyn was…”—Marceline smiled fondly.—“a kind of person I’d never seen before. Even though she was being electrocuted, isolated, put in a straightjacket like a beast, she never once lost hope. But then lobotomies were invented. Kat and I got the same electroshock, isolation, binding, but Evelyn had it much worse than all of us because she didn’t show any change. As a result, she was one of the first ones on the list and I had seen what those lobotomies did to other patients so I planned our escape. Evelyn’s appointment was moved up and we barely got her out in time. She was all drugged up and they were getting ready to cut into her skull. But we got out.

“Fortune was on our side because I recognized my father’s ship in the port and… blackmailed him into letting us join the crew. Those years were the best of my life, traveling the world and learning about different animals and cultures… and then Evelyn got malaria. I don’t know what time you come from, but back then, there was no cure. I searched and searched but I didn’t find anything.

“In my dreams, back at the hospital and while Evelyn had malaria, I would find myself here in Neverland. The strings of light I had seen all my life led to a great sheet of golden silk. When I touched them, I could see the future. Then I met a boy named Peter Pan. He was curious about my ability, claimed he wanted to teach me how to control it but said I’d have to come to the island in person to learn. I told him about Evelyn and how I had to stay. Apparently Evelyn also visited Neverland in her dreams because he knew exactly who I was talking about. He offered to heal her with the magic of Neverland and so Katherine, Evelyn, and I were taken by the shadow that very same night.

“It was strange because in all of those dreams, I should have felt young and free but I had never felt more caged. The way Pan talked reminded me of the nuns when I was younger, but I ignored it for Evelyn’s health. We were on the island for about a year. Built a cottage, documented the behaviors of the animals and the growing seasons of local crops, trading with the Axengliro Tribe, making friends with the mermaids. Then Pan came to collect on his promise. He healed Evelyn for good and taught me how to better control my ability.

“Evelyn saw him as a friend, but there was something lurking underneath that kept him at arm’s length to me. The first generation of Lost Boys were already there, helping Pan. Eventually, Evelyn got to know them and they quickly looked to her as a sister. Katherine and I were more… mother figures. As time went on, Peter broke down my defenses and—“

Emma stared at her. “And what?”

“We fell in love,” Marceline grimaced. “He made me… his queen or whatever the fuck he wanted from me. As it turns out, he wanted to find the owner of the Heart of the Truest Believer. He told me what it meant and I realized… I realized that Evelyn had one of those hearts, but I wasn’t going to let him take my lo—my friend, so I searched through the unwoven threads of fate and I found another—Henry Mills. I drew Pan a picture of his face and thought it would satiate him for the time and he’d forget about it like it was just another game.

“Once I became the… Queen of Neverland, the shadow started to bring more girls over to the island. There were so many girls that they actually outnumbered the boys. Despite our advantage in numbers we were treated much… differently than the Boys. They would go off on their adventures and have fun, leaving us to clean up the mess. Though their time away gave me ample chances to educate the girls in combat, linguistics, science, art, mathematics… we created languages and learned the language of the Axengliro Tribe.

“However, the Boys would view us as… objects to be used. Mother, counselor, maid, whore… As time went on, I snapped and I kept on snapping. That was when Peter realized that I couldn’t be controlled as easily as he thought, the fire in me that he loved so much was growing too fast and too hot for him to handle. He tried to quell my spirit by killing Evelyn, the only person I… I ever truly loved, that I would burn the world for. He tried to blame me for her death, saying that I could have avoided it.

“It would have worked had it not have been for the vivid voices of those nuns in the back of my mind and it clicked. He was never my friend. The Boys were petty, cruel, and useless. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys ceased being human to me the minute Evelyn’s heart turned to dust. But something else happened in that moment…”

“Yeah,” Neal interjected. “Pan told me back when I was a Lost Boy. You connected with the island and awoke the magic potential inside you.”

“Ah! So he doesn’t just lie,” Marceline grinned. “That’s exactly what happened. And now that my everything was gone and the one who took it from me is still alive, I rallied the girls and some of the Lost Boys who were close to Evelyn. I created the Outposts, I forged alliances with every other force on the island, I made weapons and poison that have taken the lives of countless Lost Boys.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Neal scoffed, eyes tearing. “You killed those Boys brutally. I remember seeing entrails falling from the trees in Pan’s campsite. You mangled and mutilated them beyond recognition. Don’t pretend you’re innocent in all this!”

“I’m not,” Marceline shrugged. “I just want Pan gone, I want him to suffer and grow old like he was always afraid of. You’re going to take Henry back home with you and the Lost Boys when Pan’s defeated. My only request that you take my girls and give them a better life. I doubt that you’d want me in Storybrooke after everything you’ve heard. I’m quite prepared for spending the rest of my days here or being tortured in hell.”

“That so?” Neal scoffed. “We’ll see.”

“I don’t regret as much as a hero would,” Marceline said evenly. “But I’m not a hero. Villainous would be putting my… life choices mildly. And I know for certain that if Evelyn was here to see what I’ve done to those Boys, she’d loathe me and be disgusted by me but I don’t care. She isn’t here. I do what I have to in order to send a message to Pan and the Lost Boys and look out for my girls. I may be a lot of things, but I like to pride myself on selflessness.”

“Selflessness?” Rumplestiltskin scoffed. “What makes you say that?”

“One thing that I’ve noticed from looking at the lives of those consumed by magic and power is that they are addicted to it,” Marceline answered. “They always choose power over those they love. I refuse to fall victim to the addiction, I haven’t. Whatever may pass, I will always choose my girls over myself and my magic. If it means giving them a better life, then I will gladly give my own. In other terms, Katherine has cooked up some scrumptious pierogies so get them while they’re hot.”

Regina sat down at the table with the others, nibbling on her pierogi, as they debated what to do with Marceline.

“We can’t let her come back with us!” David urged. “She’s cruel! She’s… well, she’s evil!”

“So was I,” Regina snapped. “And besides, I’ve seen the potential in her. And I know you have too, Gold.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded. “Magical in every way, she’s a prodigy. Her knowledge and eagerness to learn could come in useful against other foes we may come across in Storybrooke.”

“And isn’t it your whole shtick as heroes to give people second chances?” Regina remarked, glaring at David.

Snow sighed, “I agree with Regina. Marceline is damaged, misled, and definitely on the wrong path, but it’s not like she’s pure evil! Besides, she didn’t have to admit to Neal’s accusations but she did. She was honest and open and I think that’s something to consider about her character.”

Neal groaned. “She’s just like Pan! She plays games! She manipulates people, their fates! In Storybrooke she could kill everyone’s happy endings!”

“Neal’s right,” David answered. “It’s too risky.”

Emma straightened up. “I agree with Mary-Margaret. She’s just broken. She’s not evil.”

“How do you know that?”

“Her eyes. They were genuine,” Emma sighed. “And also, I had a fascination with true crime and paranormal stuff when I was younger. I don’t remember a lot but, Danvers State Hospital? That’s in our realm. She’s from the Land Without Magic and… that hospital was horrific. They called it the birthplace of lobotomies. The living conditions were terrible, it got so overcrowded… It’s no wonder that they escaped and went off to Neverland.”

“Yes,” Regina added. “And I know what it’s like to go in a spiral after losing someone I love. If she does come back with us, then I can take her in. Hopefully our familiar experiences will be enough to build a connection…”

“See? More of a hero every day,” Emma smiled. She turned to Hook and Tink. “Any thoughts you two?”

“We were here on the island in the middle of it all,” Hook grimaced. “We’ve seen the worst and experienced the best… whatever you decide we’ll go with.”

Tinkerbell nodded.

“Alright then,” Emma said. “By my count, Mary-Margaret, Regina, Gold, and I are in favor of bringing her back. David and Neal are against that.”

“Sounds like you’re outvoted, boys,” Regina sneered. “Now, I’m going to go talk to Marceline.”

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