universal constant

Rated: M Words:  5,711 Read it on AO3 (Wolgraha. Mild sexual content within) 

beta’d by @vaniccio

G’raha’s world ends. She dies. And then, inexplicably, she doesn’t. The Echo, he comes to realize, is a callous master.

-----

The first time G'raha sees her go down in a fight, he forgets how to breathe.

It is only a fraction of a moment. The air is knocked out of her in a thick cry. He hears the skid of her feet against mud and stone and the clatter of her bow upon the ground, even amid the heavy rain.

She becomes a wet pile of leathers, unmoving for just a moment too long.

An imperial mech bears down on her, but G'raha’s feet move automatically. He hurls his body over her and then he throws up his arm, summoning a shield of light just as a gigantic sword crashes toward them both. His arm vibrates so hard from the blow that his teeth clatter. His off-arm digs deep into the dirt. His eyes water -- and then Alisaie sets the enemy alight with red flares. Metal explodes in fiery flints over the field. He ducks under his shield so that his forehead nearly brushes Izzie's, and the battle stills, if only for a moment.

He opens his eyes (when had he closed them? Everything moves too fast for him to remember) and is met by Izzie staring up at him, her sea glass eyes bright against the mud smears on her face. Gods, he thinks, gods and wicked white and every curse, of course she is fine. Of course. The thought alone is cooling as a salve. He remembers to breathe.

But then she is suddenly, impossibly close, her breath hot against his face. She yanks him up by the biceps. Her fingernails dig into his skin, even through his clothes. She shakes him fiercely, yelling something, and it happens so quickly he doesn't process what she is saying until--

"--so don't fucking do that!" she shouts over the rain. "Some blows aren't meant for you!"

"Izzie--" Her name spills out of his mouth, but the rest of his words clot in his throat. Am I supposed to just stand here?

She shoves him away before he can finish.

The fight swells and her fury becomes magnificent to behold. He loses track of her, but never completely. He would hear her over the loudest of dins; whether via the lingering mysticism of the Crystal Tower or this young body's constant yearning, her soul has left deep marks on him. Its aura presses like high tide, smothering and heady in its power. Arrows fly. Her voice rises to haunting crescendo. Magitek scatters to blue sparks and flame. Only later when she vice grips his shoulders does he see the sickness that drives her into reckless battle. Her eyes scan him so thoroughly he would have blushed if he had the energy.

"Okay," she breathes. She shakes and shakes and shakes. Heavy rain plinks on dead metal. All else is silent. He could hear her bones chatter together, if he listened hard enough. "Okay," she says again. "We're fine."

She sways on her feet. He wraps his arms around her taut waist and pulls her close, but she resists him, tensing in his arms, turning her face away from him. Blood and ceruleum and ash drip from her pale skin as rain showers them both. He rubs her forehead with his thumb, but his gloves are dirtied with battle, and so he simply leaves another smear.

"Izzie, look at me."

"I'm fine."

"I know--"

"I just need..." She sucks in a breath between her teeth. He would give her anything she asks. The moon and every star in the sky. "Just give me a second."

He purses his lips. He pushes her hair from her drenched forehead and tests her tension. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it," he says.

She bristles in his arms. Her nails dig into his wrists. She is a bow string near to snap. "So?"

He blinks. "What?"

She sniffs heavily and still won't look at him. "This isn't new."

But he had never been in the field like this, never felt the slick of dirt and grime on her like this, never smelled blood and gunpowder in her hair like this. He drinks her in, how small she seems now, soaked by rain. He is well aware that she is only in his arms because she allows it, but the dichotomy between Izzie of the Fight -- the Izzie the stories sing about -- and the Izzie of the Aftermath is discordant. He fears one of them may shatter from the sound.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right."

A heartbeat passes between them. When she finally turns to speak into his shoulder, her voice is near lost in the rain. "...Just let me do my job."

He sways in place, holding her in his arms. He knows that tone -- the determination, the resignation of it. The stubborn will to stand in the storm so no others will. It is the only way she knows how to seize control.

An old frustration makes his tail thrash.

There is no time here to hash it out, not as the other Scions begin to approach. There is no time for him to spill his heart on the floor for her -- to explain just how each blow she takes is one for him, too.

"Alright," he says, picking his battles. "Alright."

-----

It isn't always like that. But he does learn just how terrible of a chirurgeon patient she is.

After another engagement at Bozja, Izzie lays her head in G'raha's lap while Krile sews up the re-opened gash in her side. Izzie grits her teeth. You’re here as a distraction. And a focus. So she remembers not to throw me across the room, Krile had said, blasé, and G’raha couldn’t tell if she was joking. Izzie’s body jerks as Krile begins another stitch. Her hand grips his tightly enough his mouth pops open in shock.

“Sorry,” Izzie hisses out. She lets go immediately. “Sorry.”

“I fear this is my doing." He manages a light tone despite the throttling nature of the pain. He opts to let his thumbs linger at her temples, instead. "For making you laugh too hard.”

“Shame on you.” She smirks up at him, wobbly and disjointed, and affection floods him, warm and rounded. She jolts again.

He brushes hair from her brow. “Are you sure you--”

“Nope,” Izzie says quickly. “I’ve had worse.”

Izzie, he discovers, hates pain medicine -- hates the way it blurs her thoughts and stunts her movement, even for something as routine as stitches, and he realizes he is there to shine like a sharp light through the sensation of Krile digging into her flesh.

“Prepare yourself, Warrior,” the lalafell says, and she goes for another stitch.

Izzie almost thrashes out of G’raha’s lap. He presses his palms into her shoulders, startled. He would soothe her with a healing spell but he’d been yelled at by Krile enough for that; such spells interfere with chirurgeon work by making the body repair along bad seams.

“Bitchass motherfucker, Krile !” Izzie seethes in his lap, eyes watering. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

An old, silent war rages as Krile meets her patient’s gaze. It doesn’t have to be like this, Krile would say. We live in a society with medicine. And Izzie would insist upon it because her stubbornness is near a sickness of its own. He frowns.

She is a horrible patient for one who must be treated so often.

Even so, she is not the only one with hurts -- and despite everything, he comes to cherish the moments late in the eve when both lay in bed, beaten and bruised and tired and together. He relishes the way her body melts into his when he smooths his hands over her shoulders, healing aether warming his palms. The way she presses messy kisses into his chest, his wrists, his jaw. The rejuvenating rest allowed two people, waking in shared soreness, beneath the soft dawn light.

It’s not so bad, he thinks; it’s all he ever wanted. It is a deeply survivable thing, to share these burdens.

Until, sometimes, it isn’t.

-----

Her striking shadow slices the beam of Garlemald’s fearsome weaponry, a flare in the negative against roiling light. He stands struck by her glory.

And then his stomach curdles as her shadow scatters, like grass eaten by locusts, beneath the assault.

He doesn’t even have time to scream.

She's gone.

She's gone.

He feels outside his own body, staring blankly at the scorch mark left behind on the ground where she stood. His feet move on their own.

Thancred shouts for him to hold the line. The man's voice barely registers over the white noise buzzing in G'raha's ears. What line is there left to hold? Was it really doomed to end like this? Even with the balance of the Universe reset by centuries just to--

Wait.

A figure appears amid the smoke and shadow, and he has to blink back the blurred edges of his vision.

She’s... there.

She stands, whole, where she should not be -- a filagree of light against the dark. Silence rolls across the field. It’s as if she’d never been gone at all.

She turns toward him, face blank. His throat is hoarse. He realizes he is screaming her name. The world skips past him like a broken orchestrion roll until he has her in his arms, pulling her down from the outcropping that made her such an obvious target.

She doesn’t resist him. “Raha?”

Hate surges through him then, suddenly -- a fear so poisonous it cripples him -- and he realizes the hate is not for Garlemald or even the killing blow but for the heroic image she strikes despite the damage it clearly ekes. She blinks helplessly, eyes reddened and bloody. Burns seep away from her skin like paint under rain, disappearing before his eyes. She gropes in desperation until she finds his chest and her hand wraps around the edge of his scarf. Her dirt-caked nails leave grimy splotches on the fabric.

“Do I have my bow?” she manages.

He can’t speak. Her hands reach for the weapon anyway.

His heart rips. “You shouldn’t--”

“I’m okay, darlin’.” Her voice is an unusual, knowing calm. “You shouldn’t be this far afield.”

And she turns away. She somehow returns to the fight. No one asks. They don’t need to.

He looks toward the backline and sees the rest of the Scions watching him.

They deal with it in their own ways, he realizes then. It's why Alphinaud focuses so hard on healing and the reason Alisaie throws her all into her offensive battery. It’s one of the myriad reasons Thancred took up his position as the group’s shield. Why Y’shtola turned from conjury to the most fearsome of black magics. Why Urianger brought the power of the stars to bear.

If they are enough, she doesn’t have to go through that.

The battle ends, largely a stalemate but slightly in their favor. Even Izzie tires. G’raha’s body protests but he ignores it; he half-carries her back to the camp and does not let her out of arm’s reach until they’ve regained enough energy to teleport back to the Rising Stones. Even then he feels she could too easily slip from this coil.

He knows she is not feeling right because she doesn’t rebuff him.

He fears his uselessness. A habit from a century of living with want. While he quietly helps her out of her armor and into a bath, he ponders what the Echo has wrought. He sprinkles healing salt into the water.

She died. She died! Her body flipped like a switch to a moment before her demise, shivering and burned, gasping for air.

He wonders at its function alongside her connection to the Ancients. It’s different from revival; she was disintegrated. The Echo made it not so. He knows she can die. He lived centuries to prevent that very outcome. But which deaths are final? Which can she shrug off? How many does she get?

Does she exist outside the usual laws of time and space? A paracausal existence, where cause and effect do not matter in ways comprehensible to the Spoken mind? If Hydaelyn and Zodiark are merely primals, the most powerful of all meant to rewrite the laws of science, is it possible that glimpsing the power of the Ancients makes it so the most Blessed of Her heart can only be felled in the most horrific and reality-twisting of ways?

Why? Why would that be Her solution?

He jolts when her wet palm settles against his cheek. “Hey.”

He breathes deep. Her soap smells like lavender and honey. He presses his mouth into the grooves of her hand and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” His throat tightens. “Today, I--”

“No,” she says, so soft. “I’m sorry. I know the...the weird thing happened.”

He somehow never had seen it. The weird thing. The Weird Thing. He’s shaken by this term. “Do you know when it will happen?”

She lets out a shattered sigh. “I don’t.”

“...do you...remember what happened to you?”

“Not really,” she says. A primal memory of the muscle, but not of the heart or mind. He feels deep relief right alongside revulsion. “I just know no one likes it.”

His mind buzzes. He has a thousand questions. He sometimes wishes the song of the Tower was clearer in his head, like back on the First. Perhaps the Allagans had known of this phenomenon; they seemed the type to cultivate such a talent. But he knows, too, the history of their avarice and he feels a spike of protectiveness at the thought of exposing her even to their memory.

The water splashes as she sits forward in the tub. “Raha?”

He meets her gaze and is lanced to the ground. Her eyes threaten tears.

“You just can’t think about it, okay?” She looks every which way. “Are you...does it…”

He leans forward and cradles her face between his palms. He kisses her hard enough that their teeth clash. His hands are still dirty. He would have to wash her face again. But he kisses her until her wet hands settle on the back of his neck and he feels her relax into the water.

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t change anything. Nothing could.”

His world nearly ended today. And then it didn’t. He would, for her sake, do his best to forget.

-----

He sees the blood spray from her arm. He watches her stumble and drop her bow. His body’s response is near automatic, summoning cool aether to weave a healing spell even as smoke fills the air. But when he charges forward to find her through the morass, she is not there.

He spins. He thinks of the blood rolling down her bow arm, sticky and dark.

“Izzie!”

Figures collide in the corner of his eye. He turns and turns and turns but her fiery hair is nowhere to be seen, wholly devoured by the chaos. He swallows down the building panic in his gut.

And then--

A thick silence descends, before his hair stands up and air sucks away from his ears and he dives to the side but it is not enough--

He stumbles to his knees from the concussive force and acrid stench of a fire bomb. Smoke burns his eyes. His ears ring from the biting kerang of gunfire. His shield nor his barriers are ready; the other Scions are scattered across the field. The Garleans must be catching on, he realizes, dark and heavy. They’ve had enough of the Scions’ tricks.

A war machina bears down on him. He spins to the side but the damn thing feints.

Raha!

In one moment, he is upright. In the next, he is on the cold ground. The world spins and spins and spins. His mouth fills with dirt; blood paints his teeth. Warmth trails down his chest and sticks to his tunic. Pain, dull at first, crescendos in the back of his head until it is shrieking.

A familiar voice rises over the din.

Fuckers! You’ll pay for that!

He opens his eyes. Blue-black debris flies overhead and then--

“Raha. Raha, look at me, okay? Look at me.”

Slick hands touch his face and turn his head until all he can see is the sea green of her eyes and the red flare of her dirty, war-tangled hair. He blinks. His limbs feel malms away. He can’t move fast enough to stop her from attending to him right here in the middle of a fight. Izzie’s hands slide up and down his chest until her fingers dig into his wound and he bucks in pain. His shoulder feels...incomplete. Bitten off. Wet and gone. Bits of fire dig into his skin. Shrapnel, perhaps.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. I can...no, can’t tourniquet there...cloth...pressure…”

She’s talking to herself.

He hears the tearing of cloth. Her stilted hands press a ripped part of her tunic into his shoulder. He cries out in agony as she pushes and pushes and pushes to try and stop the bleeding.

Her breathing is sharp and watery in his ear. “What the fuck were you doing,” she hisses. Her eyes are wide as saucers. “Where did you go?”

He braces himself to grunt out a few words, but he can’t form them.

“No. Don’t talk. Just focus on me. I...I don’t...” She takes a sharp breath and remembers her linkpearl. She pleas for a healer over the line, her voice shaking even as she barks out their location. Her hands are rough and seizing as she hoists him onto a field stretcher, but that is all he remembers before he wakes up under Krile’s care back at the safety of their camp.

He is laid out on a soldier’s cot, groggy and hazed, and he feels a strange anger simmering just below the medicinal fog. He hears his father’s laugh, cruel and thoughtless and drunk. You’ll never understand. None of us ever has.

Izzie sits in a chair, staring at the thin line revealed by the tent’s flap. Her face is still smeared with black oil and dirt. Her head is tilted slightly, like a garden ornament about to fall in the rain. His heart tumbles strangely.

“Where had you gone?” he croaks.

She jumps a foot in the air before she spins in her chair toward him. Her eyebrows creep near her hairline. In the next instant, she leans over him, hands hovering over his injuries. “I’m right here,” she says.

He thinks to tell her she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been where he thought she was and he thought she died, again, and he couldn’t bear it. Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she feel it, too? But her eyes are so wide and blown out and her skin shines so wetly he fears she is sick with fever.

So he buries the anger, deep and dark, and focuses on the feel of her fingers in his hair.

-----

He has sworn to love a wildfire. But wildfires are not known for their fairness.

The anger, simmering between them, spills out the next morning. She pushes open the tent flap and a warning klaxon sounds off between his ears, seeing the paleness of her brow and the darkness around her eye sockets. She had not slept. Yet her gaze glimmers, dangerous and lucid, and she says to him as she hands him a tray of rations: “You’re not doing this again.”

He squints up at her. Krile had said he likely won’t be returning to this particular engagement, but something in Izzie’s tone feels heavy and final. “I’m sorry?”

“We’re going back to the Stones.”

He sets the tray aside. “I understand I need to recover--”

But she won’t let him finish. “A warfront isn’t for you. You’re too...you’re too reckless.”

For a moment he forgets how to speak, struck dumb by her sheer audacity. “I’m reckless?”

She glares down at him. Challenging him. “Yes.”

She’s baiting him. He knows this.

“Izzie.” He bites out her name. She doesn’t flinch. “You were injured. It’s my job to protect you. You know that. You agreed to it.”

“It was just a small cut. You exposed yourself for no reason.”

He remembers the blood splatter. Anger, thick as sludge, makes his lungs hurt. “No reason? Izzie Nenelori, you took a hit that would have taken the arm off of any other man!”

“That’s my job!”

“It is, emphatically, not.”

She purses her lips. Her eyes glitter. He should fear this face, he knows, but he can barely see through his own fury, red and vile.

“You don’t know anything,” she hisses. “You know what I can do. What I can survive.”

Some dam in him breaks. He doesn’t think. He snakes out a hand to seize her by the wrist, as if that might prevent her from proving the power of the Echo here and now, and his heart stutters when her eyes widen. But he glares, intent. “Don’t. Do not even think to joke about that in my presence.”

“Or what?” Her eyes flick to his fingers wrapped around her arm. Her voice is desiccating. “What will you do.”

“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” His eyes burn. “To watch you throw your life about as if it holds no worth? Do you have any concept of the hole you would leave in our lives, in my life, if your Echo failed you once?” He can barely speak for the lump forming in his throat. “What it does to me, every time you shrug off a hit that should flatten you?”

She is silent for a single, heavy beat.

His throat burns as he resists breaking down in sudden, furious tears. “Do you?” he presses.

She tears her wrist from his grasp. She balls her hands into fists.

“How fucking dare you.” She takes a watery breath before her voice rises like the tide. “I watched you near die some three times already!”

His ears ring. Her words hang in the air, dripping and cruel and right.

“You think I don’t know?” Her cheeks glisten. “What it’s like to watch everything you love in the world fade? Are you really that godsdamn stupid?”

His mouth slackens. His shoulders sag. Tears leak down his face. He remembers, vividly, Alisaie flicking him on the forehead for openly considering his sacrifice for all their sakes. He had been so cavalier. He felt the circumstances had required it, then, and that Alisaie’s reaction had been driven by something a little illogical...

But Alisaie had been protecting Izzie’s heart. Because he hadn’t considered the possibility of the harm he could do to her, even then.

He grips the blanket, cursing his foolishness. Always the idiot boy in her presence.

“You’re right,” he churns out. “I...I’m sorry. I am.”

She turns away from him but she doesn’t storm off. He reaches, gently, for her hand. She does not pull away, but she does not loosen her fist.

“I struggled to remember, then, that I was...I was still...close enough to a Spoken man for it to matter, and…” He struggles to breathe. “I worry that you think the same thing. That you forget you are still a Spoken woman.”

Her shoulders crumple. Her hands fly to her face. She does not say anything for a long moment and he feels like a monster writhing in chains as he swallows down the desire to sweep her into an embrace. She would turn him away. She must come to him first.

“Am I?” Her voice shakes. “Am I?”

She sits at the end of his bed. He waits until her first sob breaks free before he pulls her to him, tucking her tightly under his chin. He strokes her back and hides his own tears in her hair. His shoulder be damned.

His lips brush her skin as he whispers his adoration. “You are.”

She is the girl he met in Mor Dhona, bright as seltzer. She is a rarity and fleeting and real -- like any girl, yes, but his.

-----

Even injured, he still tames her.

His hands rest at her bare waist as she reveals herself to him, word by word. She leans over him until her ruby hair pools in the cave of his collarbones and her taut arms frame his head. Her lips brush his jaw. “I just go crazy, thinking about it,” she admits, quiet, as if it is only the moon watching. “I survived a world without you, once. I don’t...I don’t think I could do it again.”

Before he can reply with words of his own, her teeth graze his chin and seize his lip. She eggs him on. Tell me, she would say, but don’t speak.

He flips her over him and pins her to the mattress. He buries his nose in her scent. Runs his hands down her naked body. Maps her sharp curves and deep scars, presses his thumbs into the dips of her hip bones, mouths her until her chest heaves -- even as she fights him.

His mouth is kind even as he manhandles her. His grasp is gentle but firm; she desires boundaries to rail against and he will give them to her. He drives her body into the mattress. He whispers sweetness into her ear as he does it. My star. Beautiful and glorious. I will never tire of your body under mine. He pulls her hair to expose her neck to his chastising teeth. Do you know how long I've wished for this? How lovely you look, laid bare and taken and mine?

It is the greatest honor he knows to have her like this, to break her open so the ache comes free and she can fill her heart with joy again. There are some hurts she need not bear. Pain need not be her only constant.

And it is thrilling to remind her who she belongs to.

He treats these moments like arcanima proofs. Through them, he describes the unknowable with what tools he has. His fingers, his tongue.

“I... Raha, I…”

Her voice saying his name sets his core alight. He is driven harder and harder until the pressure between them crests like a mad wave.

But when she finally cries out her pleasure and falls lax beneath him, he is the one who feels split in half. He leans over her, spent. His mind keens. His shoulder throbs. Her voice sends him a thousand different places -- to memories and fantasies that are both ancient and new, sometimes the same memory at once. A shattered kind of Echo.

She brushes the hair from his brow. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out when he meets her gaze. Her lingering silence pressurizes the room. He feels lightheaded. She’s holding something back and he no longer has the mind to figure out what, exactly; it may as well be dripping from him along with his sweat.

Her hand cups his cheek. He closes his eyes.

He would not survive another separation, either.

“It’s not just losing you,” she says. “It’s losing...losing me. Losing the people who remember who I am. I don’t know who I would be.” She looks up at him, wide-eyed and small. “If no one...if you weren’t here to...remind me...”

He lays down and pulls her in against his chest. She presses herself entirely against him, bracing him. His arms tighten around her waist. His fingers thread through her hair.

“Sometimes I fear I’m no longer tethered anywhere in time,” he confesses, throat tight. Ghosts linger in his blood; that is the true curse of Allag. “That I’m a mistake in the tapestry...and that all could be unwoven in a blink…”

She pulls back just slightly and brushes the backs of her fingers down his jaw. His eyes swim, overwhelmed by the sweetness of her face and the bruising of her lips.

“But we’re here,” he says, voice breaking. “And if I am a mistake, so be it. I will fight for my place. To remain here, with you, as long as I can. Even if that means I must take a hard risk now and again.” His shoulder throbs, as if to be the declarative point on his sentence.

Her answer is simple and shattering. She just says his name. “Raha…”

He pulls her into a kiss. Her voice is what he had followed when all else failed. He named the Musica Universalis after her -- the beating heart of the city, the center of their strange star and the harmonies within. The place where merchants and birds gathered and sang their hopeless, hopeful songs.

She pulls away. Her back is taut, but her hands are gentle, reaching up to rub his ears, and he is helpless before her.

"Let me show you something. Tomorrow." She turns her face into his neck. "It might help you understand."

-----

Ishgard splits the horizon like Halone’s Spear, painted in light and heavy stone. Coerthas’ mountains swell just behind it. From here, everything feels worlds away, even as the wind sears freezing gashes across his face.

But the gravestone feels too small.

Izzie stares at the broken shield, eyes threading seams into the hole, and G’raha feels a rock slowly sink into his stomach.

"That," Izzie says, "is why people can't take blows for me."

A moment passes. And then she tells him everything from the day Haurchefaunt died -- the details Lord de Fortemps could not bear to put in his memoirs. The warm twilight sky. How she and Haurchefaunt only needed share a single look before they both sprang into action. How they moved in sync, down a walkway gilded in purple and gold.

How he said he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, instead. How she watched the light leave his eyes.

She doesn't say it, but G’raha can feel it in her thoughts. It should have been me.

He guards her from the worst of the chill with his shoulders. "You could never know for sure. What might have happened if he hadn't been there."

Izzie's gazes upon the gravestone with a heaviness only worn by those who have made the same calculation over and over. "And Edmont wouldn't want me to think this way. I know. But I'm always going to wonder."

G'raha purses his lips. He remembers something a first generation settler of the Crystarium once told him. "That's the curse of the living, I'm afraid."

She eyes him. He can't pin if it's suspicion or annoyance or concern, her face half-hidden in a scarf.

"He knew who I was. Beyond the Warrior of Light. Like...someone else I once knew." She shoulder checks him hard enough that air rushes from his lungs, but he deserves it, teasing or no. "I was in a really bad place for a really long time before you found me again in another world. But even you…" Her gaze slides away and he snakes an arm around her shoulder. "...well, you know," she grumbles.

Even he almost died for her.

"So that's why it makes me crazy. When people try to help me. It's just easier for you to...not."

"But it isn't," he says softly.

Her hat re-shapes as her ears flatten.

"You've seen so much loss,” he says. “But what does that mean you'll do? Will you love others and receive none in return, in the hopes of sparing them some dark fate?"

She grumbles something, which signals to him he's right.

"It doesn't work like that, my love," he whispers into her ear, hiding the words from the icy wind. "And you, more than anyone, deserve the fullness of affection people have for you."

She bunches her gloved hands near her face, clawing at her cheeks before hiding her eyes in her palms. He thinks perhaps they've reached the end of it when she says: "I know you're right."

His heart jumps. "I do so love to hear it."

She gives the smallest snort of a laugh. He smiles into her wool cap.

“Ma always said the world doesn't owe us anything." Her shoulders bunch forward. "So it feels stupid to say I'm due for something." She pins him with her eyes. The heat in her gaze turns his frozen legs to water. "But maybe I am. I think I've paid for it enough."

She curls in around him against the cold. She suddenly sucks in a breath. It mists in the frozen air, like his own words inside his head.

"I want you with me forever," she says. "I mean it.” She hides her face against his neck and he's shot through with golden light. “Rings and everything.”

He feels dunked into champagne. Thoughts short out in a fizzy fog.

She leans back and searches his face. “Raha?”

“I want it very much.” His words spill out fast. “I want to be tied to you in any way I can manage. I never want to make the mistake of separating myself from you, ever again.” The cold air in his lungs grounds him. “If you’re willing to have me, of course.”

She stops her strange searching and her eyes land on the grave. She laughs like she has been surprised by what she sees. “Sorry,” she says. “I know that’s sudden.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “We’ll do it right. With all the pomp and circumstance you deserve.”

He gets the reaction he seeks. Her head leans back in offended shock, eyes dancing over his face.

“No.” She glares at him. He grins, helpless. “No! I’m gonna do it my way and you’re gonna like it.”

“You sound very certain. As if I might not be scheming anything of my own.”

She scans his face. “You’re not.” Despite these revelations being fresh, her voice rings with uncertainty. She looks so concerned -- her brow so furrowed in consideration -- that he pulls her into a kiss. He can’t stop smiling. He is dumbstruck.

He feels a conviction so dense that he is, for a moment, cleaved to the universe.

When he pulls back, she is beaming.

— here’s my (late) halloween blurb 🎃 !! it didn’t turn out exactly how i wanted it to, but regardless i hope you enjoy <3

💌 • 3:13am

“whose idea even was this?” you scoffed, carefully avoiding the piles of reeking trash scattered all over the entrance of the dilapidated building.

“chenle’s, unfortunately,” crush!jaemin followed closely behind you, making sure you didn’t trip over any of the old timber or garbage, “one of his family members bought the land and wanted to do it up or something, but he wanted to ‘explore’ the abandoned building before it gets knocked down.”

you continued to follow the unclear path, aided solely by your phone’s dimming flashlight in one hand and jaemin’s clammy one in the other, not because you wanted to hold his hand, but just in case you lost each other.

he yelped when he heard the snap of a twig resonate in the pitch black of the night, before realising it came from under your foot, “can you please tell me why we’re here again, babe?”

“huh? o-oh!” you practically choked, almost tripping over what you assumed was the building’s entryway, your entire body shutting down and going into panic mode, “wait, didn’t you just tell me why we’re here?”

the fact that you were more alarmed by jaemin’s use of that nickname rather than, well, not making it out alive tonight, really said something about your priorities. you knew it was all platonic but, man, couldn’t he warn you next time so that you wouldn’t have a heart attack?

“nooo, that’s not what i meant,” he giggled, his blinding smile lighting up the sheer darkness that was swallowing your surroundings, “i’m just saying, i would much rather be at home right now watching a BuzzFeed Unsolved video instead of basically making my own murder documentary series or something...”

“also, be careful with these wooden planks on the floor ‘cos they’re quite old, apparently jisung stepped on one too hard and almost fell through because his foot got stuck,” he clicked his phone off, shoving it into his pocket and scrutinising every floor panel before he stepped on it.

“as if this place wasn’t dodgy enough,” you tiptoed around a pile of old firewood and books, approaching what you assumed was the said ‘room on the right’, “has some sort of cult been burning whole ass libraries in here or something?”

“as if this place wasn’t dodgy enough,” you tiptoed around a pile of old firewood and books, approaching what you assumed was the said ‘room on the right’, “has some sort of cult been burning whole ass libraries in here or something?”

“hopefully not,” jaemin muttered, flinching as the floorboards creaked when you entered the room, eyeing the room for his so-called friends that were the only reason he was stuck in some haunted mansion alone on Halloween at three in morning with his crush, “uhhh, y/n, i-i don’t think anyone’s here.”

flickering your phone’s torch around the room, you saw no sign of renjun, jeno, jisung or chenle, nothing indicating that they’d even been in here, “i’m sure we just went into the wrong room, let’s try that other door—”

a shrill banshee-like screech echoed throughout the building, before the rotting wooden door of the room slammed shut, simultaneously blowing out the singular candle’s weak flame, leaving you and jaemin with the crack of moonlight streaming in through the broken stained glass window as your only light source.

this time, jaemin was the first one to cling to you, his eyes squeezed shut as he buried his head in the crook of your neck, his heavy, uneven breaths brushing over your skin, “what, what was- why did- what was that?”

“i-i don’t know, jaems,” you whispered, your throat drying out at the close contact and the tense situation, “let’s just see if the door budges first.”

as you tried to bring yourself to let go of jaemin’s embrace, his hold on you tightened, and his pout intensified, “sorry, i-i’m scared, can you take me with you?”

that’s how you ended up sluggishly shuffling towards the door with the scared boy’s arms circled around your waist. it wasn’t the most effective but as long as he felt safe, you’d do anything.

it was weird - you’d seen jaemin this affectionate before but, never this vulnerable, not even in front of his best friends - was he really comfortable enough to be like this around you? never in your life would you have thought that the most intimate moment you’d spend with the boy you liked was trapped in a century-old building in the middle of the night on the brink of, well, death.

“hey, are you okay with this? i can see you kinda moving away, you don’t have to do this, by the way, i just needed some... comfort,” at this point, jaemin had noticed your uncomfortable aura, but had yet to realise that you were simply flustered, not disgusted.

“i’m fine, jaemin, don’t worry, i’ve just never seen you this scared before, maybe i shouldn’t have forced you to come here, my curiosity got the better of me when the boys were talking about it in the group chat, but now i just wanna go home,” you admitted, your ramble being silenced when he turned around to face you, caressing your cheek. whatever you were expecting to happen tonight, it definitely wasn’t this.

“oh, y/n, the only reason i agreed to come was because i knew how excited you were and i didn’t want you to come here alone,” jaemin’s eyes flickered to the door for a split second, before focusing on you again, “which clearly wasn’t the best idea since the only person needing protection here is me.”

the both of you finally let out a much-needed laugh, temporarily forgetting that you were literally in a horror movie scenario, “well, i appreciate you coming nonetheless. except for the bit where we got stuck in a sketchy place, i actually had fun tonight exploring with you.”

“me too, babe.”

silence filled the air as you two stayed in each other’s arms, the gleam of the moonlight hitting jaemin’s face at a perfect angle and lighting up his admirable features. you didn’t know if it was the close proximity or the supernatural magic of the moon but something in you gave you a newfound courage, as you leaned in and placed your lips onto your crush’s.

you had never been more relieved when he kissed you back, so immersed in the moment that you didn’t even notice the door fling open and your friends huddling together in awe at the sight.

“see, i told you that all we needed was some extreme conditions and they’d finally do something,” renjun whispered, but not quiet enough, as you and jaemin broke apart from one another, screaming at their sudden appearance.

“you guys have been here the whole time??? wait, was that chenle screaming before? and was it you who shut the door on us?” although you would’ve liked to revel in that moment for a little longer, you finally began to piece the mystery together, confirmed with one shameless nod from jeno.

“you’re... unbelievable...” jaemin panted, trying to regain his composure, “i thought i heard jisung fake-gag before but i didn’t think it actually was you.”

the said boy hid behind his hyungs, embarrassed to be the one that got them caught, “i heard you guys saying cute and mushy stuff to each other - i couldn’t help it.”

“so, was this all one big ploy to set us up together?” you sighed when jeno gave you another soulless nod, trying to get your head around the chaos you had just experienced, “as grateful as i am, couldn’t you have done it anywhere else at any other time?”

chenle shrugged, leading your group out of the creepy building, “eh, it was a spur of the moment thing, renjun hyung made the plan, me and jisung saw this place on the way home from the park, and it worked so, you’re welcome.”

“hey! i drove them here, i contributed too,” jeno chimed in, grinning when he saw the massive smile on his best friend’s face as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“next time, if i need your help, i’ll ask for it,” jaemin rolled his eyes, nonchalantly slipping his hands into yours, earning a few whistles and whoops from the rest of the guys, “i was actually doing quite well in there.”

“were you though?” you lowered your voice so only he could hear you, hovering outside of jeno’s car whilst the boys took their seats, “i seem to recall you being a tad bit frightened in there, hmm.”

your teasing face and cute smirk was too much for jaemin to handle, “ahh, i think we can keep that between us, babe, hm? how does that sound?”

he held his pinky out, waiting for you to comply to his deal, “as long as i get to give you kisses more often like i did back there, then my lips are sealed.”

swiftly and secretly, jaemin placed a chaste kiss on your lips before sliding into the car’s backseat, “sealed with a kiss, baby.” from then on, it’s safe to say that the boys never found out that it was in fact him screaming like a little girl in there and not you.

that night, you lay in bed, snuggled under a mountain of blankets with jaemin, pondering about what your halloween could’ve been like if not for the dreamies, since you usually didn’t celebrate it.

well, halloween had never been your favourite holiday, but, maybe, just maybe, you’d give it a chance, just like you gave na jaemin a chance.

Lamb: Ch 6 - Still In The Middle

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol​​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: This was it. This was the moment for which you’d bargained so hard, for which you’d nearly begged, about which you’d dreamed. This was the deal.

A/N: Potential triggers for dub-con/difficult loss of virginity. Thanks for hanging in. I know the updates are happening further and further apart, but I’m tryna have a life.

Word Count: 4.0k

You knew fear.

Jumping from the roof. Fending off thieves. A target on your planet. The horror of not knowing if your family survived. Even here, in Ren’s land, you knew fear. The certainty that he truly had carved you open from cunt to crown.

All mere drops in the ocean compared to now.

He hovered, a walking omen promising retribution and withering the very air with his distaste for your nonsense. You shrank from it, from him. You weren't even sure he moved, but you lifted your hand against the attack that surely would come and instinctively launched yourself between The Ren and the boy, shielding the dying from death as though you could bargain with fate.

When next he spoke, it wasn’t to you, nor was it in a language you could identify. His voice, though modulated to mask his otherworldly inflection, was even as he addressed the boy to your side. As he finished, your young warrior slumped back into the grass, and Ren’s saber crackled brighter for a brief second.

You stared, speechless as your brain processed the events. Once departed from the body, did the soul spend eternity inside that vermilion host? Was that all the afterlife was?

Your dark specter gave you no time to further ponder or ask silly questions. Gloved fingers shoved beneath your collar and jerked you to a stand. By that guide, he threw you forward, pointing at the hilltop.

“Walk!”

The ire in his mechanical tone numbed you to the marrow, but you wisely, silently, marched up the hill you’d earlier flown down. Near the summit, you bent forward to crawl the rest of the incline, offered no help by the reaper at your heels. You half expected an angry kick to your backside to send you sprawling.

At the top, you waited. Only he knew the way home. Only he could conjure it.

You prayed that your quiet would win you a modicum of favor, some semblance of pardon for finally learning at least one lesson, but you yelped when his fingers found purchase at your neck once more. His rough handling sent jagged black edges into your skin, scratching and marring your tender flesh.

In seconds, you abandoned what you were so pleased with yourself for, grasping at his wrist and forearm while babbling about how he was hurting you. He ignored your fit, gripped your arm impossibly tight, and dragged you through the suddenly there umbra and into his keep.

Back in familiar territory, he stomped through the hallways, his heavy footsteps echoing dreadfully. Bile rose, sour and acrid. Your heart skipped. And when he tossed you across the threshold of the room, you stumbled and fell face first into the opulent expanse of his bed.

“Stay here, I said.”

He seethed, slowly removing his helmet. Your throat swelled shut at the outright disdain you saw etched into his marble features.

"Speak to no one." 

You scrambled away, attempting to put as much space between you and the bogeyman as possible, but it was in vain. He stepped closer and threw his gloves at you, one to punctuate each word you had ignored.

“Touch nothing.”

There was no terror in the galaxy akin to this. He was uncompromising, unnerving, unkind. He only had to think it, and you would be but a smudge on his floor, no longer interrupting his peace with your fumbling.

Plastering yourself against the far wall, you shook your head, but you didn’t know why. He was clear in his instructions, and you disobeyed. Blatantly. Flagrantly.

Again.

“H-he was frightened.”

It sounded ludicrous, even to you.

Every molecule of oxygen in the room froze with his icy stare. Each haphazard exhale was laced with frost. The world around you turned unwelcoming, harsh.

“They are all frightened!”

His shout broke the sound barrier, cracking like a bomb.

On a scream, you turned away, pressing your face and palms flat against the slab wall. You felt it when he advanced on you, crossing the room in only a few steps. His hands slammed into stone on either side of your head, and you buckled, slumping downward only for him to catch you and pin you in place.

“Do you enjoy being an idiot? Was it worth it to play nursemaid?”

Something about his condescension cut through your fear. It settled in your gullet and solidified in your larynx.

Turning your face to him, you blinked hard when your nose bumped his, not expecting such closeness. You smelled that candied taste on his breath, the narcotic caramel you came to crave. You wished you hadn’t looked. 

“He was afraid, and I could help. It isn’t stupid.”

His sleek, dark brow cocked over one glittering eye, but you couldn't tell if it was because he accepted your reason or was simply surprised you spoke at all. His thumb grazed a particularly large cut, eliciting a wince; and with great effort, you didn’t jerk away. As his fingers trailed down the length of your neck, you watched his eyes follow. They dropped to your throat, and you didn’t miss the way his gaze roved over the newly raised cuts and scratches from his hasty manhandling.

But when those chameleon irises lifted back to your face, you forgot how to even think.

“You could have died.”

His melodic voice was hard, teeming with irritation but in a low tone. Those long fingers you couldn’t help but enjoy looking at wrapped around your neck and shoved you back into the wall on a mean thump. His everything was intoxicating, rendering you witless with little more than his presence. He didn’t simply cage you; he engulfed you, swallowed you whole.

“I…” Your face pinched, wondering if it was your safety that concerned him or the precarious nature of your bargain. “I didn’t know that. You didn't tell me. But I’m here. I’m not dead.”

The next words out of your mouth were a gamble.

"Still in the middle."

The temperature of the room changed, rising as his ire subsided. His knuckles dragged along your neck once more, and you gulped on reflex. The preternatural sluggishness of your heartbeat improved as the trail of his touch extended down your sternum. A flush spread through you, warming you and raising goosebumps in the wake of his light trek.

“Yes.” Pushing from the wall, he slipped his fingers beneath the ring once more and tugged you against him. “Yes, you are.”

There was a loud sizzle and pop from behind him, jarring both of you back to your senses. A frown flitted across his face - annoyance at something other than you. You couldn’t help but feel relief. As much as you wanted to stand on your toes to see what happened, you only reached to steady yourself by both hands circling his wrist.

“When I come back, I want this gone.”

He tugged the neckline of the cloak, waited for your acquiescent nod, and whirled from the room in a flurry of billowing black. You waited, glued to the spot, for a solid 60 count before sagging into the wall.

You lost track of how long it took him to return. Disrobed and discombobulated, you sat in the very center of the bed until you could scarcely hold your eyes open. You burrowed under the soft, ebony pelts and succumbed to anxious exhaustion. The events of the day... and yesterday... and the day before that all bled together into a heaviness you could no longer ignore.

A chill woke you. Without opening your eyes, you groused and searched for the cover to your cozy den.  Instead, you brushed your fingers along what could only be skin and jolted awake to find a naked statue of a man brushing a kiss to your knee, your thigh, your hip. He crawled up your body, pausing only to kiss your ribs or lick at an already distended nipple.

When finally he settled his weight between your thighs, you choked and coughed, turning your head away from his chuckle. The feel of him was heavenly, but the knowledge of why he was on you was torture.

This was it. This was the moment for which you’d bargained so hard, for which you’d nearly begged, about which you’d dreamed. This was the deal.

At the behest of his overwhelming nearness, your body came alive. Tightening. Swelling. Lengthening. A shudder worked its way through your limbs. Your core heated, readying for its intruder. It was shameful how quickly you responded to him; but when his lips met the thundering of your pulse, you still whimpered wantonly.

A throb took hold of you, riding your increasing heart rate to even the very ends of your toes. Your opening pulsed a dangerous new rhythm your squirming hips attempted to ease. The pleased noise in your ear paralyzed you, but the body atop yours shifted. His wide hips rocked into yours in such a delicious way you were again tempted to lift and roll.

Redistributing his weight, Ren slithered his fingers down between your legs and brushed them against your labia, teasing and testing.

“Still think you’re ready for me, pet? Shall we find out?”

Alarmed, you barely had time to push at his shoulder and squeak out ‘n-no no!’ before the fat head of his dick pushed inside. You threw your head back on a sharp cry and clutched at the bed desperately. It was a knife to your middle, a spear in your cunt, and you howled in pain.

Disregarding your discomfort, he forced more of his length into your pussy on a groan, pushing down on your hip to keep you still.

“Who last fucked you, little lamb? Did they do such a poor job your cunt won't allow another in?”

Your body went rigid, clamping shut so tight he grimaced.  Your hips dropped into a deep cradle, seeking a bit of relief, but your feet scrambled against the bed in a furious attempt to get away.

“No! Nobody!” You wailed, panic-stricken, and frantically tried to push at his stomach, but he was immovable. You crumbled into despairing sobs, shaking your head. “I haven’t!”

“We have a long way to go, girl.” He bit at your neck at the same time he rocked further into you, drawing another harrowing plea from your ragged chest. “Pretending you’re a virgin won’t make me kind. Ruined by men, remember?.”

Trembling hands lifted to shield your face, to hide the pitiful tears. It wasn’t only that it hurt; you were overwhelmed by how displeasing you knew yourself to be. And how displeasing your next words would be.

“That wasn’t me.” Your voice was hardly there, cracking on the feeling and fear swirling inside your gut.

Ren stalled completely; and with him, all the galaxy went quiet. You heard only the whistling tunnel between your ears; and when you opened your eyes, you found him glaring down at you with such malice your blood ran cold.

“Mind your words. There are no ghosts here, despite what you’ve been taught. Just you. And me."

It was more than a command; it was a challenge.  ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ his eyes read. ‘Ridiculous girl,’ the hard line of his lips said.  Idiotically, you jumped on the bait.

“Y-you said men ruined me. N-not me.” You sniffled and blinked away stinging tears, trying to focus on his face. “I just didn’t argue.”

Pushing up on one hand, he glared down at you for what felt like an eternity. You chewed your lower lip, trying to decipher the look on his face and the strange gleam in his eyes. But as long as he grilled you like this, he wasn’t hate fucking your miserable pussy.

“You... you didn’t seem to like virgins.” You glanced down, trying to keep the wobble of your lips under control.  “I didn’t think it would be so… difficult.”

You hated how juvenile you sounded, how utterly absurd the words coming out of your mouth were. Ever since you came here, you wanted him to see you as an adult, but you were still a fucking child, unable to even do the damn thing you sold yourself to.

However, you also drowned in self-pity. Your words were true, but what you didn’t say was ‘Your cock is a fucking monster, and it absolutely will not fit,’ which was also true. How could you have known this wouldn’t work? There was no way your body would accept all of him, and that meant your family would pass into obscurity, unremembered and unavenged.

You wept anew, disappointed with yourself and wrenched open to the very bottom of your heart.

The distrust and contempt veiling his features eased, and those beautiful lips pursed. His amused hum quieted a bit of your worry, as did the way he released his angry grip on your hip. He even dislodged himself a bit from your battered cunt, allowing the hurt to abate.

He brushed tears from your cheeks and turned your face back to his.

“What have you had between these pretty thighs, lamb?”

You flushed at his intimate question, hands pushing at his ribs, trying to coerce him into vacating your core completely.

Instead, he lowered himself onto you, dragging his lips along your jaw. This time, the burden of his body soothed your upset, tempered the ache in your soul. His mouth nipped and sucked until he found a spot that made you shiver. He threaded strong fingers into your hair and rubbed at the back of your scalp, keeping you right where he wanted.

“Fingers…” It was scarcely a whisper, a sin you almost couldn’t admit out loud. “Lips…” Fire blew through your chest and cheeks, but there was no denying the last bit. “Blade handle…”

Something delicious rumbled in his chest at the memory you conjured. You felt it resonate against yours and wiggled, immediately regretting doing so from the reminder of his stabbing dick at your cunt’s entrance.

Blessedly, he withdrew completely; but still, you whimpered, both relieved by and lamenting the loss, though it was hardly even a moment before that hard column slid between your puffy labia and nudged at your clit and hood.

“Please, I don’t think I ca--”

He executed your excuse with a bite to your lower lip. He devoured any ensuing complaints with a fervent kiss, tying up your tongue to keep you muted. He derailed you completely, expertly leading you away from nervousness with his firm lips and tugging teeth.

His hands roamed and fondled and caressed. His hips led yours, coaxing your pelvis to dance to his tune. In just minutes, he dismantled your fear and replaced it with anticipation, with the heady scent of your arousal. Hooking one hand beneath your knee, he drew your legs apart wider, purring when your body naturally followed his lead.

With your hips in motion, he caught that hot ridge with the end of his dick and pressed in once again. You shriveled in fear, cursing yourself for believing he would let it go.

“Breathe.” His lips at your ear promised salvation, a gentleness in contrast to what he was doing to your pussy. “Move with me.”

His large hand wrapped all the way around your ample hip, thumb and digits digging into the supple flesh. Where his sedative voice once mollified you, it now only raised your heckles. You were too far gone to the mental imagery of what he said to you on the altar.

How many have died screaming at the end of my dick?

“I can’t! It won’t…”

“It will.”

He growled the words out. Tired of listening to your complaints, he tipped your face to his and crushed you with a kiss. The strangled sound at the back of your throat only had him licking further into the moist cavern, as though he could catch it with his tongue tip.

Distracted by his cloying taste, your body obeyed this time. Your thighs hugged his sides. Your hips undulated to accept his slow prodding deeper and deeper at each pass. Your fingers no longer gouged at his pecs, but splayed wide across them. Soon, you gasped and curved like a bow, unable to be still and ready to be shot like an arrow.

Wide eyed, you panted and clung to him, vibrating and filled to the brim with his cock.

It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. You felt uncomfortably swollen and horribly hollow at the same time. Your pussy stretched to its tearing point. The sting was brutal but consuming in its torment. You wanted to beg him to never do this again and to never stop.

Your every cell was electric, buzzing under your skin and ensuring you felt every wicked inch, every carnal twitch of his dick.

“Good girl.”

His dulcet tone danced across your lips, chased by a lick to the roof of your gaping mouth. You needed him to say it again, unnerved by how much those two words on his lips lit you up. You stared up into those mesmerizing eyes, trying to decide if he was pleased with you yourself or that you could fulfill your purpose.

But then, he started moving, and why he said what didn’t matter anymore.

It couldn’t have been more than a bit, but he pulled out, and the drag of it burned like nettles in your belly. When he pushed back in, you moaned softly, lifting your torso up into him to be even closer. Again, he tested the waters. His forward drive was harder, hips snapping. You bit your lip for composure, turning your mouth into his pulse, mirroring his gesture.

You didn’t realize that you held his hips until they worked in more of a rhythm; and by that time, you twisted below him, feverish and trying to match his building tempo. Strong, chiseled arms wrapped around you, one beneath your back to curve you upwards and one tucked under your head to keep your face turned into the crook of his neck.

It was all you could do to keep up. He inundated you with his body, his smell, the taste of his sweat until you barely skirted reality. His steady pace, the captivating slide of his cock, spread a blissful thrum through you, sending your blood rushing, liquefying everything inside until the most debasing noises came from your pussy. He groaned at the squelch, the first sound he’d made in a while.

“I—I’m sorry.” You whispered, lips quivering, eyes shining. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You weren’t uneducated in this matter, but your knowledge only held up to a point.  A point you were now well beyond with this decadent deity lodged inside your inexperienced body. The possibility that your infantile humanity would again let him down tore at your resolve; and quickly, anguished tears fell along the sides of your face.

His response was to fuck you harder, abandoning his care of your head to hoist your leg higher around his ribs so every lustful squish was clearer, louder. You squealed at each push, feeling fuller and fuller the faster he went. Your body opened, slickening and accepting him to your limit, but your brain decided it was punishment, that he was working harder to get over his discontent.

“S-sorry. I can do better.”

“Shut up, you stupid girl.”

His words were clipped. He covered the entire lower half of your face with his massive hand. You whined into his palm, gutted that you’d gone from good to stupid so quickly yet again. One glorious thrust sent your eyes rolling back into your head, and you gripped his sides, dangling precariously at the edge of oblivion where what kind of girl you were no longer mattered.

“You want to do better? Hm?” He waited for your nod before carrying on. “Stop apologizing for the sounds your hungry cunt makes for me.”

The way he said the word set your insides to coiling. Tighter and tighter and tighter you wound. Captured by his gaze, you couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop trying to memorize the way he studied you. His face blushed an almost human shade of pink. His lips quivered as though he were about to say something, to praise or condemn in equal measure. But it was his endless, enthralling eyes that sliced you to the quick. He could certainly see every doubt, every criticism, every fear you’d ever had or made.

Laid wholly bare, you were profoundly grateful for his hand, for the hiding spot it afforded. The Ren was unraveling you in more ways than one; and though you couldn’t hide your teary eyes, you could hide the quake of your mouth and the feelings it telegraphed.

“Time to let go, lamb.” He nuzzled your wounded neck, tickling your skin with his words. “Prim and proper won't serve you here. Give in to me."

You writhed, overwrought with this emotion-laden eroticism until, finally, your chest stopped working altogether. Your brow drew tight, and you could no longer look directly at him.  Let go, he said. But control was the only thing that kept you alive in loneliness.

You arched painfully, the line of your spine twinging and sparking. Your silence broke, and you cried into his hand while your hips worked to lengthen the release, to draw it out as long as you could. It wasn’t like before, when he scrambled your brains with an orgasm that neared insanity. This was something that hooked into your soul and clawed it apart. In deferring to his will, the floodgates opened, washing you away in the torrent.

It seemed to be what he was waiting for because the moment your hips loosened with release, he struck harder, faster. He moaned at the sound of you begging beneath his hand, even if you didn’t know what or who you were begging for. He pressed you down into the bed and wracked you with a fierce assault, bruising your face, forcing your sex wide open.

You flew too high to care.

He rode the crest of your endorphins, taking advantage of your dizziness to fuck you through the pain and anguish. He bade you listen to the lascivious language your pussy spoke for him and only him. He called you a good, filthy, dumb girl, and your heart panged at each syllable, somehow turning even the cruel ones to compliments in your euphoria.

Chasing a curse, he growled into your hair, plunged in deep, and flooded your wrecked cunt with his damned seed. 

Slogging back into your right mind, your fingers slid up his chest to push feebly as you were suffocated by his sheer size. The demanding hand that clamped over your face slid to cup your overheated cheek, thumb rubbing at your swollen mouth as you gasped for air. He brushed sweaty tresses from your face, traced the circumference of one bloodshot eye, and kissed the hollow of your throat, lingering over it for a long while.

Blinking to clear away the convulsions, you realized he was making sure your heartbeat didn’t slow further or stop altogether. As if to punctuate your conclusion, he gently stroked the pulse point of one wrist.

You wanted to move, to curl up into a ball and forget how to feel; but until he was ready, you would go nowhere. Closing your eyes, your thoughts drifted. Through memory and dreams, scripture and poetry. Half-murmured verses rolled across your tongue as sleep took hold.

It was his brother, Ren, who counseled the Light Bringer to give of himself to create life. “Let them know you that they may live. Let them know me that they may die.” And thereafter, Solo created life. He flourished, fulfilling Grandfather Sky Walker’s wish and populating the farthest reaches of his galaxy with life. And Ren culled it, maintaining harmony. Keeping the Balance.

You didn’t see that he stayed long after you fell asleep, listening to the cadence of your breathing, testing your pulse, laying his hand across your sternum to feel your heartbeat.

As though you were now worthwhile and not just a stupid girl.

Title: Black Dog - part one (prologue) Word count: ±1050 words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part one summary: A hike up Whitehorse Mountain isn’t the toughest challenge the Cleveland family has ever faced, until the snow is tainted by blood. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: A brand new episode of Supernatural: The Sullivan Series starts here! Beta’d by @winchest09​ & @deanwanddamons​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

          Whitehorse Mountain, Washington      November 21st, 2005 - One week ago

     ”C’mon, David!”      Three hikers find their way through the forest on the slopes of Whitehorse Mountain, deep in the wilderness of the Cascade Range. Evergreens rise up high above them, reaching for the clouds. A girl, probably about sixteen years old, walks up front, closely followed by her father. A bit further behind, her older brother halts as he looks over his shoulder. Behind him, in the valley where there is no snow, Darrington lies, protected by the mountains surrounding the small town. The shadows of the ridges they are climbing lay out a blanket of darkness. Across from the valley, the top of North Mountain is covered in white. It’s an amazing sight.

     “Hey, Slo-mo! Hurry it up! We wanna get over the Lone Tree Pass before dark,” his young and enthusiastic sister calls out.      “How much sugar did you have, Ruth?” her brother teases, after which he follows.      “We’ll set up camp below the ridge and continue east first thing in the morning. In about a half a mile, the real fun is gonna start,” their Dad informs, looking at a detailed map while walking.      “I can’t wait to see the view from the summit!” Ruth cheers, eager to reach their goal.

     Jim observes his daughter and smiles. The three of them share a passion for hiking and they go out to tame mountains whenever his work allows it. It became an outlet, especially after his wife passed away two years ago. It was a shock to all of them, but they got through it, as a family. It’s during moments like these that he realizes how lucky he is, still being able to spend time with his daughter and son.      “Slo-mo!” Ruth mocks, glancing at her brother over her shoulder.      “Would you stop calling me that?” David laughs.      “It’s the truth. But I’ll tell you what. I won’t call you names anymore if you make it to camp first,” she dares him.      Ruth turns around and walks further backwards, challenging David. He grins and starts running up the mountain. “You’re on!”

     He passes his father, who shakes his head with a grin on his face. Siblings; it doesn’t matter what age those two are, they will always compete with each other.      “Don’t go too far,” he warns like any parent would.      “You’ll never catch me!” Ruth shouts at her brother.      “Watch me!” David returns.

     He bolts after her, struggling to get through the thick layer of snow. He can hear his little sister laugh in the distance. Sometimes she appears between the tall trees in the black and white surreal world, and then he loses sight of her again. He catches up on her, but just as he’s about to pass his sister, they reach the rocky pass of Lone Tree. Unstoppable, Ruth starts her climb as she slams her axe in the solid ground, conquering the steep trail without a safety line. Trained and skilled, she overcomes the pass, tailed by her brother. 

     “Slo-mo!” she calls him, heaving her fist into the air victoriously.      “Yeah, yeah. You win.” David shakes his head as he drops his backpack down in the snow.

      Out of breath, David takes a moment to enjoy the view. Ruth, who has been running all this time and was too busy beating her brother, looks aside and witnesses the most beautiful scenery she has ever seen. Mountains as far as the eye can reach, down below an untouched valley. The rocks, the snow, the animals, the evergreens, it all comes together in a perfect balance, a beautiful mixture of the world’s wonders. In the east, The Four Fingers rise up from its foundation, as the setting sun shimmers an warm glow on the snowy slopes on the west side. The siblings can only stare in awe at the pure beauty of the earth.

     “Wow…” Ruth says, breathless.      “You can say that again,” David admits.       Ruth sits down in the cold snow and breathes in the fresh air, surrounded by small clouds created by her warm breath. Gosh, would she love her Mom to see this. She looks up at the pass, but there’s no sign of her Dad whatsoever.

     “Hey, Dad. You alright on that side?!” she shouts loudly, after which her voice echoes on, carried by open air.      “He’s getting old,” David jokes.      Ruth giggles, but then a strange, unusual roar reverberates through the mountaintops. A howl, but nothing like they’ve ever heard before.      “Is that a grey wolf?” Ruth wonders, surprised.      “I don’t know. I’ve heard grey wolves before, but this animal sounds different,” David ponders, as he stares down the ridge.

     Then they hear it again, much closer this time, or is it just the echo through the mountains that creates that illusion? A bad feeling starts to evolve in David’s stomach as his sister staggers, frightened by the eerie calls. Something’s off.      “You stay here, I’m gonna check on Dad, okay?” the oldest of the two says.      He looks over at Ruth before he grabs his axe and climbs to the other side of the pass. The Lone Tree is easily overcome and he descents down the mountain.      “Dad?!” he shouts.

     But the forest stays remarkably quiet. Too quiet. It’s just now that David realizes that he doesn’t hear the birds, nor other mammals that live in these woods. The trees don’t even whisper, the mountain seems dead. Carefully, David shuffles through the snow, which is perfectly white, until he stumbles on an odd color in this grey toned landscape. 

     Red. 

     Slowly, David’s gaze looks further ahead, afraid of what is about to come into view. This could well be an animal prey, a deer maybe. But he knows it isn’t, and when his gaze reaches the end of the bloody trail, his biggest fear is confirmed to have become reality. Under a tree lays his father, torn to pieces. In horror, David stumbles back, frightened, until he falls into the heavy snow. Then he hears the howl again, followed by a gut wrenching scream, coming from over the pass; it’s his sister. Large eyes full of terror stare up the pass while he realizes what he’s hearing, is the sound of flesh tearing and bones breaking. Even though he knows it’s useless, a chilling cry escapes his throat.      “RUTH!!!”

There you have it, the first chapter of the new episode “Black Dog”. I hope I got your attention! Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter two here

More Top 20 Must-See Horror Movies

 Especially now we are in isolation, who doesn’t crave a good horror movie to watch? To that purpose, I have created yet another top 20 must-see horror movies, along with why you should be watching them. So get into your comfy clothes and blanket, grab some popcorn, and settle in to watch these horror gems (WARNING: May contain spoilers).

1) Ginger Snaps (2000)

I first saw this movie when I was fifteen years old, and, watching it recently, I was still impressed how it handles the perils of transitioning from teenhood to womanhood. Ginger Snaps follows the story of two outcast sisters, Ginger (Katharine Isabelle) and Brigitte (Emily Perkins), in the mindless suburban town of Bailey Downs. On the night of Ginger's first period, she is savagely attacked by a wild creature. Ginger Snaps is a terrifying movie with good character development, acting is convincing and it has a fast-paced story line. If you're into well-done horror movies Ginger Snaps is the movie for you. It is one of the best modern werewolf movies I have seen.

2) Annihilation (2018)

Drawing on mythology and body horror, Annihilation is an intelligent film that asks big questions and refuses to provide easy answers. It is Sci-fi horror at its best, boasting a very intriguing and unique idea whilst entertaining the viewer throughout the film. Definitely a must-watch.

3) Green Room (2015)

A punk rock band becomes trapped in a secluded venue after finding a scene of violence. For what they saw, the band themselves become targets of violence from a gang of white power skinheads who want to eliminate all evidence of the crime. Influenced by exploitation movies of the 1970s (and punk music of the 1980s), this horror-thriller is rooted in a gripping, grisly kind of realism without resorting to lazy coincidence or stupidity. This is again a fresh take on horror and worth a view.

4) 1922 (2017)

I learned from a great film critic many years back that your own best judgement of a movie is best discovered when you realise that you are still thinking of it many days later. This Stephen King film stays true to the iconic master with all the tell-tale signs of a Kings classic: A haunting grimness that lingers throughout the movie, a tragedy and of course, outstanding performances. The mother that returns from the dead leaves you in a crazy suspense of whether it is simply a dream, a man’s demented insanity, or an actual reality. Thomas Jane’s performance was stellar and totally believable as a farmer in rural America in 1922. He actually takes you through the movie as if you were part of him and what is going on. The message that Stephen King leaves you with is dreadfully powerful of how greed can destroy all. Definitely worth the watch, especially for Stephen King fans.

5) Evil Dead (1981; remake 2013)

Both versions of this movie are great, but I have a special fondness for the original, which was Sam Raimi’s directorial debut. The camerawork is amazing for a low-budget film, and the creepy atmosphere is eerily accurate. We feel Ash’s pain when his friend, sister and girlfriend are one-by-one changed into Deadites, and the ending keeps you guessing, and wanting, a sequel. I am quite a fan of the Evil Dead franchise actually, and have just finished watching the TV adaptation Ash vs. Evil Dead. I’m savouring the last episodes, and am sad that it got cancelled. I look forward to more from this franchise, hopefully in the not-to-distant future.

6) Get Out (2017)

This film is unique, telling the tale of young black man who meets his white girlfriend’s parents for the first time. Jordan Peele’s film delivers a chilling satire of liberal racism in the US. More than just a standard-issue thriller, this brutal, smart movie is impeccably made, as well as surprising, shocking, and funny, while also offering a compassionate, thoughtful look at race. Expect only the very best a film has to offer, with a nasty twist at the end that you won’t see coming. 

7) Hell Night (1981)

One of the best things about this movie which follows fraternity and sorority pledges who spend the night in a mansion haunted by victims of a family massacre is that it stars legendary Scream Queen of The Exorcist fame, Linda Blair. Other than that, prepare for a fun, wild ride, the way every good slasher movie should be.

8) Insidious Part 2 (2013)

I actually enjoyed this sequel more than the first movie, as it was less plodding and more action-packed, with an intriguing antagonist in the form of the mysterious “Bride in Black,” who turns out to be the evil spirit of serial killer Parker Crane, who, as we know from the previous movie (SPOILER ALERT) has taken over the body of Josh Lambert, and is fighting for control of his soul. I enjoyed seeing the return of Elise Rainier, who was (SPOILER ALERT AGAIN) killed off in the previous movie. James Wan directed this second helping even more masterfully than the first. A must-watch.

9) Sleepaway Camp (1983)

This is a campy slasher gem, where they cast real teenagers, which elevated the drama of the plot somewhat. Sleepaway Camp tells the story of a young girl named Angela who goes to Camp Arawak with her cousin Ricky. Once the two arrive at camp, a series of events/killings leads the campers to discover that there is a killer on the loose. Sleepaway Camp is not in any way intense or fast paced. However, even though many initially might look at as a “rip off” slasher film, the movie does get creative when it comes to the brutal killings and certain aspects to the film that no one saw coming. Including the jaw-dropping twist at the end. I’m not giving it away. You just have to watch it.

10) Cold Prey (Fritt Vilt) (2006)

This movie takes full advantage of its snowy, secluded set-pieces, using Norway’s harsh winter landscape to masterfully build tension and heighten the sense of isolation. As horror movies go, Cold Prey is a slow-starter, committing the first third of its running time to investigating the signs of violence scattered throughout the hotel, allowing the characters to theorise about what pernicious acts may have taken place before the hotel’s abandonment. It begins at the intriguing yet deliberate pace of a psychological horror film as the sequestered friends, initially inebriated and giggly, explore the hotel and sharing secrets, but the movie’s party-hard atmosphere bursts open at the 40-minute mark to reveal a black horror centre. Slick and stylish, Cold Prey is a genuine pleasure to watch.

11) The Hills Have Eyes (1977; remake 2006)

Even if it echoes a better film (namely, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre), the original movie is still an important one to view for lovers of the horror genre.  This is a sometimes ghastly  - and occasionally absurd - shocker that really gets under one's skin. Though many critics initially despised the original outing, it has since been called one of the best horror movies of the 1970s. Scary-movie specialist Wes Craven made this viscerally-violent feature on a low budget, and some horror connoisseurs call it his best. Ultimately the "normal" people strike back with a ferocious blood-lust they didn't know they had, and the question is how much a "civilised" person can be pushed before one becomes a savage. Are the Carters really all that much "better" than Jupiter and his spawn? That is a question that you, as the audience member, are required to ponder.

12) The Dawn of the Dead (2004)

This remake of George A. Romero's 1978 sequel to Night of the Living Dead soups up the zombies, cranks up the gross factor to 11, and has a lot of cheeky in-jokes about its predecessor. In comparison with the original, out are the shrieking blondes and rampaging looters, in are smart, controlled Ana (Sarah Polley as a believable nurse not afraid to wield a fire poker) and Kenneth (Ving Rhames), who is exactly the kind of cop you want walking beside you if you are facing scores of the undead.

The zombies are a bit spryer in this film, and the pregnancy of one of the main characters is not the life-giving promise it was in the first movie. But the ending is what differs most from the original. If you're a fan of the horror genre, then this flick is a welcome, if derivative, fright-fest in the school of Romero's classics.

13) The Cabin in The Woods (2011)

What starts out as another five-band teen getaway to a cabin in the woods ends up becoming a fresh take on the trope, with puppeteers behind what is taking place, in a twisted game of Choose Your Adventure. The ending is fittingly grim, but you won’t be disappointed. Definitely worth one hour and thirty-five minutes of your time.

14) The Babadook (2014)

The feature debut of writer-director Jennifer Kent is not just genuinely, deeply scary, but also a beautifully told tale of a mother and son, enriched with layers of contradiction and ambiguity. It presents grief as a demon, questions reality, and creeps out the viewer by making psychopathology seem like something that could happen to anybody. The style of the film is not teasing exactly - it's too sad and lonely - but there is certainly a hair-pulling mixture of glum laughter and vast apprehension. Is the demon real? Does it matter? That’s for you to judge. Either way, if it’s in a word, or if it’s with a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook.

15) Suspiria (Original and the Remake - 1977 and 2019 respectively)

Suspiria is a baroque piece of esoteric expressionism that you enter - and exit - without understanding so much as feeling. It's always fascinating to watch; the thrills and spills are so classy and fast that the movie becomes in effect what horror movies seemed like when you were too young to get in to see them. Director Dario Agento works so hard for his effects -- throwing around shock cuts, coloured lights, and peculiar camera angles -that it would be impolite not to be a little frightened. This entry stands out as it is a visually beautiful horror movie, a bright fantasy that lives off its aesthetic. If you are a horror fan and haven’t seen this movie yet, then you’re not living right. The remake is also worth a watch, something that is oftentimes unique in the horror genre.

16) A Quiet Place (2018)

This gripping, clever monster movie is one of those rare genre treats that seizes on a simple, unique idea and executes it so perfectly and concisely that it elicits satisfying squeals of delight. It's directed and co-written by Krasinski, who's best known for his work in comedy but translates his experience in that genre to the expert building and releasing of tension here. A Quiet Place is, in many ways, like an extended classic horror movie sequence, such as famous ones in The Birds or Aliens, wherein the heroes must try not to disturb packs of resting monsters.

At the same time, Krasinski uses his quiet moments like music, ranging from moments of restful beauty -- including a father-son trip to a waterfall, where it's noisy enough that they can talk and even shout -- to moments of pause. A loud noise can cause a jump, but it's immediately followed by tension and dread: Will the creatures come this time? The real beauty is the movie's primal quality, based on the most basic elements of life, such as survival and protection of the species. No explanation is given for the monsters' existence; they, like us, are just here. Images of water, sand, bare feet, crops, and plant life serve to underline the theme of life itself. A few overly familiar horror movie clichés keep it from being perfect, but otherwise A Quiet Place is so good that it will leave viewers speechless.

17) The Exorcist (1973)

Once famously dubbed ‘the most terrifying movie ever made,” this movie is steeped in urban legend, especially concerning the unfortunate happenings that occurred when it was being made. 

If you think your teen is ready for this shocking film, keep in mind that some audience members in the '70s reportedly fainted after seeing Dick Smith's grisly makeup effects on Blair. In some extreme cases, viewers even required psychiatric care. Also, the moans, snarls, and profane utterances from Regan (most are actually the dubbed-in voice of a well-known older actress, Mercedes McCambridge) amount to some of the most chilling audio ever done for film.

Thanks in part to Linda Blair's wrenching, Oscar-nominated performance, The Exorcist was a huge hit, earning back 10 times its $10 million budget (a then-lavish sum, outrageous for a "mere" horror flick). Movie historians cite it (along with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre) as the conclusive end of old-school spook shows featuring Dracula and Frankenstein and bobbing rubber bats. If you haven’t watched it yet, you may have your horror movie fan card revoked.

18) The Final Destination Franchise (2000 - 2011)

If I had to list all of the movies in the Final Destination franchise in order of quality, I would say 5, 1, 2, 3, and 4. Fourth instalment withstanding, the series is a formidable addition to the horror genre, as the invisible killer, Death Itself, stalks its victims and kills them off in creatively gruesome ways after they initially cheat death. The fifth addition contains an awesome twist at the end which in hindsight you should have seen coming throughout the entire movie. Pay close attention. The only downside is (SPOILER ALERT) that none of the characters throughout the series really survive.

19) Let the Right One In (Lat den Ratte Komma In) (2008)

Please watch the Swedish version, and power through the subtitles. This is a horror movie that is tragic on multiple levels, as it deals with a lonely and bullied boy who so happens to live next door to a pubescent vampire. When her benefactor dies, we see how the main character’s life will also unfold, and what lies in his future. A must-see film that is more than just your average horror movie.

20) Terrifier (2017)

This movie definitely gets back to basics by paying homage to the original slasher classics. Art the Clown, who we are originally introduced to in the 2013 movie All Hallow’s Eve (also worth a watch), is a vicious horror movie villain who kills just for kicks. He also subverts the horror movie trope by using a weapon which was previously considered off-limits to horror movie villains, especially those with supernatural abilites (mostly, anyway). This movie also contains one of the bloodiest deaths in recent horror movie history. I like the use of practical effects over the often-overdone CGI. What is Art the Clown? Deranged killer? Demonic entity? Who cares? Its all good fun. Watch it now on Netflix.

I’ll probably be back again some time in the future with a further 20 horror movies that are worth a watch, because there are so many of them. To everyone, take care during these uncertain times.

Tell No One - Exert

Bird song had ceased. The sounds of the forest had halted, holding its breath, as the frightening figure moved along. SkekMal was tracking. It had been a while since he'd sensed intelligent prey. A broken twig, a bent leaf. Little signs. A very fresh and very obvious trail - someone wasn't careful. He spotted something in the muddy trail ahead. An imprint in the ground. The roughened finger dragged along the dirt. Feeling out the groove of the footprint.

SkekMal sniffed the air.

Could it be?

Bloodshot eyes narrowing, he ran his tongue along his jagged, poisoned teeth in thought. Could it be possible? The footprint was undeniable. And such things could not be faked easily. A skeksis. A nimble one, by the looks. But how was it possible? Small.

The hunter straightened up. The old bones in his back popped as he shifted.

It had been many a year, since his blood had ran like this. What a thrill! A mystery, even. How fun!

Not long from the Gelfling village. What were those little morsels up to, he wondered? SkekMal moved back towards the wreckage of the Chamberlain’s vehicle, dragging his claws along the bronze metal. Their flesh he craved more than their thoughts or words ...

Come, come, little waif, wherever you are.

SkekMal sniffed, startling a few wispy birds into flight. Their fluttering echoed through the tree thinks of the clearing.

He stalked on.

…

SkekSept could quite recall how he’d gotten out here. That’s the problem with being lost in thought – you tend to blur your motions and nuances, don’t pay attention. He’d wandered into the forest, away from the lights and the sounds of the Gelfling village – he felt undeserving, though certain not unwelcome. The villagers had been very accommodating, even kind, yet he kept aloof.

And without his guide hovering, he’d decided to meander into the blue-moon light of the glade, to watch the large trees – larger than he’d even seen them – grow dark as night set in.

Winged creatures that spun and twirled like discs drifted by him. Their dark eyes glinted at him in the patchy light peeking through the overhanging trees, tall as towers.

He paused and breathed in the cold air.

Without even thinking, he let the robes slide off his shoulders, pulled the last few pins from his hair, and stepped out of the confines of his clothes. In a mere gown of silver silk, he let his secondary arms outstretch.

SkekSept knelt by a stream, content at being able to stoop without worrying about popping a seam and watched his reflection.

Something sounded behind him. He felt breath on his skin.

It began breathy, then rose, morphing into … a laugh. Throaty and deep, and totally new.

He whirled around; arms slightly risen like a bird startled into flight. At first, all he saw was a shape, black and big and four-armed, merged with the dark. But he knew those tendrils, poking from the many furs, the many skulls, the sheer reek of rotting flesh and decayed bone ... And those three-toed feet. An entirely unfamiliar elder was standing some meters away. SkekSept hadn’t even heard him approach – not so much as a rustle.

He was tall, and unlike all the others, not overly adorned – though the garments he had were rich, his head ornamented, and his arms … all four, mind you, clutching large, ravenous looking blades.

A keen and cunning grin was splitting that vicious maw, and SkekSept stepped back, breath hitching in unease and unholy terror. Broken skeksis tongue, not Gelfling, rough and tilting.

“Closer.” The stranger hissed, “What a surprise. What … a pleasure! Finally, something new to stalk in the dark.”

SkekSept’s frown furrowed, “Who are you?” He retorted, trying not to let his voice crack, trying not to show the extent of his terror. The elder cocked his head, so only one eye gleamed at him, knowing and oh-so piercing.

Unconsciously the younger reached to clasp at his elbow in unease … and his fingers trailed down his arm-guard.

The very one that was also clasped around the stranger’s forearm: polished, newer, and more fitting.

Clarity is a harsh quest in the mind. SkekSept’s skull felt like it had rattled, as he stared at his own armguard, which he’d come to expect seeing on his arm as if it were his flesh, on this stranger’s limb. SkekEkt had told him it originally belonged to someone else - before the Collector won it in a game. One of the rogues, apart, a maniac.

“… SkekMal.” He breathed.

“So, you know me, do you?”

A step. SkekSept pivoted his body, his hands clamped over his other arm to hide the armguard’s design from him, as it seemed the shadows had hidden it from him. The younger stepped back, keeping the distance between them spacious. He was shaking. skekMal was a giant. "Closer, little one. Let me see you. Skeksis are we both. We are brothers, you and I."

That wouldn’t last.

Tension was building.

SkekMal contemplated him as he drew near, arms outstretching to flex those hefty bone blades, though he seemed perfectly calm. Poised. “And yet I do not know you. But your face is … familiar. Which ones. Where you came from … how did they hide you?”

The racing monologue in SkekSept’s mind halted, and his eyes danced left and right as he realised – ah, SkekMal knew nothing of time travel. Nothing of other Urskeks appearing, for they would have witnessed it happening… so what other explanation…?

Oh. Oh dear. SkekSept wondered if he should correct him. This could lead to –

CRACK.

One of the swords sliced through a sapling. The youth jumped back, and the two began to circle each other. The space between them shrinking, SkekSept knew he had to act.

But let SkekMal think he held the power.

Hunter. He’d know how to track SkekSept. There had to be another route here.

The hunter moved. Fast. SkekSept’s gasp stopped in his windpipe, and he barely ducked in time avoid being bludgeoned by the butt of the blade – seems the hunter had opted not to kill him.

The younger had dropped down low to avoid it, and he bolted left, and this time the blade swiped at him. Catching his shoulder, splitting the flesh –

He cried out, but that too was cut off. SkekMal had turned, striking him in the torso with his tail and knocking him clean off his feet. The forest was not on his side – a fallen trunk made sure he toppled entirely onto his back, foot caught in brambles.

Two of the four blades sliced into the ground on either side of his head.

SkekSept’s eyes widened.

SkekMal loomed over him, forehead-to-forehead as he gulped down air, “I expect more from someone so nimble. Do not disappoint!”

He hoisted his third blade.

In a flash the younger skeksis twisted and bolted between his legs on all fours. He snarled, loud and furious, and SkekSept tugged several times at the brambles on his ankle before deciding to damn it all, and he tore them out root and stem with his beak, back bending to its limit to reach.

He sprung up and snatched up a large, mossy rock as SkekMal came at him again, and parried the blade coming.

Sparks flew from the impact of metal and rock.

It sent a painful jar down his arm.

It sent him to his knees, and skekMal cackled.

He dipped down again, breaking the parry, and dove under his arms. He leaped over the stream, water droplets flying into the air, and up a slope he went.

One of the swords hit the mound beside him; it seemed like a deliberate move. SkekMal was not trying to kill him. If so, SkekSept was confident that he’d have been skinned alive by now.

Hopping across some grimy stones, SkekSept cast a look over his shoulder to find he … had not given chase. Worry sprouted in his chest as he came to pause after perhaps five minutes of sprinting.

After a few moments of catching his breathe, the ambience noise of the forest returned. Chirping, quiet croaks. Fluttering.

Nearby, one of the spinning, twig-like creatures floated by. SkekSept watched it, his mind unusually blank –

The blade flew at it, and halved the poor creature before he could draw his next breathe.

SkekSept through up his hands as The Hunter soared at him from the shadows, swords crossing over each-other. His back hit the trunk behind him, the sharp edges on either side of his face. His breath reeked of blood. The younger's chest rose and felt rapidly with horror.

Small animals scattered. Pinned against the bark, SkekSept forced his face into a scowl. His unkempt hair framed his face.

SkekMal was chuckling. It was a rasp.

“Not subtle."

“Arrogant spithead!"

“Such a tongue. Mind I do not cut it out.”

They fell into silence then, SkekSept trying to hold the stare, trying to be defiant. There was something different here. "... you do not seem angry."

“Oh no. I’ve loaned from a proper chase. A little surprise.” SkekMal drawled. Ah. Of course.

SkekSept’s eyes lidded.

During their brief exchange, SkekSept’s lower left arm had ran down the bark, to feel at the mud-soaked roots entangled around it – orange and soaked with mildew.

He ripped it off and rammed it with all his might into SkekMal’s eyes – inside that bone mask - the unholy holler that came after was unlike anything he’d ever heard.

Seizing one of the swords from his back, SkekSept jammed it into his furry cloak – pinning the elder to the spot before he sprinted away for the second time. That fabric looked tough, lined with fur – it wouldn’t rip easy, nor would he be rid of the orange ooze quickly enough.

That didn’t stop SkekSept from running as fast as possible.

…

SkekMal recognised that those eyes, but from whom? He wondered.

Something to ponder.

A trail to follow.

In continuation of my improvised story/ first attempt at something horror-paranormally, here is chapter 2 to whisper. If you haven't read the first chapter, you can read it here now!

Stay spooky beloved friends!

Love and Peace,

Ambrose

Chapter 2: Daylight

I woke up with my face nearly glued to the wooden table in the dining room. I apparently had a fair amount of liquid in my body at one time, being that my face was surrounded by a pool of drool and sweat. My mouth was terribly dry, making my tongue feel like a cat's, as I licked my lips with no apparent gratification.

The soft gray light of a rainy fall morning drifted through the half-open burgundy curtains that the previous owner had left on the main floor. They were much nicer than anything I would have bought. I would have been happy with some sheets to be honest. But they did give the large house a touch of grandeur. It was fitting, being that the house was so old and well maintained. A museum of sorts. Walking through the front door was like walking into a different time.

The soft tapping of pouring rain echoed throughout the house. I always found the sound to be soothing. It was a sound I had missed in my apartment in the city. It reminded me of rainy days when I was a kid. The kind of days where one is at peace just laying in bed thinking, as the cool water pours down around the world outside.

I looked at the laptop that was resting untouched in front of me. The screen was still up at attention, but black from not being used.

I must have dreamed everything. The shadow. The whisper.

I chuckled to myself as I stood up from my seat to go make coffee in the kitchen. My knees ached quietly. They probably just hurt from being bent all night long. At least, that is what I told myself. It's always far easier to write off the truly unexplained. We are always happy remaining ignorant.

I slowly trudged into the kitchen. My crocs quietly squeaked on the tile floors. They were horribly ugly things to have on your feet, but goddam...they were comfortable. Besides, I was a writer. I had nobody to impress.

I grabbed the tarnished silver teapot that sat on the stove and filled it with cold water from the tap. The teapot, just like the drapery in the house, had been left by the previous owner. In fact, there were a lot of remnants left behind. A large grandfather clock that rang out in the most frightening of ways. An old, apparently never touched couch in the front room. A baby grand piano in the foyer with worn keys. I felt like I was living in someone else's house, being that I had barely unpacked any of my own belongings. I kind of liked it, to be honest. It was like I had stepped into the story where another left off. Or died off...I had no idea. Who really cares?

I placed the teapot on the stove and lit the burner. Bright blue flames licked the bottom of the silver, slowly tickling the water held within. I fumbled through the cabinets looking for the coffee and french press. I had still not really organized the cabinets, so I would always find things in different places each day. At last I found my treasures next to a half-eaten box of frosted flakes. The box itself wasn't eaten, however the cereal inside was. Next to the box was a gallon of milk that I must have put in there by mistake. What can I say...I enjoy frosted flakes after indulging in some fabulous things. The kind of things that open your mind up to be able to do things like write. For all you know, I'm eating frosted flakes right now as I type these words. You don't fucking know. I mean, I'm not. But I could be.

I unscrewed the cap to the milk and took a faint whiff to see if it had gone sour. It was fairly decent. Could have been worst. I took a nearly-clean bowl out of the sink, poured some of the thickening milk into into it, and sprinkled some of the flaked cereal into it. I thought about finding a spoon, but who needs a spoon when you really don't give a shit. I would slurp it like the animal I was.

The teapot began to whistle its horrible song as steam spewed out of the spout like a stoner exhaling at a Phish concert. I scooped some coffee grounds out of the bag with my hand and poured their fragrant particles into the french press. I used to use a coffee pot like a normal person, but once I found the french press I never looked back. Very honestly, it's a completely different coffee experience. Like the difference between having sex when you are a teenager versus sex when you have an understanding of what the clitoris is. Or prostate. Whatever tickles your fancy, really. Like mind-blowingly different. I'm not sure "blowingly" is an actual word, but I guess it is now. Never mind...it is...I just googled it. Feel free to use it.

The smell of coffee began to fill the kitchen immediately after I poured the steaming water into the glass beaker. The smell brightened the gloom of the gray filtering in through the windows from the outside. I was beginning to feel better. The nightmare was slowly slipping away from my thoughts.

<<<:>>>

I half-hazardly carried the bowl of soggy cereal and the mug of piping hot black coffee into the dining room. Splashes of both semi-cold milk and scalding liquid both found their way onto the flesh of my hands. On one hand, it hurt. On the other, it didn't. Pain and indifference, really. The joys of life.

I sat down at the table and coaxed my laptop to wake up with a gentle touch to its mouse pad. I nearly spit out the mouthful of cereal I had just poured into my mouth from the bowl when I read what was typed in bold capitals on the shit story I was working on. There, in the middle of the screen of the electronic page were two words.

KEEP WRITING

"Fuck man..." I quietly said out loud to myself. Even though I convinced myself I must have just written that as a message to myself in my sleepy/high state the night prior, it still gave me chills. I thought back to the dream. The sharp whisper I had heard. There it was again; that unsettled feeling in the bottom of my stomach. But that too could be explained away by the half-spoiled milk I was consuming.

I had to get out of that house for a little while. I felt like I had given myself cabin fever.

<<<:>>>

I found my old black boots by the front door and rummaged through a box to find my long black rain coat that was still packed away. I opened the large oak door that squealed when moved and was smacked in the face with a brisk wind. Deciding that I needed to re-think my outfit (which included dirty sweatpants, a faded Tenacious D t-shirt, the boots, and the coat), I made my way up the wooden staircase to find an outfit better suited for the elements. I had also worn the same sweats and t-shirt for over a week... if not, longer. Thinking about it, I had not really left the house for probably two weeks. That is just sort of my brand of a writing lifestyle I guess. Disgusting? Absolutely. But it bought the house and the things I needed just the same.

I pulled a tattered black sweater over my head and over the Tenacious D t-shirt. The fabric of the sweater was stretched in odd places, but it was comfortable and warm. I pulled off the stinking black sweat pants as well as the crispy boxers. I thought for a moment about showering and then decided against it. What good was deodorant if it couldn't cover up the smell of filth? Besides, the cigarette I planned to smoke when I got out on the porch would provide a strong enough fragrant blanket to cover up the sweaty ass smell. And if it didn't...so be it.

After completing my outfit with a fresh pair of boxers, stained jeans, thick wool socks, long striped gray scarf, and an olive-green knit hat, I was ready to be off on my way to do whatever I was going to do. I didn't really have a plan. Maybe a walk to the tiny downtown. Anything that would get me out of the house. I couldn't bring myself to really care.

As I turned to leave the enormous bedroom my eyesight caught something on the wall just above the headboard. There, on the white wall it looked like a symbol was leaking through the paint. You know how when your paint a lighter color over a darker color and sometimes it kind of comes through? It's always faint, yet always noticeable.

It was hard to see, but it definitely wasn't my imagination. A red symbol shaped like an eye was coming out of the white. Just enough to be seen by me at that moment despite the depressing light filtering in through the wall of windows.

I felt myself want to approach the wall to examine the symbol more, but found myself caught by a momentary feeling of fear and hesitation again. I couldn't stand there any longer and ponder its meaning. I had to fucking get out that house just for a little bit of time. It wouldn't take long for me to recharge.

Get out of the house.

I nearly tripped down the staircase as I feverishly fumbled to slip on my coat to get out of that prison-like space. I yanked open the heavy oak door with haste and nearly let out a scream as I found myself face to face with a tiny old woman. She let out startled gasp at my rapid presence. She was standing on my porch nearly lost within a bundle of winter coat and scarf. She had a plastic bag over her hair which I found both funny and alarming. I assumed it was to keep her hair dry. Or, at least I hoped.

"I am so sorry for startling you honey," the woman said with a sweetly calm voice.

"Uh...yeah...likewise..." I said in an almost whisper. I was internally trying to convince my heart to stop beating itself to death.

"My name is Emma," the woman said with a smile, "I live just across the street." She pointed to the historic home directly across from my house. It was in pristine condition. The beam across the woman's face as well as the intricately manicured landscape across the front of her yard revealed that she was proud of her dwelling. "I've lived there over 50 years. My husband and I..."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Ambrose," I said, cutting her off. I said it in a pleasant tone, but I secretly wished she wasn't there. I needed to get the hell away from that space. For the love of God, I silently thought, shut the fuck up...

"Oh Ambrose, what a pretty name..." Emma said with a smile.

"I thought so too when I picked it out..." I said. Annoyance peeked through the pleasantry of my tone. I needed to work on conversation and people skills. My response obviously confused the woman. She didn't know Ambrose wasn't my real name. How would she? And I wasn't about to explain how I was a writer who came up with some bullshit of a name to write under. It was far more humorous to watch her try to work it out in her head how I had named myself when I was a baby.

"I hate to rush you," I said while coaxing myself out of the door and onto the large porch, "but I'm running a bit late for an...an appointment. Big client. You know...things to do and places to be."

The woman's smile faltered for a second and then found itself back; stretched across her face as if hiding a grimace.

"Oh, I'm sorry honey. I won't be keeping you," she said while patting my hand with her pink gloved hand. " I just wanted to pop on over and introduce myself real quick. I figured you have been here long enough to settle in. I didn't want to come over prematurely...didn't want you to think you were being watched or anything...."

The way she said "watched" was horrifying, because what she really was saying was that she had been watching me. Lonely old hag just watching the new guy. Trying to spy and see what he was up to. Nosy bitch.

I faked a smile.

"Well, it was great to meet you Emma. Thank you for stopping by. Maybe one day soon we can sit down for some coffee or something. It would be great to chat with you...I'm sure you have a lot of stories of this town that I would absolutely love to hear!" I lied.

"Oh of course, of course sweetie!" She said with that same forced smile and overly sweet tone. "I brought you a little house warming gift...nothing big...just something I think everyone needs..." Emma reached inside her cartoonishly large flower-print purse and pulled out a neatly wrapped gift. It was complete with a large pink bow on top. Fucking gag.

"Oh, you didn't have to do that," I said, faking surprise and gratitude. I know she was being nice and all, but something just felt off. Like when a dog growls at one person but not the next.

"Oh, it's nothing my dear. I just hope you get some use out of it," the old woman said, handing the wrapped gift over to me. Immediately when my hands held the package I could tell it was a book. A fairly large one. My curiosity was momentarily tickled as I pondered what book it could be.

And with that, the woman was off. Not in a speedy way. She was old as shit. But at least she was making her way off my porch to leave me in peace. Wrapped book still in hand, I pulled a cigarette out of the pack that was nestled in an interior breast pocket of my rain coat that I had found earlier. I lit it with the tiny green bic that I kept in the mailbox attached to the brick by the front door. I breathed in that familiar smoke. The smoke that reminded me I was alive, even if I sometimes wished I wasn't.

I looked at the gift Emma had given me in my hand. The paper wrapped around was perfectly pressed and folded. It was a print of lavender bunches, all repeated over and over. The bow wrapped around it had been painstakingly tied. Almost too perfect. Like something a robot would do.

I exhaled a puff of smoke through my nose as I fumbled to untie the artwork. I couldn't see her, but I imagined the old woman was watching me through one of the windows of her house. I imagined her beady little eyes watching my every move. Just the thought made me shudder a little, despite the warmth of my attire.

And then there it was.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." I said out loud to the rainy world around me as I realized what the gift was. "A fucking bible?"

Yep. A bible. And not like the little orange ones the weirdos try to force in your hands at festivals. No, it was a big-ass one bound in soft brown leather. It seemed to be fairly new; the pages still stiff. I opened the front cover and found a note perfectly written in black ink on the first blank page. The letters were scripted in cursive; beautiful calligraphy etched on the paper.

The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen you and protect you from the evil one.

2 Thessalonians 3:3

My heart skipped a beat when I read "evil one". Those two words were written thicker than all of the other words, making them bounce off the page and into my face.

"What....the actual FUCK!?" I whispered in horror out loud to myself.

The rain continued to pour as I stood on my porch with the half-smoked cigarette hanging out my mouth and leather-bound bible in my hand.

Maybe moving there wasn't the right decision after all.

This is a continuation from the last story “North.” CLICK HERE to read it. My apologies this took so long to post, but here we continue Sláine’s story when she comes across a face she never thought she would see again. Once again the following story is very dark and somber, keep that in mind before reading. (Click “keep reading” to view the whole story). ~~~~~~~~~~

There hasn’t been a single moment where I haven’t been thinking back to that tragic day where I threw my life away into that despicable, icy tomb. I know deep down that it happened years ago, and yet it remains disturbingly fresh in my mind. As I stood longingly at the snowy entryway of the frozen cavern, I placed a ghastly hand despairingly upon my chest.

“Why… why did this have to happen?” I muttered, my face wincing in pain. “Mom… Dad… where are you? I’m so scared…” Before I could utter another word though an almost immediate sensation overcame me and stuck me hard; a sharp pain throbbing within my head, followed by a lamenting voice echoing within.

“Oh, so now you need us?” the voice echoed inhospitably.

“Wha… what?” I called back weakly. “How ironic that after everything you did… you have the gall to even call out for help?” I couldn’t even begin to think of a response, my heart began to beat incredibly fast. “I… I didn’t mean to be so reckless… I was scared.” “Enough to make you run away? Did you hate us that much?” “That’s… that’s not true…” “You caused us so much pain, so why…” “N-no… I…” “Why did you run away, Sláine!” “Please…! “WHY DID YOU ABANDON YOUR FAMILY?!” “STOP IT!”

My scream echoed painfully into the silent, mountain air. My hands reached upward and clung to my throbbing head as I shut my eyes closed. I let out another excruciating howl; yearning desperately to make the pain go away when suddenly my eyes shot open and a flash of light soon blinded me. My hands dropped limply to my sides as I stared vacantly into the empty void, which only stared back in a mocking silence. Eventually the whiteness began to fade away, my surroundings coming back into clarity. However, rather than the lifeless snowscape I had previously gazed upon I instead found myself in the center of a familiar town of northern charm with old fashioned architecture, and once I had laid my eyes upon the familiar, six-bladed windmill I had come to understand where I somehow ended up. My head quickly jolted in all directions, and as I looked frantically around the town my sights fell upon a certain house nestled in between the crevice of an on-looking cliff, one that looked as if it had been around longer than any of the other buildings with its creaky-looking windows, the aged trees draped atop it, old, wooden door, and although most would simply see it as a rickety building that’s seen better days I could easily describe it with one word: Home. With newfound determination I proceeded to enter the house. The moment I manifested myself into the quaint interior I was overcome with many different sensations. I could see the cozy, but inviting confines of the living room that my parents would share many conversations in, the musty, but nostalgic aroma of the lumber that held this very home together, and the scratchy, but familiar scraping noises of the tree branches that caressed themselves against the outside roofing. At last it was coming back to me. Just as I was about to give a longing sigh I could faintly hear some noise coming from a nearby room. With a curiosity welling up within me I slowly drifted over to the connecting hallway and peered into the entryway of an antiquated kitchen, dim in lighting and full of furniture that hadn’t been in style for at least a decade or two. In the center of it all though, stood a figure with their back turned, working diligently at the counter. My nerves began to get the best of me as I realized who was standing there in the kitchen, my entire body trembling. The soft, bat like wings protruding from their arms, the long, black tail draping down to the floor, a pair of large ears jutting out from their head, and of course the familiar, orange hair that hung below the shoulders, even more so than my own. There was no mistaking it. “…Mom…” I thought to myself. Moments later the figure in the kitchen slowly turned towards the hallway I was peering from. My eyes widened in shock and I quickly withdrew myself back into the hall away from her line of sight. I winced in pain, her face looked so weak and exhausted when she turned toward me. Suddenly the silence was broken as a voice from the kitchen called out. “…Sláine…? Sláine, is that you?!” I was heartbroken; tears began to well up as I shakily revealed myself in full from the entryway, facing my mother fully. “How… how did you know…?” I sniffled, tears beginning to run down my cheeks. The Noivern was equally shocked at the sight she had seen before her, literally like a spirit from years past had finally came to see her. But with a gentle smile she shook her nerves off. “Don’t be silly… a mother could never forget her daughter’s face,” She remarked, a tender and familiar softness in her voice. Soon, however, I became alarmed as I saw her slowly approach me, winged arms spread wide open. I suddenly pulled back, putting a clenched, ghostly hand in front of my chest. My mother froze in place, taken aback at my abrupt movement. “Why… are you being so welcoming? After everything I did…” I uttered, my head hanging down with exceptional guilt. “Sláine…” My mother consoled, gazing longingly at me. I could see the tears forming on her face as well. “I… I ran away from home… I fled into the wilderness, got lost in Frost Cavern… I… I was frozen… I threw my worthless life away and tore my own family apart all because I hated being in our stupid performance troupe! So why! Why are you being so-” I was abruptly cut off when my mother suddenly wrapped her arms around me. I don’t know how it was even remotely possible, but I could feel the weight of her pressed gently into me, her warming hold draped around my very body. And so with nothing left to hold me back I sobbed uncontrollably; I wept my heart out as my mother kept her arms around me, giving me reassuring shushes every now and then. I had no idea how else to respond, so I continued to weep into my mother’s own embrace. Soon our mournful gazes met as she looked upon the crimson-violet complexion of my face. “Sláine… I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea how much you were suffering, how bad your social anxieties had gotten. I had hoped that getting you involved in our troupe would help you overcome your fears, but instead I pushed you even further away. When I had heard what happened to you after you ran way… I just couldn’t believe it. I refused to believe it,” she explained lamentably. “I went and looked everywhere to find you regardless, hoping in vein that I would at least find you battered up, but still alive, but it never happened. I have utterly failed as your mother… what I allowed to happen to my own daughter… it’s inexcusable. You don’t have to forgive me, but just know… I am truly regretful for the way this turned out.” My mother continued holding me tightly; I could see the tears trickle down her exhausted face. After hearing so much regret and anguish coming from her own mouth, her very own heart, I reached out and wrapped my own hands back around her. Even after everything that happened, this felt right. I rubbed my eyes clean, and my crying began to settle down.

“Sláine…” my mother spoke up again. “I want you to know that even after that tragic day, I never stopped thinking about you. Ghost or not… you’re still my daughter, and I love you with all my heart.”

“Mama… thank you.” I uttered back, and finally we released ourselves from our sincere embrace. Having gotten the opportunity to see my mother with my own eyes after all this time, it almost felt like a weight had been carried off of my very soul. However, after a brief moment of silence I began to ask, “so… what are you going to do now, mom?”

My mother remained silent for a moment longer; I could see a twitch of regret in her eyes as she pondered the question. I considered how such a question might seem strange, but her ever growing silence made me begin to dread what her response would be. What felt like an eternity later she gave a gentle smile back to me and placed a hand on my wispy shoulder. “…Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart. I’ll be with you shortly,” she calmly replied. I paused for a brief moment, confused at what she had just said to me. “You’ll… be with me shortly? I don’t understand, mom…” I questioned worriedly, when suddenly I let out a frightened gasp. What was once the original figure of the Noivern who raised me all those years suddenly began to turn a ghastly, reddish purple; her eyes pooled a deep black, and her bat like appearance slowly vanished in place of a more evocative, less bodily form that eerily resembled my own. “It’s like I said, Sláine…” she began. “After I heard what had happened to you I raced out into the wilderness hoping in vein that I would find you, regardless of my better judgment. I even... searched Frost Cavern in hopes to find any trace of you.” I was devastated; I looked over to my mother in horror. “No… mom, you… you…!” Tears were about to well up once again, but my mother stopped me as she floated down to eye level with me. “There’s no need to waste your tears on me, sweetie. It’s what I deserve,” she echoed sadly back to me. “After everything that you had to endure and suffer through, it’s only fitting that I would succumb to the same fate.” There was a momentary pause from her before she uttered one last time, “I’m sorry.” ~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun had begun to set weakly behind the ominous, stormy clouds that loomed firmly over town. My mother and I drifted silently upon an outcropping that stood firmly in between that, and the harsh snowscape north of it. As we stared regretfully at the dreary scenery before us I turned to my mother and asked, “So, what happens now?” My mother, still fixated on the hostile climate in the distance, merely wiped her tear-stained cheek before responding. “I do not know, sweetheart. However… whether we like it or not, we have all eternity to figure it out. Just you and me, Sláine.” I only nodded firmly in response, as I held my mother’s nonmaterial hand with my own. A deafening silence filled the air around us; I was at a loss for words, but in the end could I have truly expected anything different? Regardless of the circumstances, this was how it was meant to be.

This was…

…Our reunion.

Banshee

I apologize for falling a little behind with these prompts, but they’re proving to be more difficult than I thought lol. Anyway I’m hoping to get out 7 and 8 tomorrow, so you have two to look forward to!

This one came out longer than I’d anticipated but I doubt you guys are complaining lol. Major thanks to the guys in the discord server for helping me come up with this idea! Enjoy, guys! :D lolol i know you were all dying to know what I came up with xD

Spooktober Day 6: Banshee

It started innocently enough. Their neighbor’s child Shippou from down the street – or, “that brat” as Inuyasha liked to call him – had suddenly decided that scaring the big bad hanyou that lived two houses down was going to be his goal for the month of October. Kagome also knew for a fact that the young kitsune had a crush on Izayoi and no doubt wanted to impress her with his scaring skills. “He who scares the Unscarable Half-Demon wins the girl” and all that.

Personally Kagome thought it was adorable whereas her husband was not as keen to the idea as she was. His daughter was his princess, so of course no boy would ever be good enough for her, especially the annoying brat down the road. Thankfully the fox demon never let the half-demon’s overprotectiveness deter him, however, always showing up with gifts and asking if she’d like to come over to play. Kagome was pretty sure Izayoi considered the kit a friend, but was still unclear on how she viewed him as a potential suitor. She was still young, after all, so perhaps love wasn’t the first thing on her mind whenever she was around boys.

Which, thinking on it now, was probably a very good thing when it came to one Daisuke Matsuno. A little older than Izayoi, Dai was the charming son of one of her colleagues, Kouga Matsuno, and the little rascal had been after Izayoi since he’d first seen her. Inuyasha disliked Dai more than he did Shippou because the kid was a carbon copy of his father, right down to his suave personality and winning smile. Thankfully, to Inuyasha’s relief, their daughter was more or less oblivious to the wolf’s advances and never reciprocated his shameless flirting.

Kagome felt a little guilty admitting it, but Shippou’s rivalry with the young wolf demon was very amusing and it was the reason why she never said no whenever Kouga called and asked if she could watch Dai for a bit while he and Ayame ran some errands. Shippou never failed to show up a few minutes later, probably because he didn’t want his crush’s feelings to sway toward the young wolf, but whatever the reason, it was always a very lively few hours.

Unfortunately Inuyasha was less than amused whenever the “cocky wolf brat” came over and most of the time Izayoi was suddenly no where to be found – because that wasn’t suspicious at all – and to this day her husband refused to admit he had any part in his daughter’s mysterious disappearances.

Kagome wondered if this whole plan to scare Inuyasha was some sort of payback for not letting him spend any time with his crush, but at this point, she didn’t dare venture to ask.

At least Shippou was the lesser of the two evils, to quote something Inuyasha had said once.

At first the kit would hide in random places and jump out at Inuyasha as he was leaving the house, but because of his superior senses, the half-demon had always been aware of his presence before the kid could carry out his scare tactic. So when that hadn’t worked, he’d kicked things up a notch by using some of his kitsune tricks and creating illusions. Inuyasha still hadn’t fallen for it and saw right through them with nary a flick of an eyelash. Shippou’s third attempts involved props that varied between store-bought Halloween decorations, homemade questionable concoctions, and a playlist of spooky sounds via YouTube.

Those attempts had resulted in Inuyasha loudly demanding to know what the hell that stench was and why his front lawn was riddled with “fake ass plastic shit and bed sheets.”

If Shippou had any other bright ideas to spook the hanyou, he didn’t get the chance to try because fed up with the brat’s annoying attempts to “scare him,” Inuyasha devised his own plan to scare the bejeesus out of the kitsune and unfortunately, it was rather very easy to frighten the poor child, so her husband’s first attempt had been a success. Kagome didn’t remember the particulars in how he did it, but something about duct tape and one of those fake wound tattoos you can buy on Amazon.

And thus started The Great Scaring War and needless to say, Kagome was getting very tired of it.

Rubbing her temples while sitting at the kitchen counter, Kagome groaned and tried very hard to ignore the ruckus that was going on upstairs, heavy thuds and banging sounds echoing throughout the house, accompanied by her husband’s laughter and Shippou’s screeching, that was giving her a goddamned headache. A solid week this has been going on and this point she was ready to do anything just to get them to stop.

“Are they still going at it?” Izayoi complained as she came into the kitchen, her little brother in tow. “Hasn’t it been, like, a week?” With a sigh she sank down into a chair while Tai opted to climb into his mother’s lap.

Releasing a sigh of her own, Kagome ran her fingers distractedly through her son’s hair and kissed his head. “Just about, yes,” she replied, frowning as she rubbed one of Tai’s ears. The tiny half-demon sighed and snuggled into her chest. “I’ve been toying with the idea of scaring both of them to get them to stop, but I have no idea how to go about doing it. Shippou wouldn’t be hard, but your father is the most difficult person to scare that I’ve ever met.” Kagome shook her head and stared helplessly down at her dozing five year old. Dammit, but if only she could think of something...

Izayoi was silent as she pondered her mother’s words and Kagome missed the strangely contemplative look on her face before her daughter spoke, her innocent tone instantly catching her attention.

“I think...I might have an idea, Mama...”

Strutting downstairs with a rather arrogant smirk on his face, Inuyasha was feeling mighty proud of himself as he strolled into the kitchen with a deflated Shippou behind him, looking decidedly less proud and more dejected than anything. Seeing Izayoi sitting at the table, however, perked him right up and he smiled, his gloomy disposition completely vanishing.

“What’s up, babygirl?” Inuyasha said cheerily as he retrieved a soda from the fridge and popped it open. He eyed the kit as he slyly slid into the hair beside his daughter, narrowing his gaze in warning. Shippou pretended to ignore him and beamed at the younger half-demon.

With a dreamy look on her face, chin propped in her hands and golden eyes holding a far-away look in them, Izayoi sighed and her lips curled up into a wondering smile. “I found him, Daddy,” she said in a distracted manner and both males sent her a puzzled look.

“Him who, Iz?” Lifting the can to his lips, Inuyasha leaned back against the counter and crossed his ankles, gazing curiously at his precious babygirl.

Izayoi suddenly giggled, a high-pitched, entirely girly sound and for some reason it put Shippou on edge. “The guy I’m gonna marry, Daddy!” she said brightly and Inuyasha froze.

He blinked and slowly lowered the cold soda, his brows dipping into an apprehensive frown. “Marry...?” he echoed, his stomach clenching at the thought of his little girl running off with some boy. Who was the unlucky chump that managed to get his daughter’s attention?!

With a little seedling of hope embedded in his heart, Shippou bit his lip and leaned forward a little, inwardly praying that she was talking about him. “Uh, who are you gonna marry, Izayoi?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but failing miserably.

The smile that stretched Izayoi’s lips, for some reason, had a ball of dread knotting tightly in his stomach and amber eyes that were identical to his own looked directly at him.

“Daisuke,” she told them, her voice breathy and holding a note of absolute reverence and wonder and Inuyasha could swear he saw little fucking hearts in her eyes. Reining in the rapidly increasing urge to giggle manically, Izayoi sighed, “I’m in loooove, Daddy.”

The color drained from his face, his heart stopped beating and he was barely aware of the loud choking noise Shippou made as he flailed in the chair beside her. He gripped the can in his hand so tightly his claws punctured the tin and Pepsi leaked onto the floor, but he barely noticed it. Had he...had he heard that right? Did his precious daughter, his princess, his whole world, just tell him that she was going to marry that cocky little shitstain Daisuke, son of the even bigger shitstain that motherfucker Kouga?

Inuyasha and Shippou stared at her in abject horror, the disbelief clear on their faces and if this was some sort of cruel joke, both half-demon and fox did not like it.

“D-Dai—wha—no. No no no no no no noooo, baby you can’t—” Inuyasha frantically shook his head back and forth, refusing to believe his precious daughter was in love with—with the damn wolf. Oh god, this was a nightmare! He was dreaming, right?! This was not happening, he would not accept this!

“B-but—but—but—” Shippou babbled, tears pooling in his green eyes and Izayoi felt a stab of guilt when she glanced over at him, trying not to wince.

“He’s so dreamy,” she gushed, biting down on her lip in an effort to keep from grinning. “Mama’s gonna talk to Kouga and Ayame and see if we can—”

“KA-GO-MEEEEEEEE!” Inuyasha cut his daughter off with a screech that would do any banshee proud and in his frantic state he failed to notice Izayoi’s rather smug look or the way Shippou seemed to have turned into a statue, complete with an unhealthy looking pallor to his skin.

“Jeez, Inuyasha,” Kagome said as she sauntered into the kitchen, wiggling a finger in her ear with a wince. “Stop screaming like a banshee, I’m right—”

In a blink Inuyasha was in front of her, clutching her arms and looking utterly terrified. “Kagome, she’s—she’s—you can’t talk to them, she can’t be in love with—no!” He proceeded to make a noise that was a cross between a whine and a groan, the desperation obvious in his eyes and on his face, the grip he had on her arms tight Kagome could detect a slight trembling.

She blinked. Smiled, then said, “Okay.”

Inuyasha paused. Stared at his wife. Blinked. “...Okay...?”

Kagome nodded. “Okay, Inuyasha. I won’t talk to them and Izayoi will not be in love with Daisuke.”

“...Uh...”

Drinking a glass of her mom’s homemade cider she’d poured for herself, Izayoi strolled casually past them, looking very pleased with herself. “That’s how you scare someone, Daddy,” she said cheekily and disappeared into the living room to watch some cartoons.

Shippou moaned and promptly fainted onto the floor while Inuyasha continued to stare dumbly after his conniving child.

Happy that her daughter’s creative plan had gone exactly as expected, Kagome was in a much better mood now and wow, her headache had miraculously disappeared! “No more scaring Shippou, honey,” she said and patted her husband’s cheek affectionately before merrily sauntering into the kitchen to check on a stunned Shippou.

Still standing where she left him and looking dumbstruck, Inuyasha blinked as his brain tried to process that it had, indeed, all been a very, very cruel joke, one that – had had to admit – had scared the shit out of him. “Okay,” he mumbled in response, unable to move quite yet, the relief so strong it had temporarily immobilized him.

“Oh, and could you mop over by the counter?” Kagome asked as she picked up a now sleeping kitsune. “For some reason there’s Pepsi all over the floor and I don’t want ants. Thanks, honey. I’m gonna go take Shippou home now, love you!” She brushed past him and breezed out the door, humming a jaunty little tune to herself.

“Love you, too,” Inuyasha automatically replied, suddenly feeling weak, and abruptly deciding that he’d stop being so hard on the runt for crushing on his little girl.

After all, at least he wasn’t related to Kouga.

okay so admittedly im circling the drain to the Daddywise fandom; im coming to ok terms with myself for this, but my friends would tear me down so fast 😩 anyway: has anyone come up with a "pennyman interacting with [reader] via the shower drain" scenario? interpret as you see fit, i gotta find more clownfolk to follow ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ

((I have not seen this yet, I shall try my best good fellow!

I assumed you wanted smut? So, a warning, mention of blood and sorta non-con themes)). 

With the water running down from above you, you combed your fingers through your hair as to spread the water through it. You came back with a significant amount of stray hair wrapped around your fingers and sticking to your wrist. It wasn’t unusual for you to shed so much hair in the shower, you disregarded it as you let the water filter it all down the shower drain. You continued combing your hair, more and more hair disassociating itself from your scalp and exiting down the drain. 

Quite suddenly, you heard a violent hacking sound, like someone was choking on something. But it didn’t sound as you thought a human would, it was more like the sound of a cat hacking on a hairball. You tried to centre where exactly the sound was coming from, but it was slightly muffled from the running water. You turned the knob to shut the water off and stood still, listening. After a few moments, you determined the sound was coming from… below you?

Just as you had that thought, you saw, much to your surprise, a single gloved finger poking through the shower drain. You jumped back in surprise, your heels nearly slipping on the soapy surface of the tub. You watched in horror as the finger became two, then three, then an entire hand, the drain seemed to be expanding with each passing finger, you blinked but still couldn’t be sure what you were seeing was actually real. All the while, the hacking sound continued. 

Finally, an entire arm surfaced, ruffled sleeves looking worn and dirty and dripping wet. And you thought you could see long, sharp black claws ripping fourth from the gloves, but before you could ponder it they were gone and it was just a normal looking hand. But a hand coming out of your shower drain was no less frightening anyway. 

The drain was expanding even more now, and now there was a head emerging, the head kept emerging until finally there were eyes. Glowing, amber eyes. Almost as soon as you saw them, they had changed hue and were now a brilliant blue, as if you hadn’t seen the hungry amber eyes in the first place. The head had dark hair plastered to it’s forehead, it was glaring at you, it’s eyes narrowed. 

“What’s wrong with you?” And then it was speaking, it’s entire face emerged and it looked like an unsettling clown, a clown that was coughing and hacking. It’s voice was like that of a child, but it was too low to be a child’s voice and it-he was obviously not a child. But it was so unbelievably childlike and it was unsettling. 

You didn’t say anything in reply. You watched as only his face emerged from the drain, the rest of his body staying submerged. He continued hacking and, finally he opened his mouth and choked out a hair ball. A literal hair ball, a gross, slobbery ball of human hair. That came from his mouth.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to go dropping your shit wherever you feel like? Some people actually live here, you know.” He said, pointing downward, to the sewer drain. 

He was… scolding you? This was quite absurd to you, however your natural apologetic instincts kicked in before you could think about it much. “Er… sorry?” 

He just stared at you for a minute, and while he looked you up and down, you finally seemed to remember that you were butt naked. There was a clown who had emerged from your fucking shower drain, and was now staring at you as you stood there naked. You made a valiant and rather pathetic display of attempting to cover yourself up with your hands. This made him laugh as he watched you. A childish, cackling laugh. You felt the blush all over your body. 

“I’ve come at a good time.” He teased, and ceased his laughing entirely as he stared at you, a soft growl emitting from his slightly parted lips. This sent alarm bells ringing in your head. You decided it was in your best interest to get out of the tub. You lifted a leg to climb out when suddenly, something snatched your other leg and pulled, sending you tumbling down onto your back, smacking your head on the bathtub floor. 

And before you could get up, you hazily watched as rope flew out of the drain and wrapped around your wrists and ankles, binding them together so you couldn’t move. Your head felt fuzzy, but as you stared harder, you realized it wasn’t rope that was binding you. It was hair. Human hair, and it was most definitely your own. 

You couldn’t see the head of the clown anymore, and the drain had gone done to it’s own size, for the most part. You couldn’t quite recall exactly what size it had been before. You had to lift your head painfully to even see the drain, your head was on the other side of the tub, your front positioned right in front of the drain. You felt more than you saw his hand coming back up and softly scratching a claw down your thigh. 

He was laughing, it was evil and unnerving, you struggled against your bindings, it was just hair after all, but it was strong and you couldn’t escape. You began to hardcore panic as you felt his claws approaching where you most certainly did not want an evil clown’s claws to go. At least that’s what you told yourself. 

“Ohohoho~” You heard his suggestive laugh. You blushed from your face downward. You knew you must have seemed eager despite yourself, and that he knew it too. 

And then his hand was wrapped around the entirety of your thigh, that was just how big his hands were. He squeezed and dug his claws into your soft skin, you winced in response but found your hips raising anyway. His hand reverted itself to clutch your hip and he pushed you back down again forcefully. You felt the bathtub flush against your back, the surface wet despite the water not running anymore. Your body was quite easily sliding further towards the drain even if you attempted to shift backwards away from it. Your hair bindings didn’t help you to get further away either. 

And then his hand was trailing the inside of your thigh once more, once, twice, dragging his claws up and down as he went, so slowly it was painful, more painful than sharp claws tearing your skin already was. You squirmed, the squeaking sound of your skin against wet surface loud and uninvited. 

He wasn’t speaking, just chuckling lowly, you could hear it echoing through the shower drain in an unsettling sort of way. He occasionally gave a soft grunt and a low growl, but it was faint and you tried not to think about it too much. You had other things to concern yourself with, anyhow, like how his claws where trailing to your inner thigh and getting closer and closer. 

And then there he was, without warning. You gasped loudly as you felt at least two of his claws enter you at once. He didn’t hesitate to begin prodding inside of you, poking you with his sharp claws and scratching at your inner walls. You couldn’t even think about adjusting before he was adding another. You nearly screamed, but another thick strand of hair had come from the drain and wrapped itself around your neck, choking you so you were unable to force anything from your windpipe.

“Heh. I was under the impression you could take it.” He said mockingly. You couldn’t see his voice, but you felt guilty somehow that he was disappointed, which no sense for you to care in retrospect. 

He stuck another claw in, they were long joints but still his palm was hitting your skin as he stuck the entirety of them inside. You could feel his claws puncturing you, feel the blood trickling from inside you and down between your legs just under you. It was stinging and aching, but your back was arching anyway, despite that when you did so your restraints just choked you harder. 

He forcefully thrust his knuckles into you suddenly, your scream chocked in your throat as you desperately tried to close your knees together, but the bindings prevented you from doing so. You could only manage a low and pathetic groan as you struggled to breath, panting and pulsating with the need to be touched less harshly, if only your hand was free to do so. 

Your body was tingly and numb, you could feel his fingers curl as he thrust them back and fourth at full speed in the harshest manner there could ever be with the biggest hards that could have ever possibly existed. At this point, if you lifted your head the slightest bit, you could see the river of red rushing from you towards the drain and downward. You hoped the clown was having fun with all the blood he was spilling from you. Maybe that was the point. 

You could hear his soft grunts of effort every time he thrust his fingers in motion, perhaps his wrist was getting tired. Despite the aching pain and the stabbing that was shredding away at your insides, you couldn’t help but arch your back from the sound of his fingers contacting with the fluids he created every time his fingers exited and went in again. 

Your legs were shaking, barely able to breath but when you could it was just gasps. You felt like you might come close, you were edging on the feeling when suddenly he pulled away and out, as if he could sense your feelings. What was left of his white glove was coated dark red with your blood, a stringy blood clot was stretched between two of his fingers. 

And then his hand was gone, and you heard the sound of his maniacal laughter abruptly fade, the hair binding you following suit down the drain behind him, and you were too tired to hold you legs up so you collapsed, coughing and gasping in breaths of air. 

After awhile of laying there, you looked to see if you had stopped bleeding. You hadn’t, but the trail was thinner than before. You blinked and thought about what exactly had just happened and that yes, you had just been rightfully fingerfucked by some sort of sewer clown. 

And it hadn’t been all that bad either. 

Honey and Rain

Human!Castiel x Reader

A/N: This is a rewrite of the very first series I have ever published. A lot of it is going to be different because back then I only had the base of the story, but its essentially going to end the same as I had planned (hopefully). The original Honey and Rain can be found somewhere on my blog if you would like to read it but be warned that I had no idea what I was doing and did not reach the end of the series.

Summary: After angels break into your house while you were sleeping and force burning light down your throat, wings sprout from your back and you soon realise you are capable of doing great things. Not long after all of this, an angel comes down and orders you to find and protect a human named Steve.

Honey and Rain Masterlist

Warnings: mention of suicide, mention of death, blood, unedited

Word count: 2123

A long, long time ago something traumatic happened to you. Something that made you feel as though God didn’t exist, that he was just a lie made up by people as some kind of joke that became out of hand. You had thought you’d go for the rest of your life believing that God didn’t exist; until one interesting night.

More than one pair of muscular arms forcing your limbs down had awaken you, your eyes wide in fear as you stared into the glowing eyes of a man twice your size towering over you. Horrible, disturbing thoughts flashed through your mind as to what these four men were going to do to you but you never would have guessed correctly.

A small vial – that seemed to be glowing blue and swirling around – was brought to your mouth – which one of the men had forced open – and it quickly slid down your throat as though a key was entering a lock. It was ice cold to begin with, like it had been left in the freezer for days, but it suddenly became burning hot. It almost felt like it was going to melt you from the inside, but then it all stopped.

“It has worked.” you heard one of the men holding your legs down say. “It’ll only be a matter of minutes now.”

Finally coming to with your surroundings and the men in your bedroom, you began thrashing against their hold, desperate for them to let you go so you could call the police before they made a runner. But there wasn’t time.

Simultaneously, all four men had disappeared into thin air, the only sound in your bedroom being the faint echo of something similar to sheets flapping in the wind. Could this just be a dream? Surely they didn’t just vanish. You didn’t even have time to ponder the situation as you felt a sharp pain in your back, almost like you had been shot.

You ignored the entire ‘people vanishing before your very eyes’ scenario and ran to your bathroom and flicked the lights on, pulling your shirt over your head and attempted to look at whatever was happening to your back. The angle was uncomfortable and made your eyes sore, leaving you no choice but to turn back around and stare at your face in horror as you tried to disregard the pains that only seemed to progress further every second. Within half a minute, you were kneeling on the tiled floor with tears in your eyes, refusing to allow the pained scream fleeing from your cracked lips.

An oddly soothing pastoral fragrance wafted through the air and filled your lungs, taking your mind off the pain for just a moment. The mixture was odd. Honey, pine needles, and rain? Being your paranoid self, you were always sure to close and lock all doors and windows which raised more questions than you’d like. How did those men get in? How did they get out? Where did this smell come from?

Another sharp pain ran through your back, dragging out an uncontrollable whimper. You raised to your feet by pulling yourself up with the towel rack only to stumble backwards in freight at the sight of large black glistening wings sprouting behind you. The long six inch feathers suddenly wrapped around you, the amazingly soft plumes rubbing against your bare stomach. It spread warmth through your whole body like they were a heated blanket and then, in a fraction of a second, all of the pain had left.

It was just a dream, that’s all. There’s no possible way this could be real. You closed your eyes and pinched the flesh on your arm, hoping that it’d be enough to wake you up, but it didn’t do a single thing. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy to wake up. Deciding to head back to bed in hopes that you would wake up without these wings on your back, you tried to ignore the tickle of plumes rubbing down your legs and roaming your body like a pair of hands.

But when you had awoken the next morning, you came to a shocking realisation that it wasn’t a dream and that you now had wings sprouting from your flesh, however that may be possible. 

It took you months to adjust to the changes. It seemed that you were the only one who could see the wings, which only made things that much worse for you. Whenever you mentioned them accidentally, somebody stared at you as though you were insane and at this point you didn’t blame them. The wings proved to be a nuisance at the most awkward of times, especially since you couldn’t control them. It was like they had a mind of their own. If they weren’t wrapped around your body like a protective shield, they were spread far out to get the wind between its sparkling raven feathers with the blotched blue ends, but they couldn’t help from knocking objects to the floor when passing a desk or denying you entry to a tight doorway. 

Six months had passed since those strange men broke into your house and shoved light down your throat. Six months since these wings had sprouted from your back. Six months and you had only just figured out that you were capable of doing things far greater than what anybody could imagine. 

You were stuck at an agonisingly horrific party – which one of your friends had dragged you to in hopes that you would loosen up and find a date – when you had found out that you could fly. You weren’t sure how you had even done it, considering these wings didn’t seem to want to listen to your commands, but within a blink of an eye you were soaring through the sky like a bird, the wind vigorously flapping against your face and flowing through the feathers behind you. When you reopened your eyes, you were lying on your bed with untidy hair and ruffled clothes.

Ever since that day, you had searched for all the different things that you might be able to do, but only came up with a few. You didn’t know what you were, or how you were doing these things, but some of them were more useful than you’d like to admit.

Then you had met Ansiel, an angel who had taught you how to fight and use your abilities. He had come to you needing your help protecting a human who was somebody special; some kind of prophet. 

You had horribly failed that mission.

Evan was the first person you were ordered to protect, which only made the angels more pissed when you had come to them giving them the news that he had committed suicide while you weren’t supervising him. The smell of expired Chinese food and his father’s bottles of whiskey will forever be in your mind, along with the image of the fourteen year old boy hanging from the ceiling with tear stained cheeks. You hadn’t been concentrating enough and now he was dead because of it.

After that, you refused to do the angel’s bidding. You trained yourself how to fight using your newfound abilities – just in case they chose to come after you – and stayed far away from them as possible, that was until a fury ignited within you. Something clicked and you suddenly went on a rampage. Any angel in your path was given no mercy. Within only a couple of short days, you had killed at least half a decade’s worth of angels. You often heard them on the angel radio inside of your head talking about how you must’ve been one of the fastest learning angels they’ve ever seen before, which only built your confidence. They were afraid of you, which meant you had the advantage.

“Y/n,” you heard one day, almost frightening you to death. You hadn’t expected to hear the shrilling voice of Ansiel through your head, “I know you’re listening. I have another mission for you, if you’re finished with your little games.”

Taking a leap of faith, you answered, “I thought you’d know better than to assign me with somebody’s life again.”

You could almost hear the shit eating grin on his face from hearing you reply. “I’m asking nicely. If you decline, I suppose I’ll have to threaten the life of your sister, won’t I?” he said with a hint of smugness. 

If only he was here, you thought, I’d wipe that smile off his damned face. “Hurt them and you’ll live to regret it.” you growled. You might not have ever met your sister before, or even know if she’s a decent human, but you weren’t going to let an angel blatantly murder her when she hadn’t done anything.

“I already have them located. All it would take is one quick blade to the heart.”

The anger was rising up inside of you. “Fine!” you shouted aloud, not meaning to. “Who is it and where are they?” If you were able to protect this guy for long enough, you might be able to get a chance to pounce on Ansiel before he reached your sister. 

“Steve.” Ansiel answered rather happily. “Sunshine Road motel. Better hurry.”

With one quick flap of your wings, you were standing in the very unpleasant lobby of the motel. It was old, probably a couple decades. The yellowed wallpaper was beginning to peel and crack, the roof was covered with mould, and the carpet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. 

A newspaper on the ground showed today’s date, along with large bold letters exclaiming Two dead, hearts missing. Was it a coincidence that the guy you need to protect is in a town where werewolves were currently hunting? Knowing there was no way of guessing, you shrugged it off and immediately tried to find Steve but couldn’t locate him for the life of you.

Sighing, you walked over to the front desk, reading the name tag on the woman who looked disinterested in her job. Violet. “Has somebody named Steve checked in here recently?” you asked, eyeing the camera in the corner of the room.

“I can’t give that information out.” she groaned, waving her hands in the air exaggeratedly. 

Without hesitating, you reached over the desk and pressed two fingers to her forehead, listening to the thump of her body dropping to the floor before searching through the security footage and finding three people who had entered the motel last night. Two of the people were a couple, who mustn’t have been able to afford a better place to sleep than this. The third person was a little more interesting. He was a slightly scruffy looking man, who wore a dark blue hoodie which he seemed to be clutching on to quite tightly. Zooming in on the screen and looking closely at the blurry pixels, you could see the faintest of blood. His knuckles seemed to be just as bloody. You weren’t sure if he was the attacker or the victim.

Following the man through the cameras, you found his room and quickly wiped the footage of you knocking Violet out. Retracing his steps, you stumbled across his room, number 17, and awkwardly knocked, unsure how you were going to introduce yourself so casually. When he didn’t answer for the third time, you flew yourself into the room and observed it carefully. 

The bed sheets were messily made, hanging off on the side towards the open window. A chilly breeze flew into the room, causing the thin fabric hanging above the window to sway back and forth before finally resting once again. Stepping in front of the open window, you placed your hand on the sill, leaning out and taking a look around. He was nowhere to be found. As your hand retreated back to your side, you felt something different. Exposing your palm upwards, you saw blood smeared across your palm to your fingertips.

The noticeable white paint underneath the blood told you it was beginning to dry and crack, but it was clear that the outline was of a hand print. You just wondered if it was Steve’s or somebody else that you would most likely come across. You knew two things. Steve wasn’t here anymore and there was only one person that you could go to for help and she isn’t very giving when it comes to you, but it was the only option you had left.

Your wings spread out on their own, obviously having the same idea as you, and flapped once, heading into the direction of the vile house that belonged to the witch you once tried to kill.

Castiel tags:

@castiel-savvy18, @hey-um-misha, @magnificent-mantle, @impractical-impala​, @kristendansmith​

Everything tags:

@disappointeddinosaur, @unknown-chronicles​, @marisayouass​, @greenappleeyes​, @nina-winchester4life​, @fanboyswhereare-you​, @yes-this-is-snek​, @kdfrqqg​, @buttercup337​, @xsammijoannex​, @kitkatgaming​, @totally-fandom​, @angelsdeadromance​, @staticweekes, @cas-honeybee​, @perry--aesthetic​, @thatshellfiredean​

If you would like to be added to one of my tag lists, feel free to send me an ‘ask’ or a private message with your preferred tag.

Something Lost, Something Found

[Ao3 Version]

Relationships: Stanford Pines/Adeline Marks

Characters: Stanford Pines, Adeline Marks

Words: 1656

Summary: He lost his home. He lost his brother. He lost hope of saving the universe. He even lost his glasses. And now he was on the verdge of losing his life. He thought it was over. He'd never go back, and that crazy demon would still have a chance to wreck havoc on his poor world. He was about to give in, and yet he found something—someone—that changed everything.

Adeline Marks belongs to wondreful Hunter!

And as I simply adore her Dimension Jumper AU, I couldn't help myself but write something to that AU.

That little ficlet is a mix of what we can read in Journal 3 about Ford's first moments in the Nightmare Realm and that great comic.

Hope you'll like it! ;)

A heart furiously thumping in his chest.

It was all Stanford was able to hear at the moment, ringing in his ears. With adrenaline still flowing through his veins, he tried to clear his mind as best as he only could. After all, he had to figure something out, as much as his discarded thoughts prevented him from doing so. Just focus, he scolded himself silently, squeezing his eyes shut.

At first, after he had fallen into the portal, he had thought that he'd actually died and found himself in heaven (not that he believed in the existence of a sacred God's realm, that is). That had been until the brightness gave way to swirling colours and a pure chaos. Gradually, he had begun to understand what his former assistant might have seen. And that sight had been far from being in any way hopeful. That meant he was stuck in a place that had clearly earned its name, most probably without a chance to ever return home.

He could feel a rough surface of a cavern's stony wall, brushing against his fingertips. The idea of hiding in that crater turned out to be quite brilliant, as monsters that had just been hot on his heels had rushed past its entrance, not even thinking about peeking inside. Despite that, he still did his best to be as quiet as possible, afraid of attracting more than unwanted attention.

Then, to Stanford's quite understandable horror, the eerily sinister voice reached his ears one more time. “Sixer wants to play hide-and-seek!,” it singsonged, apparently overjoyed, although with a barely audible strain of irritation. “First one to find him and bring him to me gets their own galaxy.”

The words were followed by Bill's maniac laughter, soon echoed by different creatures, both small and big, which seemed to fill the whole Nightmare Realm with a plethora of peculiar sounds that sent a chill down Stanford's spine. Nevertheless, rather than dread, it appeared to ignite a weird kind of energy inside of him. His fists clenched, and in spite of almost overwhelming fatigue all he suddenly wanted to do was to jump out of his cover and confront the demon face to face, even if it meant that he would most possibly be almost immediately caught.

However, before he had a chance to do anything crazy or stupid, he heard some weird noises right behind him. Startled, he turned abruptly towards a deeper part of the cave. His reason told him that it might be one or—in the worst-case scenario—even more henchmen of that triangular beast. Maybe they were hiding there, waiting for the appropriate moment? He couldn't ponder that guess much longer, as something caught his attention. A faint purplish glow, illuminating the walls of the cavern, seemed to have its source somewhere further, out of Stanford's sight.

For a moment he tried to figure what was possibly the best step to take in such a situation. Staying where he was and listening for any distressing sounds seemed as the safest option, and yet his curiosity won over, and he slowly started walking into depths of the cave. An insanely naïve idea came to his mind—maybe it was someone—or something—that could actually help him?

As he got closer to the source of that strange light, he started to pick up muffled voice, speaking in a language he wasn't able to recognise, not that it came as a surprise to him. Their tone seemed calm and hushed, without any excitement or anticipation; they didn't sound like someone in the pursuit of a great prize. Therefore, Stanford concluded, it was highly unlikely that they were Bill's henchmen.

Before he could find himself closer to those talking creatures, a piece of rock crunched under his feet. He winced, hoping that it wasn't loud enough to the hiding beings. Unfortunately, the dead silence that quickly followed indicated otherwise. He gulped, as the light grew even more dim, leaving him almost in complete darkness.

He did his best to pick up any sounds that might give away anyone approaching, yet fruitlessly. It was silent for what seemed like an eternity, before shuffles of a few pairs of legs eventually reached him. He didn't have time to even react, when he found himself being shoved to the ground with a great amount of force. He was barely able to secure his landing with his hands.

Dizziness took over his mind for a moment, as he tried to take a closer look at the creatures, towering above him. Even in the darkness, they appeared to be quite blurry, and Stanford started to suspect that there was a chance he had suffered a head trauma, and because of the adrenaline he was incapable of registering the pain at the moment. Soon that suspicion became irrelevant, as he realised that something was missing from the top of his nose.

Oh no.

His glasses.

He felt panic rising in his chest. He didn't have a second spare pair, he had never thought he would ever need so many. If Bill's henchmen chasing after him and the unknown creatures surrounding him hadn't been making his situation bad enough, now he wouldn't even get to see who or what had just captured him. And how was he supposed to fight for his life almost on the brink of being blind?

He started to search frantically around him, wishing that the glasses hadn't fallen to far away from him. His rapid movements seemed to alarm the creatures, and suddenly something cold and smooth touched his chin. For a second he feared that this was it—that he would die here, in that dark cave, killed by some unknown creatures, his body left to rot. However, nothing sliced his throat; instead, he felt his head being slowly raised, so that he was facing what he assumed was a fuzzy form of one of the creatures.

“Who are you?! Where did you come from?!” Their voice was harsh and a bit subdued, as if something was covering their mouth. Even though Stanford wasn't able to see their face, he could swear there was something distinctly feminine about them and familiar at the same time.

Only after a few moments it dawned on him that the creature had somehow gotten to know English. He was ready to say something, when the tip of the thing pressed to his chin lightly touched his throat. “Wait!,” he exclaimed, raising his hand in what he hoped was a peaceable gesture. “Please, I'm confused and I can't see,” he tried to explain, hoping that the creature would show him some mercy. “If you'll just—”

Then he heard what he could swear was a slight gasp. The cold thing suddenly disappeared, and the creature before him crouched, reaching for something on the ground. “Here try these…” This time their voice was a complete contradiction of how it had sounded just minutes ago—all calm and comforting, it struck Stanford that he'd already had to hear it somewhere.

He felt a weight being placed on his open palm. “Th-thanks…,” he muttered, placing the glasses back on the tip of his nose.

The creature stood back upright, hiding what turned out to be a huge sword under their cloak. “It can't be…,” they whispered, their tone so emotional that Stanford upon hearing it couldn't help but look up.

“Pardon?” He furrowed his eyebrows, more and more convinced that that creature was actually human. Which posed a question, how some else other than him could have gotten here and still be alive.

Unless…

The creature reached to their face and slowly pulled down a rug covering their mouth, as well as a pair of dark glasses, finally revealing their face. “Stanford?” Her voice was full of disbelief, merged with both relief and dread.

All he could do was sit there, as if he turned to stone. The world around him seemed to freeze, everything motionless except for that unique face he'd thought he wouldn't get to see in this life ever again.

Adeline.

He noticed a few bruises and scratches on her cheeks and a forehead, as well as dark circles under her eyes. She also appeared to be thinner than he remembered, but all those things didn't matter, because she was alive.

Adeline was alive.

Although he desperately wanted to say something—anything really—he couldn't find his voice, all the words stuck in his dry throat. He just watched as she turned to her companions and mumbled something in that weird tongue. Their exchange was short, and soon after they went back to the deeper part of the cave, leaving the two humans behind.

She looked at him again, slowly leaning down. When she was at his eye level, she slowly reached her hand and delicately put it on his shoulder. Her touch was as light as if her fingers had been butterfly's wings. Stanford couldn't help but wonder if she was afraid that a firmer pressure might hurt him. She cleared her throat, taking in the sight of his dishevelled hair and clothes.

“You are here,” she stated, her voice gentle and quiet. He wasn't able to tell, if she was happy about it or frightened by that fact. “What happened?,” she asked, clearly worried.

He wanted to tell her—tell her how he had asked his brother to help him, how they had gotten into a fight and he'd ended up being shoved into a running portal. “You are alive…” It was all he could say, raising his hand to softly stroke her cheek, slowly tracing his fingertips from a cheekbone to a chin.

She was a bit taken aback by that gesture, but smiled nonetheless. “Yes, I am,” she confirmed, looking him in the eyes.

No more words were needed as they slowly drank in each other's presence.

I have a few more ideas, so hopefully it won’t be the last ficlet to Dimension Jumper AU ^^

Let me know what you think! :D

Long Live the King - (Ardyn Izunia x Reader) Prologue

Hey everybody! I have started a new fic again, hurray! Anyway, this fic comes curtesy of @maty-yami, who gave me the lovely prompt.

What if Ardyn had a family when he was king, and ended up losing them, which spurned his desire for revenge. But everything is not as it seems....

So here we go, hope you enjoy! ^_^

They say that every person suffers a great betrayal in their lifetime. And it is in that moment, one is often given a choice; a safeguard. A coin of Fate with salvation stamped upon it, to rescue those who were blind to the traitor of their trust when flipped. But when one gambles against the gods themselves, they should know that winning was never an option. A lesson you were harshly taught….

All your life, your family has tended to the gardens of the Citadel. It was hard work- but one you took pride in. And it was not uncommon for your father or the other servants to find you sitting amongst the flora and fauna, dirt across your face, playing a tune upon your ocarina. Your father often teased you, calling you his little nymph, a name that you carried like a badge of honor.

“Oh, my little nymph,” your father chuckled. “You could charm the Kings themselves with your sweet melodies.”

It never failed to make you laugh at the irony of your father’s words. For it was only a decade later that you would meet him: the one that would claim your heart.

The summer evening was uncommonly warm that day, causing sleep to elude you. And so, you left the uncomfortable warmth of your bed and walked the familiar hallways of the Citadel before coming upon the royal gardens. The scent of roses made you smile as you slowly walked through the grass to your favorite place within the garden. A simple gazebo, standing beside the edge of the garden and hidden by the roses that twisted around it. Sitting upon the bench that stood by, it allowed you to enjoy the view of the small lake and the cherry blossom trees that stood beside it like silent guardians.

Lifting your cherished instrument to your lips, you closed your eyes and played, allowing your mind to wander.

“You play beautifully.”

The sudden voice had startled you, causing the sweet melody you were playing to dissipate into the evening air. You turned to face the man who had caught you by surprise; dressed in fine clothes of black and grey he seemed as if he was part of the shadows themselves. His hair was a vibrant shade of crimson like that of a fine wine, surrounding strong features that surely belonged to an aristocrat. The man cocked his head to the side, frowning slightly at the abrupt end to your music. “I apologize, it was not my intention to frighten you.”

You stood immediately, dusting your skirt of dirt. “There is no need for apologizes. And I am sorry but, I must be going- “

“Will you continue?” The man spoke, causing you to halt in your tracks.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Will you continue to play? Your music…I find it soothing.”

You looked down at your ocarina before meeting the man’s gaze. His golden eyes seemed to glow in the evening light, making you flush slightly at the intensity of his stare. “If you do not mind….”

“Not at all.” The man smiled, sitting upon the bench and gesturing for you to sit beside him.

And so, your father’s words spoke true, for Ardyn had become bewitched by you, and you with him. So many nights you both spent in the company of one another, often ending with you playing music.

But all good things do come to an end……

“Please, no! Not him, not my baby!”

“Shut yer trap, witch!”

The force of the backhand sent you spinning to the floor, the swelling of your cheek promising a bruise there. A round of mocking laughter echoed around the large throne room, causing fresh tears to fall from your (e/c) eyes.

“Leave them be Izunia! I beg of you, do as you would to me; but spare my family.” Ardyn pleaded, his handsome face now bruised and bloodied from the force of his brother’s blows.

“What is this? The King of Lucis; begging for mercy! Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Izunia sneered, gesturing to the guard holding your child. “Bring the boy here.”

“No!” both you and Ardyn shouted, the later collapsing from the force of a punch to the stomach while another guard twisted your arm behind your back.

Izunia took hold of the sobbing child, his cries echoing around the throne room. He smiled down at the child, it’s cries slowly dying down to mere whimpers of discomfort. “What a lovely child you have been gifted brother. He even has your eyes!” The elder prince laughed, cradling your son gently across his chest, “Tis a shame his fate was doomed from birth.” And in one swift motion, Izunia removed the dagger strapped to his thigh and plunged it into the stomach of your child.

“NO!” You and Ardyn both screamed in horror as the bundle fell to the floor, a crimson flower blooming across the ivory blanket. A cry of terror ripped from your throat as you collapsed onto the floor, tears streaming down your face as you tried desperately to reach your baby with the guardsman restraining you. Izunia walked down from the steps, bypassing Ardyn who thrashed against his chains like a wild animal, before kneeling in front of you. He yanked you up by your (h/c) hair, the dagger in his hands trailing alongside your cheek; the once silver blade now stained ruby-red.

“Do you not see, my dear? This is what that daemon has given you: nothing but pain and the corpse of your child. I hope it was worth it.” Izunia smirked before standing up once more. “Take her to the dungeon, she will stand trial for her association with this abomination.”

“No! Don’t take her too! Leave her be!”

Izunia turned to look at his brother, a mocking smile gracing his lips. “Oh, dear brother, what right do you have to give me orders? You could not save your child, and now you have damned your wife. Where is your power now ‘Chosen King’?”

“IZUNIA! IF YOU HARM HER I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME!?” Ardyn screamed as he watched the guardsmen drag you away from the throne room. Your (e/c) eyes met your beloved’s golden iris’ one last time before the double doors slammed shut.

It was cold, yet the temperature did little to bother you. Curled into the corner of your stone cell you sat, your tears turning to dry, heaving sobs. Your poor child; the spark of light that was the proof of your love for Ardyn…was gone. Ripped away from your embrace before departing this world forever. He sounded so scared in those final moments, his cries still echoing inside your mind. You clawed at your hair as your sobs continued, begging for that accursed sound to stop as it taunted you.

“Do not despair little nymph, all is not loss.”

Your head jerked upward so fast, you felt a brief spell of vertigo from the harsh movement. Standing before you, opposite the bars of your prison cell, stood a black-haired woman; clad in a kimono of black silk with white and gold embellishing. Though her eyes remained closed you could feel them pierce through your flesh and gaze into your soul. “…Who are you?”

“I have many names, but you may call me Gentiana; a Messenger.”

You rose shakily to your feet, eyes glaring in outrage at the woman that stood before you. “How dare you…How dare you show your face before me”

“Your anger is justified, but let it be known-

“Justified!? I lost my SON! MY HUSBAND!” You screeched, the anger and sorrow becoming too much for you to bare. “He was murdered, before my very eyes and I did NOTHING! My precious boy....my sweet King…. gone…all gone.”

Gentiana watched as you fell to your knees, hands clenching the iron bars of your prison, drowning in the ocean of your sorrow. She knelt beside you, gently grasping your hands; her own as cold as ice. “Your son knows you would have taken his place if you could have. And it is the love you hold for him that he will always remember.”

You stared up at the woman in surprise, her kind words a lifeline in the storm of emotions you felt. She opened her eyes briefly at you and smiled, “sometimes we forget…how fragile mortals can be….”

“Yet you still forsook my husband.”

“In darkness the Accursed must walk, until that day when the King of Kings will come; purging our star of its scourge.” Gentiana gave you a sad smile, “you are brave little nymph. Though I ask you this: will you stand beside your King even in the darkest of times? Is your courage as strong as your love?”

You did not even ponder her questions, answering immediately with a nod of your head, eyes shining with the fire of determination. “Yes.”

“Then come with me, and we shall see if your words ring true.”

The door to your cell creaked open, before Gentiana spun on her heel, walking down the dungeon corridor. Quickly you followed, the once warm corridors of the Citadel feeling unbearably cold, with the temperature falling with every step you took. Your breath puffed out in small clouds as you shivered, following your guide throughout the place that was once your home. At long last you arrived at your destination: the royal gardens, frozen in ice. Large icicles clung to the cherry blossom trees while frost covered the ground; the roses you once loved now trapped in a prison of ice, forever frozen in a state of full-bloom.

“When the King of Kings shall come, the true test will begin. For now; sleep brave nymph....and wait for the dawn.”

You shivered in the frozen air as the Messenger placed to fingers to her lips before gently pressing them to your forehead. Instantly the world seemed to stop; your limbs becoming heavy as the winter air creeped through your veins. Soon the death-like chill consumed your entire body, causing your legs to fail you as you fell backward into the lake with a small splash. As you sunk deeper into the water you watched the moonlight fade away as darkness clouded your vision….

“Awaken, little nymph, the time has come….” The Messengers voice whispered into your mind.

“Dad, there’s someone in the lake!”

“By the Six! Someone call the physician, she’s still breathing!”

And there’s the prologue! I hope you all enjoyed it and please stay tuned for the next chapter (which I am working on as fast as I can). Take care everyone! ^_^

The Manor

This little thing can be read as a partner to my drabble Kiss the Pain Away or on its own, as it was originally intended since I actually wrote this one first. Note that this is based off the movie’s version of what happened in the final battle (except for Goyle's death which was originally Crabbe’s), and relies heavily on the deleted scene in which Draco hands over his wand to Harry after he reveals himself to be alive. 

Malfoy Manor was cold and empty. The neat order of its past was now a chaos of debris and damage. The center piece of the foyer, a three hundred year old chandelier, was a shatter of glass shards and twisted gold on the white marble floor. Greek statues were dismembered, stone body parts strewn across the hall. Ghosts of the horrors that had taken place there seemed to echo off the walls to whisper terrible and terrifying things to their visitors. 

Its appearance would be frightening to anyone else stepping in, but to Draco Malfoy it was a melancholy that stung at his eyes. He, of course, had seen it much worse. At least this time the only occupants of the mansion were himself and his parents. 

The young heir stepped cautiously into the entrance hall, half afraid that there would be someone lurking in the shadows waiting to finish off the masters of Malfoy Manor. After all, most of Britain wanted him dead, or in a cell where he would die anyway. His body went stiff at the thought, but he took in a breath, gave a quick nod, and trekked further into what used to be his childhood home. 

The moment he stepped into the dining room his lips paled and his hands gripped and tore at his stomach. He was sure to be sick at the stench of it. The room felt evil. It was as if the wood from the table had absorbed every vile word spoken in its presence, had soaked up the blood of the murdered into its bark. Draco felt the torture in his palms, could feel the snake pressing down on his feet. The scaly creature seemed to have wrapped itself around his lungs, for he could not breathe. It was all for the best, however, as he was afraid to take in that breath because he knew even the air would betray him and poison him with the lingering venom in the room. 

He saw a haze cover his eyes, but before he could slip away, a frail hand was pulling him back as the small fingers danced on his back. With cleared sight, he turned to see his mother standing still by his side. He was beyond thankful for her presence, for he didn’t feel the need for composure around her. He felt no shame for his fears. 

She lead him, hand in hand, to the sitting room. The floors were completely devoid of their original contents. There were no plush chairs, the tea table had disappeared as well as the porcelain candle sticks sitting on top of it, and the painting of Abraxas Malfoy was scorched black. Narcissa gave here son’s hand a small squeeze and then uncharacteristically lowered herself to the ground where she sat with her legs folded neatly underneath herself. Draco sat without question next to her, pulling his legs to his chest and crossing his arms over his knees. He turned to his mother as she gave him a small smile, and then looked over to his father standing tall in the doorway. The elder Malfoy didn’t offer any comment on their improper arrangement, and instead joined the two, legs criss crossed on the floor.

On a day five years ago, Draco would have laughed at the sight of his father’s robes collecting dust as he sat like a child with his chin in his hand, but recently he’d been finding it very hard to find things amusing, and everything his father did, Draco now saw as nothing more than pathetic. 

“Well, isn’t it nice to be home again?” Narcissa spoke into the empty room. Draco eyed her incredulously. Lucius huffed and rolled his eyes skyward. They could think of a million other adjectives for what being “home” again felt like and none of them were in any way pleasant. 

“I’d rather be in Paris,” Lucius complained. 

Draco, and he hated to admit this, agreed with him. Though it had been a little more than merely difficult living out of two rooms for the worse part of three months, he hadn’t had anyone attempt to murder or arrest him there, and he could admit that he would miss that luxury. 

“We’d have to return sometime,” Narcissa reminded them. Lucius grunted and Draco sighed. She was, as always, completely right. They couldn’t have remained in hiding for too much longer, and it was better to hand yourself over to the trials than to be caught resisting them. Still, the trials seemed rather daunting. The odds were undoubtedly a sentence to Azkaban for them all. Even though Draco had not been of age when he had taken the mark, and though his mother’s arm was still bare, they had both knowingly assisted Voldemort, and that’s all that mattered in the eyes of the court. 

“Draco, you will plea that you were underage, and forced to do Voldemort’s bidding against your will in order to protect yourself and your family,” his mother’s voice not only broke his train of thought but spoke them aloud. 

“After all, it was you who vanquished the Dark Lord by handing your wand off so bravely to the hero-boy, Potter!” Lucius spat with mock boastfulness. 

Narcissa’s eyes tightened into slits towards her husband, and Draco glared at feet. The resentment he had for his father set fire to his insides and burned through the guilt of disappointing the man. 

Draco met his father’s gaze. “He saved my life.” 

Lucius’ eyes widened, “Yes! The great Harry Potter saved the day yet again! Now all mudbloods and purebloods alike are free to drain themselves of all magic in their bloodlines. What a happy day! Here, here for Harry bloody Potter!”

“He did,” Draco stated simply, “He saved us all from that flat-faced lunatic.” 

Narcissa coughed suspiciously into her hand as Draco raged on. He heard his father’s teeth snap, but he couldn’t make himself stop. It had been months since they had spoken to each other, and Draco had things he’d been dying to say to Lucius Malfoy. 

“More specifically, I was talking about me. Harry Potter saved my life. I was in the Room of Requirement on the night of the battle with Vincent and Greg. We’d gone there hoping to hand over Potter to Voldemort ourselves, but there was a fire. That’s how Vince died. He fell into the flames as I watched. I would have died along side him. I was inches from my death, but Harry Potter, the savior of the wizarding world, came back for me. I owe him my life. You owe him my life.” Draco stared at his father head on, challenging him to devalue the life of his son, and of all the horrible things that Lucius was, it appeared that was one thing he could not do. 

Draco breathed in through his nose and closed his eyes as if it would protect him from the judgment of the room. “In the courtyard, when I thought he was dead…I had been struggling for years with which side I was on, with what I wanted to stand for…and in that moment when I thought Voldemort had won, I knew I didn’t want that.  I knew where I wanted to stand. I wanted to stand beside Harry Potter, and so I gave him my wand, and I gave him my loyalty. He was alive, and I had a second chance, so I didn’t think twice. I finally made a choice for myself, and I don’t regret it,” Draco opened his eyes, “and you can’t make me feel any different about what I did. No matter what you say, I know I did the right thing. And when this is all over, if by some miracle I don’t get thrown into Azkaban, I am going to do everything in my power to redeem myself for all the horrible things I’ve done for you, especially if that means standing by Harry Potter.” 

A moment of silence and shock passed over Lucius before he stood. 

“I knew he was alive, but I said he was dead.” 

Lucius and Draco snapped their heads in Narcissa Malfoy’s direction. 

“What?” the two men spoke at once. 

“I knew he was alive, but I told Voldemort that he was dead,” she repeated, this time more firmly and with an edge of annoyance at having to repeat herself. 

“But…why?” Draco asked. 

Narcissa beamed at her son. “I walked up to him, laying on the dirt. He wasn’t moving, but he was breathing. I felt his pulse under my hand. He was alive, he was alive and I didn’t know if you were. I needed to know that you were alright, and so I asked him. I whispered it into his ear. I was terrified that they would hear me, or see my mouth move, but no one saw. No one said anything, except for Harry who told me that he’d seen you, that you were still alive in the castle, and so I lied for him.” 

The Malfoy men were speechless as they admired the ferocity that was a woman of Black. Draco heard his father leave the room, and instead of following him as she once would have done, Narcissa stayed seated on the marble floor. 

“Why did you go after him?” she spoke casually.  

“What do you mean?” Draco asked through gritted teeth. Of course he knew what she was asking. 

“Come now, you’re father may buy the tale that you were going there to turn him in, but I know you better than that. You had already made up your mind about which side you were on long before that night. Otherwise, he would have been in the Dark Lord’s clutches back when he was here, in the cells of the manor. So why did you follow him, if you had no intensions of handing him in?” 

Draco felt himself go warm and worked hard on avoiding his mother’s smug gaze. 

“I had to make sure he was safe.” Draco watched his mother turn frighteningly gleeful. “I had to make sure he would win,” he amended, “I assumed that if he were preoccupied with me, by me, that he would be less likely to do something stupid and get himself killed. Then we’d all be doomed.” 

Draco winced. His mother was still grinning ear to ear. “Hmm,” she pondered, “its funny how our own safety means very little when it comes to protecting those we care about.” 

Draco choked and gaped at his mother who had surely gone insane, but there she was appearing not only completely sane but like a fat cat picking its teeth with the feathers of its fowl prey. 

“Are you insane!?” he asked anyway, “I only saved Harry to save myself!”

“Harry, is it?” Narcissa said with a quelling look at her son. 

“Mother!” Draco whined, and his mother laughed, actually laughed, and then he was laughing too. Their laughter filled the room and echoed into the hall, chasing away the ghost and repelling the darkness, and for that indefinite moment, all was well.   

The Third and Last Interview with Smerdyakov

WHEN he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did not lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of the town where Smerdyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness, unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's cottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was wearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags, grumbling and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky drunken voice: Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg; I won't wait till he comes back. But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again; then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realised his presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that moment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt against Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintive "O - oh!" and then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was lying on his back, without movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen," thought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdyakov's. In the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill; "It's not that he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the tea away; he wouldn't have any." "Why, does he make a row?" asked Ivan coarsely. "Oh dear no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please don't talk to him too long," Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan opened the door and stepped into the room. It was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up, with fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was sitting on the sofa, wearing the same dressing-gown. The table had been brought out in front of the sofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book in yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow silent gaze, and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in his face; he was much thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there were blue marks under them. "Why, you really are ill?" Ivan stopped short. "I won't keep you long, I wont even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?" He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on it. "Why do you look at me without speaking? We only come with one question, and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina Ivanovna, been with you?" Smerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before. Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away. "What's the matter with you?" cried Ivan. "Nothing." "What do you mean by 'nothing'?" "Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone." "No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?" "Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smerdyakov, with a scornful smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him at their last interview, a month before. "You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look like yourself," he said to Ivan. "Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you., "But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you so worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright. "Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!" Ivan cried, intensely irritated. "Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said Smerdyakov, with a look of suffering. "Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go away." "I've no answer to give you," said Smerdyakov, looking down again. "You may be sure I'll make you answer!" "Why are you so uneasy?" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins to-morrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last? Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything." "I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of to-morrow?" Ivan articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes. "You don't understand?" he drawled reproachfully. "It's a strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a farce!" Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone of this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their last interview. "I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about you; there's no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling! Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, you did not murder him." Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha. "I know it was not I," he faltered. "Do you?" Smerdyakov caught him up again. Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder. "Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!" Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan with insane hatred. "Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it," he whispered furiously. Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed malignantly. "You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?" "You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand it now." "All I understand is that you are mad." "Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the use of going on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all on me, to my face? You murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your words I did it." "Did it? Why, did you murder him?" Ivan turned cold. Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him. "You don't mean to say you really did not know?" he faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed at him, and seemed unable to speak. Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg; I won't wait till he comes back, suddenly echoed in his head. "Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before me," he muttered. "There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No doubt he is here, that third, between us." "Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Ivan cried in alarm, looking about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner. "That third is God Himself - Providence. He is the third beside us now. Only don't look for Him, you won't find him." "It's a lie that you killed him!" Ivan cried madly. "You are mad, or teasing me again!" Smerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still fancied that Ivan knew everything and was trying to "throw it all on him to his face." "Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror. "He's mad!" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so that he knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who, entirely unaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it out and laid it on the table. "Here," he said quietly. "What is it?" asked Ivan, trembling. "Kindly look at it," Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low tone. Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began unfolding it, but suddenly drew back his fingers, as though from contact with a loathsome reptile. "Your hands keep twitching," observed Smerdyakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of hundred-rouble notes. "They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not count them. Take them," Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the notes. Ivan sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief. "You frightened me... with your stocking," he said, with a strange grin. "Can you really not have known till now?" Smerdyakov asked once more. "No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother, brother! Ach!" He suddenly clutched his head in both hands. "Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or without?" "It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch is quite innocent." "All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I can't speak properly." "You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,' and how frightened you are now," Smerdyakov muttered in surprise. "Won't you have some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I must hide this first." And again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call at the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring it them, but, looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on the table, and put it over the notes. The book was The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian. Ivan read it mechanically. "I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit down and tell me how you did it. Tell me all about it." "You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot." Ivan, as though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and, without getting up from his chair, threw it on the bench. "Speak, please, speak." He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would tell him all about it. "How it was done?" sighed Smerdyakov. "It was done in a most natural way, following your very words." "Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self-possession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as before. "Only tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened. Don't forget anything. The details, above everything, the details, I beg you." "You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar." "In a fit or in a sham one?" "A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream, and struggled, till they carried me out." "Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the hospital?" "No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me to the hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for years. For two days I was quite unconscious." "All right, all right. Go on." "They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition, for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there, near them. She's always been very kind to me, from my birth up. At night I moaned, but quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch to come." "Expecting him? To come to you?" "Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no doubt that he'd come that night, for being without me and getting no news, he'd be sure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to, and do something." "And if he hadn't come?" "Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to it without him." "All right, all right. speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above all, don't leave anything out!" "I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was certain, for I had prepared him for it... during the last few days.... He knew about the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting him." "Stay," Ivan interrupted; "if he had killed him, he would have taken the money and carried it away; you must have considered that. What would you have got by it afterwards? I don't see." 0 "But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him, that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovitch, as I was the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the corner behind the ikons, for no one would have guessed that place, especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay, in the corner behind the ikons. It would have been absurd to keep it under the mattress; the box, anyway, could be locked. But all believe it was under the mattress. A stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away in a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons and have taken away the money next moming or even that night, and it would have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon upon that." "But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?" "If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then, and then I'd make out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but Dmitri Fyodorovitch who had taken the money after beating him." "Stop... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who killed him; you only took the money?" "No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he was the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now because... because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself, and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my very face, you are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the whole affair, and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You are the rightful murderer." "Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!" Ivan cried, unable to restrain himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself till the end of the conversation. "You still mean that Tchermashnya? Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent, if you really took Tchermashnya for consent? How will you explain that now?" "Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made an outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if I'd been suspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his accomplice; on the contrary, you would have protected me from others.... And when you got your inheritance you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the rest of your life. For you'd have received your inheritance through me, seeing that if he had married Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had a farthing." "Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards," snarled Ivan. "And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed against you?" "What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to Tcherinashnya? That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation you would either have gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened. I should have known that you didn't want it done, and should have attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial, and that you'd overlook my having the three thousand. And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me afterwards, because then I should have told it all in the court; that is, not that I had stolen the money or killed him - I shouldn't have said that - but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't consent to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have cornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could always have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death, and I tell you the public would have believed it all, and you would have been ashamed for the rest of your life." "Was I then so eager, was I?" Ivan snarled again. "To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing it." Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently had some design. Ivan felt that. "Go on," he said. "Tell me what happened that night." "What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the master shout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got up and came out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness. I lay there waiting, my heart beating; I couldn't bear it. I got up at last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive, and I heard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he shouted to me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri Fyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory! "Where?' I whispered. 'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a bit," I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon Grigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, was the thought that came into my head, and I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as Grigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake up. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over me, till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master and said, 'She's here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in.' And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly gasped, but couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.' He looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful, but afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was funny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd agreed upon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence, before his eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he heard the taps, he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but he stood in the way to prevent me passing. 'Where is she? Where is she?' He looked at me, all of a tremble. 'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so frightened of me as all that, it's a bad lookout!' And my legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa Ignatyevna would run up, or something else might happen. I don't remember now, but I must have stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why, she's there, there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I said. 'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was frightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to her yourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle in the window. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?' Though he cried that, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he didn't want to move away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so frightened he didn't dare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she is,' said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. 'Here she is; she's in the bush, laughing at you, don't you see her?' He suddenly believed it; he was all of a shake - he was awfully crazy about her - and he leaned right out of the window. I snatched up that iron paper-weight from his table; do you remember, weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank down suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards, covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot. I wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the ikons, took the money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor and the pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden all of a tremble, straight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it- you know that hollow. I'd marked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I wrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out of the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory Vassilyevitch has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if he is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear witness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have killed him and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense and impatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vassilyevitch was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden. And that set it all going and set my mind at rest." He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes averted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was breathing hard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was impossible to tell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what. "Stay," cried Ivan pondering. "What about the door? If he only opened the door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw it before you went." It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different tone, not angry as before, so if anyone had opened the door at that moment and peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject. "As for that door and having seen it open, that's only his fancy," said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. "He is not a man, I assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch after that." "Listen... " said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an effort to grasp something. "Listen. There are a lot of questions I want to ask you, but I forget them... I keep forgetting and getting mixed up. Yes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the envelope and leave it there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?... When you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it were the right thing to do... but why, I can't understand..." "I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I did for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put them in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and addressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such desperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the envelope? No, if the robber had been someone like me, he'd simply have put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he could. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew about the envelope by hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it, for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as possible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the envelope down, without having time to think that it would be evidence against him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring himself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply taking what was his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even bragged aloud before everyone that he'd go and take his property from Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as though I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself and I hadn't prompted him; so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively watered at my suggestion." "But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried Ivan, overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with alarm. "Mercy on us! Could anyone think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It was all thought out beforehand." "Well... well, it was the devil helped you!" Ivan cried again. "No, you are not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought..." He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible distress. But as the table blocked his way, and there was hardly room to pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him, as he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before. "Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am keeping you to answer to-morrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised his hand, "perhaps I, too, was guilty; perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's... death, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think, and perhaps I didn't urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on! But no matter, I will give evidence against myself to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I shall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together. And whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you give, I'll face it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself! But you must confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's how it shall be!" Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing eyes alone it could be seen that it would be so. "You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow," Smerdyakov commented, without the least irony, with apparent sympathy in fact. "We'll go together," Ivan repeated. "And if you won't go, no matter, I'll go alone." Smerdyakov paused as though pondering. "There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he concluded at last positively. "You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed reproachfully. "You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's more, it will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill (and it looks like it, too), or that you're so sorry for your brother that you are sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me, for you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And who will believe you, and what single proof have you got?" "Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me." Smerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side. "Take that money away with you," Smerdyakov sighed. "Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if you committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him with great surprise. "I don't want it," Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that money in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly because 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God, there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right there. So that's how I looked at it." "Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan, with a wry smile. "With your guidance." "And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the money?" "No, I don't believe," whispered Smerdyakov. "Then why are you giving it back?" "Leave off... that's enough!" Smerdyakov waved his hand again. "You used to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset, too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself.... Only there'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to give evidence," Smerdyakov decided with conviction. "You'll see," said Ivan. "It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you are far too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on anyone- that's what you care most about. You won't want to spoil your life for ever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like him than any of his children; you've the same soul as he had." "You are not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his face. "You are serious now!" he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov with a different expression. "It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money." Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything. "I shall show them at the court to-morrow," he said. "Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own; you may simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court." Ivan rose from his seat. "I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need you for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!" "Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smerdyakov said, all at once looking strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even!" he added, with a bitter smile. "You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!" "Till to-morrow," cried Ivan, and moved to go out. "Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again." Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them for ten seconds. "Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan Fyodorovitch!" he called after him again. "What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping. "Good-bye!" "Till to-morrow!" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage. The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he thought with a grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so tortured him of late. His determination was taken, "and now it will not be changed," he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him carry the peasant to the police station, promising him three roubles. The man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded in his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the expenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly. "If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow," he reflected with satisfaction, "I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way," he thought at the same instant, with still greater satisfaction, "although they have decided that I am going out of my mind!" Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He decided the question by turning back to the house. "Everything together to-morrow!" he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his gladness and selfsatisfaction passed in one instant. As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something agonising and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as though searching for something. This happened several times. At last his eyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.