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liliesoftherain · 4 years

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A Knight’s Honor

Ch 1 - Hold a Star

Masterlist

Summary: You are a female squire, who is not willing to give up your dreams of Knighthood to become a slave to society to save face.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

SLOWBURN

A/N: Here is the first chapter! It’s like 2am but I couldn’t get it out of my head so I started writing and realized the direction I want this to go is going to cause it to be a bit lengthy. SO I’m not sure if this will really count as a full on slow burn but I’m going to try my best! Thanks for reading!

The sky was a hushed dark, the only present source of light was the wisps of the sunbeams that peaked out from over the hills towards the east. Allowing light orange and pink tones to spread and fade into the midnight blues. The stars were also taking it upon themselves to disappear, leaving a blank canvas that was ready to painted on. You knew it wouldn’t be long before the new brilliant baby blue and feathery whites of clouds took over and spread out as far as the eye could see. It was always a breathtaking sight to see the dawn of a new day, a gentle reminder of knowing you were alive and living your dream.

“Keep movin’ lassie, ‘therwise yoo’ll be missin’ yer breakfest an’ ye dinnae want ‘at.”

Well, almost living your dream.

“Yes Sir.”

You continued to scoop the horse dung, going almost nose blind to the smell as you have been at it for a good 20 minuets already. It was thankfully the last chore of your morning duties for today and you could go straight to breakfast after this. Lazily you look back towards the sky, a small sigh escaping your lips as you continued with you work.

It was, and would always be, a dreadful chore to complete before you were able to partake in breakfast. Even though you only had to worry about it once per week, it was still disgusting to have to do when all you wanted was the smell of bread in your nose, not the smell of dung.

Yet you managed, quickly growing used to the idea and trying not to let it both you as you scarfed down whatever the lovely kitchen hands whipped up. You could not afford to to be hungry for the rest of the day, breakfast was always too early and lunch so far afterwards. If you could call it lunch. It was mostly a quick snack you were able to have for a few moments before being pulled into even more duties your Knight deemed of needing completion, duties that were a must to get done before you could even think about dinner.

Being a Knight’s Squire was all around exhausting and not what you once thought it was when you were a child. Sure, you were able to do extraordinary tasks that you only once dreamed about, such as overnight ventures to different kingdoms and quests galore. However, with your great Kingdom at peace, there were plenty of thrilling tasks that weren’t needed, like following your Knight onto the battlefield and helping to protect your home. Yes, you were greatly blessed to be born into these peaceful times, not have the displeasure of the blood and sacrifice of war, so you often scolded yourself when you found your thoughts drifting to battles and missions alike.

No, instead of dealing with disastrous enemies of front lines, you found your action of the practice field, and Lord knows you’ve seen that all too many times.

You often times loved the feeling training provided you, yet you were always disgruntled when you were frowned upon due to your gender. Not by many, in fact there were many more who believed you had every right to be here, but others tended to disagree. It was hard to force someone out of their backwater ways, and it wasn’t even just the elders who held onto this ideal, it was from your own peers as well. One peer in particular really, and it hurt you to a point to think someone you have known for most of your life could come to loath you so.

To this day you still had no idea as to why.

As a child, you had always pictured yourself as a Knight. Dreaming of the day you were able to attend wild adventures and the freedoms it would bring. Your mother, who had wanted nothing more than to groom you into the finer life, was always displeased at your father who gave you the encouragement to follow your heart. He was a giant of a man, towering over most, feared and respected among his peers. Yet he was always so loving and kind to you, and threw memories of him always stayed no matter how much time as passed since he has moved on from this world. He wanted you to understand the importance of knowing when to rely on someone, and when to rely on yourself. Your mother thought it absurd for you to know such things, saying how once you became of age, old enough to wed, you would be tethered to a man who could protect you better than you could ever protect yourself.

Which was completely and utterly injudicious.

You were most definitely able to take care of yourself, and you found no need for a man to constrain you into a submissive lifestyle that would no doubt lead you to dread the mornings you were so fond of. All because that would mean if you were awake, you would still be in the nightmare of a domesticated life.

You wanted an eternity of freedom, not a lifetime in a prison cell disguised as your home.

“Thenk ye again lassie, ye wark strong. Jist need tae quit starin’ at th’ sky.” The man chuckled, patting your head roughly with his large hand.

This man, Sir Campbell, was a Knight you helped during this particular morning chore. He was one of few to come and serve the Kingdom from a foreign land, causing his differences in tongue and spirit. While this was and always will be you’re home, the feeling of some kind of sturdy connection was formed.

He was different from his peers as were you.

It was the similarities of the differences you carried that had brought you together, you thought of him family as he did you.

“The sky is an endless adventure, Sir. Can you imagine if we were able to explore the noble skies as we did the rolling plains of foreign lands?”

He grinned at your words, an own thoughtful expression pulling on his thinned lips as he held his bearded chin in mock thought.

“Lass, ye hink tae much. ‘en again that’s whit makes ye sae sharp-witted isnae it?”

You smiled back, eyes shining with mirth at knowing you once again thought of something your elder had not.

“I’d like to think so Sir, although I get my wonder from you, as you do not think of such things on your own.”

He barked out a laugh, horses whining at the sudden noise that had caught them off guard, and echoed around them.

“Ye will be th’ death ay me yit!”

“I hope that is a day that will never come to pass Sir, not until the stars have been held in our own bare hands.”

“Ah pray ‘at day come tae pass, lassie. noo rin alang, gang enjoy yer weel deserved breakfest. Duty will be ringin;’ shortly.”

“More like screaming.”

“Aye, ‘at Sir Hizashi surly can yeel i’s true. Rin alang noo!”

You bowed your head respectfully before taking your leave once you finished putting the shovel away in its rightful spot. His laughter still ringing in your ears, causing your mood to uplift as if following suit with the edges of your mouth.

You made your way to the water spicket that was as tall as your breasts, and lifted your arms to pump the bar till water flowed from the spout. Using it to rinse your hands and face clean of a hard morning, you then dried them on your tunic, which you wore over your chain mail.

You of course wore a protective layer under the chain mail. No matter how much heat you could withstand due to your ability, you were not immune to the burns and irritations it could leave if it was placed directly on unclothed skin. You wore somewhat lose trousers, but it was only baggy enough to not be mistaken for tight undergarments, as your tunic fell down to your mid thighs. A belt holding your sword was wrapped securely around your waste, the simple leather having immense strength to hold up not only you sheath and blade, but other necessities you found yourself carrying in pouches which were also strapped on.

A simple look, but the look of a squire indeed. Not one of a high Lady of the Court.

Your feet carried you to one of your most favorite spots, the place by the kitchens. It’s were the meals were held, meals of those who lived in the castle walls yet were unable to sit at the table that was intended for those of higher status. It was an austere little place, but that did not mean it wasn’t full of life. Few rows of benches were pushed together right near a door that led into the kitchens themselves, lanterns placed along the wall behind them. It was a place that was never overcrowded, but quaint enough to be able to sit together and laugh and talk about the hardship of the days like it wasn’t a problem at all.

You spotted a man you knew very well already sitting at the only available table, and gladly quicken your pace to reach your destination faster than your fatigued body would have liked. You snatched a roll from his plate once your were close enough, taking a bite from the delicious bread as you sat to his right. He barley glanced your way before reaching out to grab another roll from the basket to his left, letting out a sigh while he did.

“Tis too early to be dealing with you.”

“Ah, you flatter me kindly Shinsou.” You laughed.

“Anything but I assure you, (l/n).” Even with his exasperated tone seeping into his guttural voice, he threw you a small smile in welcome.

He enjoyed your presence and often did seek you out for it, ignoring the few who once scolded him for it years prior. He did not care you were a woman, woman or not you could kick anyone’s behind if you saw fit. You were here, just like everyone else, training to become a Knight. While many would complain, he knew you had the most reason to. Yet you never once spoke of the hardships of training. You bared through it, proving time and time again that you wanted to be here and you deserved to be as well.

“I say, you become Sir Aizawa more and more with every passing day, tis almost disturbingly so how you two are alike in manners.” You shook your head, grinning as you grab a bowl and began to fill it with warm porridge that was present on your right. That was one of the perks of finishing earlier than expected, besides having more down time, the food was still warm.

“If I am becoming my mentor than you must know you are surely becoming yours.”

“I am not as boisterous as you believe, Sir Hizashi is a man whose energy knows no bounds. No one can thinking of beating him in such a game.” You rolled your eyes, already picturing the assault your ears were to be faced with today as soon as you went to report. Sir Hizashi was a pleasant Knight and wondrous mentor, with many talents and a vast knowledge no one gave him enough credit for. Yet, he was always so terribly loud, often forgetting his surroundings and letting loose with wild battle cries and deafening laughs that stayed echoing through the valleys for months.

“You cannot play me for a fool, (l/n). I see it grow in you each day.”

“If you see me as Sir Hizashi then you must realize you will never be able to rid yourself of me.”

“Oh?” He raised a brow, a wooden cup up to his parted lips to drink the lukewarm liquid, “what is it that makes you believe such a tale?”

“Our mentors are both kindred spirits of course, they have known one another since childhood and they continue to be in each other’s life to this very day.” You beamed, a such intense look of happiness on your face Shinsou could not find it in him to pull away from it.

“How joyous,” his hand came to pinch the bridge of his nose as your dazzling look became devilish with the smug smile that taunted him so, “ you will only serve to deepen my scars of sleepless nights.”

“Oh Shinsou, I am afraid my presence can do nothing more to what is already permanently etched into your skin. Not even help it I’m afraid.”

“You may bet right.” He chuckled, looking down at you and plucking the apple from your hand that you had just picked up not a second prior.

“Oi-” He cut you off with a loud crunch of a now ruined apple, his chewing only serving to fuel your anger.

“You sly fox what was that for?”

“You always pick the most juiciest apples from the bunch, tis only natural I may want a taste for myself.” He used the red fruit to hide the twitch of his lips at your bewildered expression.

Your reactions were always the best to witness, always making an exaggerated face for no reason other than you could, or perhaps it was just because you never realized how much emotion you actually shown to others.

“I pick the tastiest apples for myself, not to share! You gluttonous cutpurse!”

The sound of loud footsteps heading in your direction caused the pair of you to halt your conversation and glance up, seeing a pair of Squires making their way to your table. You sent out a quick huff of breath, unsure if you were willing to deal with his attitude so early in the morning. Shinosu kept his mouth shut, unwilling to express his distaste as verbally as you, but still felt it nonetheless.

“Ah Shinsou! (l/n)! Tis good to see you both in high health this fine morning!” One smiled, taking a seat in front of you while the other boy took a spot to the left of him, diagonally from you.

“Kirishima.” Shinsou let out a curt nod, having no will ill towards this gentleman at all. Only confusion, if not pity, for how he has to put up with the child next to him.

“Good to see you in such high spirits as always Kirishima.” You gave a polite smile, quickly snatching your apple back from Shinsou’s unsuspecting hand.

You innocently smiled at the red head in front of you as if you did nothing wrong, ignore the glaring and grumbling from the boy beside you.

“You two are the ones in high spirits it seems!” Kirishima laughed as the exchange, seeing your pleased expression and Shinsou’s exasperated one.

“Tch.”

The noise caused a flutter of irritation to pass through you, but you ignored it and glanced at the blond who had not spoke a word yet. Focusing on filling his bowl with breakfast instead of pleasantries. He bit harshly into a roll, setting the ladled down once he finished scooping the now cooling porridge.

“Good morning Bakugou.” You spoke shortly, not wanting to be rude to the other member of the table.

“Shove off.”

You clicked your tongue, not knowing why you bothered in the first place as you knew that would be his response. Kirishima gave you an apologetic smile, changing the subject to ask about future events the current day will hold for the lot of you. He was always able to lift the mood so easily, no matter the circumstances.

It was an enjoyable breakfast while it lasted, save for the brooding boy who only chimed in with insults or annoyed grunts of disagreement.

“As lovely as this has been, I must be off now. I am assisting Sir Aizawa in his visit of a neighboring kingdom. We are simple escorts of the Chamberlain and his youngest brother. “ Shinsou sighed.

The sun was more visible in the changing sky, almost fully so. Only a sliver of it hidden from view as the sky lightened because of it, allowing the dim lanterns to be shut off and replaced by a brighter source.

“Oh,” You frowned, “I assume you will be gone for a few days then?”

“Three at most, if it can be helped.” He mirrored your reaction.

He never liked leaving you alone. He never has doubted your ability to take care of yourself, that wasn’t the issue. More so it had to do with the glaring boy sitting a few feet away, sharp crimson glaring daggers into warm violet. Bakugou was by no means the kindest man to his peers around him, but he seemed to have an extra special case of bitter anger for you that exceeded his normal gruffness by tenfold. Shinsou knew it weighed heavily on you, once friend turned foe all because of a dream. Yet you always pushed through, it was one of your most admirable traits in his opinion.

Your unwavering ability to overcome anything.

“Worried your protection will not be around to save you, (y/n)?” Bakugou sneered, his gaze never leaving Shinsou’s.

“You assume false, Katsuki. I have no need for anyone’s protection but my own.” You spat back, hating how the bastard wouldn’t even look at you.

As if he seen you as something less than a person, something that didn’t even deserve his time of day.

“Come now you two, please no fighting so early! Let’s end this breakfast in good spirits and go on with our day.” Kirishima pleaded, always being the mediator, bless his soul.

“A day is only so lovely when the face of that wench is not in my sights.” Bakugou hissed, clenching his teeth as he felt the anger rise in him as Shinsou stood and grabbed your arm.

You were half tempted to lunge at the foul-mouth boy, but Shinsou’s strong hand on your upper arm held you back.

“Leave the man-child be, let us be on our way. I bid thee good day gentlemen.” Shinsou spoke, cold eyes turning away from Bakugou to address Kirishima, the only person his goodbye was intended for.

“Enjoy your day, may it go by swiftly for you,” You spoke to Kirishima who just gave a wavering grin, uneasy at the tension that had grown. You faced Bakugou who finally had the decency to look at you, and you could see the vexation boiling in his eyes, “you hog-hearted knave.”

You left your farewell at that, ignoring the shouts he threw as you and Shinsou as you grabbed your dishes, bringing them over to be rinsed and then set inside the kitchens for proper cleaning from the kitchen hands later.

You glanced back at the table to see them both barley rising to follow what you two have just done, before turning back to your friend with a displeased frown.

“I wish you were not my voice of reason.”

“You would be damned if I were not.” He pointed out, turning to walk away.

“You are right, of course. Yet that does not mean I like it.” Your frown lifted into a tender smile as you reached out to stop him from walking off, knowing you going to have to bid your best friend farewell.

“Like it or not, I will always be.” He turned back to face you, saying those words on purpose. Understanding the weight of them. While the kingdom was at peace, that did not mean all danger was vanquished.

It was simply hidden better.

“Aw, so you do agree that we are kindred spirits? Shinsou you sappy sack of flour!”

“Hush your tongue, wretched girl,” He grinned, “You best behave while I am gone, understand?”

“Yes yes, I am able to to take care of myself and be without problems for a measly two days.” You rolled your eyes, mischief all over your face though the words you spoken were intended for innocence.

“I am serious.” He deadpanned, noticing the look that only grew at his words.

“And so am I.”

“I do not believe it.”

“You are right to do so.”

He groaned as you laughed, shaking his head at you in mock disappointment. His look then hardened and he took your hand in his, as if he were about to shake it.

“In three days.” Seriousness in his eyes as he whispered.

This was an unspoken tradition between the both of you. A silent promise to return, return alive, in the allotted time given.

“In three days.” You repeated, your grip on his hand tightening before releasing altogether.

A smile crossed you both before you took off down separate paths, you glancing up at the sky wishing to see the stars once more without having to look back at the boy walking away. Because you knew, Shinsou was the closest thing you would get to accomplish your wild dream of holding a star. It may be silly, but if it would be anyone, it would be him: a shining star who had the world beneath his feat and the endless sky around him.

However, unknown to you, a different kind of star was staring into your back as you left. This star was as big and bright as millions of stars together and was known as the sun. And be damned if the sun was out shined by a measly twinkle in the sky he owned.

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kiwigoat-art-shitposts · 4 years

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These are WIP design that I have for some of my Cookie run OTP kiddos here:

Sparkling x Roguefort - Summer Spice Cookie "Cute and sweet on the outside, spicy and dangerous on the inside"

Lemon x Hero - Sour Pear Cookie "100 yard stare"

Dark Choco x Knight - Coffee Machiatto Cookie "Done whit everyone's shit"

Rockstar x Herb -Sweet Herbal Cookie "Lofi and flowers"

Mint Choco x Whipped cream - Icy Mint Cookie "Ladies don't start fights, but they can finish them"

Lilac x Yogurt Cream - Lavender Cookie "Talkative and fun loving"

#sparkling cookie #roguefort cookie #lemon cookie #hero cookie #dark choco cookie #knight cookie #rockstar cookie #herb cookie #mint choco cookie #whipped cream cookie #lilac cookie #yogurt cream cookie #cookie run #ocs

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keelywolfe · 4 years

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FIC: Side Effects ch.1 (baon)

Summary: In the aftermath of from the events in 'Internal Disputes' and 'Bedside Stories', the fallout has an effect on everyone and they all have their own issues to deal with.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

Waking up alone was not unusual in the scheme of things. That was most days and even on weekends the bed next to Stretch would usually be empty by the time he was ready to roll out for the day. Which wasn’t to say he’d never been awakened early by an amorous and handsy Edge, ready for a different kind of wakeup call, but Stretch tended to fall back asleep afterward. In his humble opinion, it wasn’t worth getting out of bed until there was some form of light outside and that was a fact that Stretch was willing to stand by, with plenty of Twitter polls on his side.

So when he reached out sleepily to sweep a hand over the sheets, he wasn’t exactly surprised when the only thing that greeted his touch was 1000-thread count sheets. A little disappointed, yeah, a smidge grouchy, absolutely, but definitely not surprised.

Stretch sighed and rolled over to give the ceiling fan a good stare. It only stayed in place innocently, the fan blades not pausing one whit at his mood. Which, to be fair, Stretch wasn’t exactly sure he could even classify his current mood; right now it was more a jambalaya than any single ingredient. What a week.

After the kitchen crisis, once Edge got his fill of groping Stretch’s soul, they’d gone upstairs, Stretch helping Edge to hop along for once rather than gathering up his crutches. That’d been a comedy of errors right there, they’d probably looked like some kind of tortured three-legged race, hobbling along. They’d gone right to bed, do not pass go, skip the two-hundred, and lain there wrapped around each other, Edge still petting his sternum even though his soul was no longer visible. Stretch really had no idea when he’d fallen asleep or when Edge crept out of bed, but it must’ve been a fun trip downstairs without his crutches. Hopefully not a literal one.

Stretch gave up on his contemplation of the ceiling fan to glance at his phone. The time made him blink. After using so much magic to heal Red, he’d been expecting to sleep in ‘til noon before guiltily creeping out to feed the ladies. But unless he’d accidentally changed the time zone, it was only nine o’clock. Huh. Magic drain was exhausting and he hadn’t eaten so much as a piece of burnt toast afterward and yet, he didn’t feel tired. Honestly, he almost felt energized, ready to get up and face the day.

Was this how Edge always felt in the morning? That was kind of terrifying. No wonder only half of the brotherly teams got to be energetic, hell, just thinking about Red waking up with his battery fully charged was giving him the creeps, he’d probably try to take over the world.

Thinking of that little pain-in-the-ass goblin made him wince. He really hoped Red was doing okay. There were no text messages waiting for him, but maybe Edge knew.

Welp, may as well get up and go find out. Maybe they’d be going on with the shitty continuation of opposite week, where he got to be the protective one, Edge got to lay around all day, and both of them would be a lot happier when things got back to normal.

The bedroom was a little chilly outside the toasty warm blankets, enough that he scrambled over to where his bathrobe was hung on the back of the bedroom door. Stretch slipped it on over his bare bones. Real clothes could come after coffee. He opened the door and that was when he heard muffled voices that were definitely not from the television. Kinda early for reasonable visitors and Stretch tightened the belt on his bathrobe, no point in giving a free show, and peered downstairs to see what sort of nefarious characters decided to drop by this time.

Honestly, they needed one of those prohibited door signs, except they could cross off ‘solicitors’ and write in ‘drama’. Stretch had pretty much had his fill of that sort of excitement, thanks.

But nefarious probably wasn’t the best way to describe the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Monsters who were standing at their kitchen door with Edge. Familiar Monsters, actually, Stretch thought they worked at the Embassy. In their hands were mops and carriers loaded with cleaning supplies. Their pointed ears swiveled in his direction and they looked up in unison, both giving him a wave as they went into the kitchen, although what the hell that wary look was for, he wasn’t sure. Usually he wasn’t considered the scary skeleton in the closet in this relationship.

Usually.

Edge was leaning on his crutches and as soon as Stretch got a good look, relief flooded his soul. He was looking pretty bright-eyed himself even minus the tail, and his smile was warm.

“Good morning, love.” Edge called up. There was no sign left of his near-breakdown the night before, so maybe a snuggly night’s sleep did him some good. Firmly competent looked like the phrase of the day and Stretch was down with that, he really was.

30 seconds on the stairs seemed like a criminal waste of time this morning and Stretch shortcutted down instead, very nearly right on top of Edge. He happily ignored his husband’s exasperated sigh, stealing a kiss before he murmured, “mornin’. what’s going on?”

Not that he couldn’t guess, they probably weren’t using the mops to whip up a five-course meal.

Once Edge was finished shaking his head in fond resignation over unnecessary teleportation, he pulled him close, trying to work out a way to hold him around the crutches. It took him a minute to whomp up a strategy that let him lean a little weight on Stretch, the rest on a carefully balanced crutch, and none at all on his casted foot, and only then did Edge offer up a lingering return kiss of his own.

By the time, he drew back, Stretch almost forgot his own question and Edge’s satisfied smirk meant he knew it, even as he said, “Sans sent a team over to check on our kitchen. What’s left of it. He explained to them about how the experiment you were doing went wrong and they’re going to handle the mess. I’m sure he would have brought them himself, but Red is still sleeping off that hangover.”

Coded message received, Red was doing okay. But it was the previous little tidbit that cut through his relief and brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. His mouth dropped open, excuse me, his experiment? And he couldn’t say a damn thing, not with those guys working in the kitchen with the satellite dishes they had for ears all prepped to listen in on some sweet gossip. All he could do was glare at Edge, whose eye lights glittered with obvious amusement.

Dude, not cool. That was going to be all over the Embassy and probably topple the whole ‘showing up naked in a sheet’ as his highest rated fiasco. What a dick move, he liked to come up with his own disasters, thanks, he didn’t need help. Except, of the two of them, people would buy him blowing up the kitchen over Edge at about a thousand to one ratio. Which was probably why Sans came up with that scenario to begin with.

Stretch sighed. Welp, the cover story was out there and now they had to roll with it. Yeah, okay, he could take one for the team, but if he was taking the heat for this, it better have a reward, sexual favors preferred, and not from Sans, either.

He and Edge could discuss a payment plan later.

“that was very nice of sans,” Stretch gritted out. He jerked his head towards the kitchen. “are they even going to be able to clean it all up?”

“Possibly, but I’m not going to try.” Edge gave him another light kiss around his scowl, then let go and headed for the sofa. His small groan of relief as he put his foot up was a pretty damn big clue that he’d probably been standing too long. “I’ve decided with the amount of damage, I’d like to do a full remodel, instead.”

“yeah?” He knelt down to help Edge get his casted foot settled on the pillows. Most of the red paint on it was cleared away, leaving the drawings and signatures underneath tinted pink but it didn’t look too bad. Which meant Edge was probably up way too early if he’d gotten that cleaned up, the brat.

But back on subject before his brain train rattled off the wrong way. Huh, kitchen remodel. Edge had been living here for a few years before Stretch, and the kitchen was definitely his personal territory so if he wanted a makeover, totally his choice. To be honest, he’d sort of expected Edge to be distraught over his kitchen, but right now, he seemed pretty damn serene.

“i mean, yeah, you should. treat yourself.” He gave Edge a sour look, adding dryly, “not like i can complain, since i did ruin your kitchen and all. with my ‘experiments’.” Since their cleaning crew could hear but not see, he went ahead and gave it the whole finger quotes treatment. Probably needed to get Sans to give him the details about ‘the wreckening’, unless his plan was to go all ‘we don’t talk about science club’ with it.

A gloved hand smoothed over his skull, ripe with silent apology. Stretch leaned into it and let it mollify him, for now. “Today they’re only handling basic cleaning up. I’ll contact the building team and see when they’ll be available, and we can work out a plan. Did you want to help me pick out new tile?”

Uh. About as much as he wanted to install a few chalkboards around the house and give ‘em a good scratch whenever he walked by.

Edge must’ve read that off his face like a headline, because his mouth curved in faint amusement. “Then I’d like to ask a favor.”

“anything.” Seriously, picking out tile with Edge sounded as entertaining as weekend plans to watch paint dry. No pun intended.

“Someday, I will teach you all to ask for terms before agreeing so readily,” Edge murmured, almost to himself, then louder, “I have a couple pairs of trousers that I’d like you to take into the tailor for alterations. I’ve already spoken to them and given them measurements, but I need for the pant leg to fit around my cast for when I go back to work next week. I’m afraid my current attire doesn’t exactly fit with dress code.”

Edge looked down at himself in distaste and Stretch had to agree; it’d been pretty weird to see Edge lounging around in shorts all week long. Not that Stretch was complaining, he was fine with bare bones, even put up a good argument for it, which Edge successfully disputed with a firm ‘no’. Of course, he’d paired those shorts with plain t-shirts, no sweaters or button-ups even if he was chilly, because Angel forbid he doesn’t match, seriously, Edge might lose his membership to ‘Sharp Dressed Monthly’. But yeah, if he went into the Embassy dressed like that, they might arrest him as like, a spy or a clone or something.

“yeah, you gotta follow dress code. you don’t want janice to have to punish you for being a bad boy,” Stretch said, slyly, just to see if he could get Edge’s socket to twitch. “that’s my job.”

Edge ignored that because he was boring that way. “A sense of normalcy would be much appreciated as well.”

That had a certain weariness layered beneath it and Stretch tossed his playfulness on a mental shelf for later use. He settled a hand over Edge’s gloved one, squeezing gently as he asked softly, “babe? you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” His firm tone of voice was pretty convincing, but, maybe he wasn’t quite as okay as he seemed? Hard to tell and there was no way Edge wasn’t going to put up a good front with anyone else in the house. “I did want to ask, have you considered allowing me to speak with your therapist for my assessment? I’m not trying to rush you, there’s plenty of time, I’m only working on planning out my week.”

“i--” Stretch sank back on his heels, swallowing hard. He hadn’t considered it, honestly, he’d mostly forgotten about it with everything else going on.

He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, but it made his soul feel weirdly tight and itchy. If Edge spoke to his therapist, she’d be talking to him knowing all the things Stretch had told her in confidence, all the things he hadn’t even been able to speak of to Edge. Those were the sessions he was speaking more to the carpet than his therapist, but it was still a relief to get it out, lancing mental wounds he’d had for so long he barely noticed the pain anymore. But, so what, did he really think she’d be blabbing it to Edge? Her experiences with him and Sans probably made her the most qualified Human on the planet to help Edge through any problems or trauma. She’d take good care of him, and suddenly the choice was an easy one.

He reached out and cupped Edge’s face in his hand, fingertips grazing the crack through his socket. “you know what, yeah. call her. i trust you both.”

“Thank you,” Edge told him with quiet sincerity. He took Stretch’s hand in both his own, drawing it over to press a light kiss against his knuckles. “For trusting me.” Then he promptly betrayed it by shifted his grip to Stretch’s wrist and pulled, toppling him into his lap. He yelped, trying to keep most of his weight off Edge before he hurt his fool self, but it was useless with Mister Grabby Hands holding on tight. “And I’m sorry, what was that about me being a bad boy? I think you’re the one who gets into the most trouble in this relationship, hmmm?”

“you’d think, but i ain’t the one with a broken foot...edge!” He squealed a laugh as Edge gave him a poke in the ribs, right where he was most ticklish. He let up for a second, letting Stretch catch his breath, only to double down, tickling madly while Stretch squirmed and shrieked. One leg kicked out without his permission, narrowly missing a lamp on the side table, and Stretch gasped out through laughter, “stop! haven’t we broken enough lately?”

Before Edge could offer his opinion on that, heck, maybe he was hoping to remodel the living room, too, the kitchen door swung open and two burly Monsters bustled on out, mops in hand and just in time to catch a front row seat.

“Okay, so we’ve got the worst of--whoops, sorry!”

The tall guy took an instinctive step back, right into the shorter one, who hastily turned to try getting out of the way. Only he forgot about the mop in his hands, and it turned with him, smacking his companion in the face with a wet slap. That sent his buddy reeling, swinging around to give the mop treatment right back.

While they were working on their Stooges impression, Stretch hastily scrambled out of Edge’s lap to his feet, barely avoiding the fingertips that tried to snag onto him again, not this time, brat. That didn’t stop the heat of a blush scalding across his cheek bones as he yanked his robe down modestly, yeah, there was more gossip for the Embassy, if Tall Boy and The Short One ever stopped sputtering through their facefuls of dirty mop.

A glance at Edge didn’t help, either, his face was schooled to calmness already, not even cracking a smile at the comedy gold in front of him. How was it he managed to look cool and professional with one foot in a cast and gym shorts? He probably didn’t even need to modify his trousers, one sharp look would shut any complainers right up. Even his damn t-shirt looked freshly ironed. Meanwhile, Stretch was feeling kinda sweaty and unwashed in his bathrobe, and he hadn’t even had coffee yet. A mop in the face might even feel refreshing right about now, but that seemed like a thought best kept to himself.

“Thank you for your help,” Edge said evenly, sitting as regal as a King on his…uh…sofa. The two Stooges paused, and the power of Edge’s gaze seemed like enough to straighten them out, both of them turning back to Edge, nodding and smiling.

“Hey, no problem!” Tall Boy said heartily. “Anything to help out you and Sans.”

“Yeah, no problem, anything to help out,” The Short One agreed. “If you have any other...erm...” He slanted a knowing look at Stretch, like he hadn’t been re-enacting an entire slapstick routine two minutes ago right in their living room, “…experiment issues, give us a call.”

”oh, i sure will,” Stretch muttered darkly. “for all my ‘experiment issue’ needs.” He stalked over to the front door and held it open, forcing a smile, “but thanks guys, really appreciate it.”

Took a few more head bobs, but eventual Stretch managed to herd them out the door, mops and all. When he turned back to Edge, his head was dropped back against the sofa, his sockets closed. That stoic mask faded back a bit, leaving behind weariness.

Yeeeah, that disguise was slipping more by the minute. Stretch sat back down next to him. “babe, are you sure you’re okay? lotta shit went down yesterday.”

Edge opened his sockets and offered him a faint smile. “Yes.” He reached out and ran his thumb gently across Stretch’s cheek bone. “I’m only a little tired.” His smile turned wry. “I can guess some of what you’re thinking, you know. Yesterday was difficult, and yes, my kitchen is important to me. But I’ve been very recently reminded that nothing is as important as the people in my life. You’re safe, my brother is safe. Your brother, Sans, Papyrus, Jeff and Antwan. Everyone I care about is safe. It’s something to be grateful for, isn’t it?”

“yeah, it is,” Stretch agreed slowly. It was, but it didn’t mean Edge could turn off his emotions about it like a water spigot or even that he should. Maybe it was a good thing Edge was gonna be talking to his therapist; if nothing else, she was damn talented at finding the X marks the spot to dig at. Stretch knew that from personal, and painful, experience. “we’ll get the kitchen taken care of, so long as no one gives those two hammers.”

“Cleaning duty is probably better for everyone involved,” Edge agreed.

Understatement. “it’ll take me a little while in town, why don’t you take a nap while i’m gone?”

It was mostly a rhetorical question, so he was surprised when Edge nodded. “I will, love. And I won’t touch any work until you get back.”

Good enough.

By the time he fed the chickens, got dressed, and headed back downstairs, Edge was already asleep, his foot propped on the sofa arm and the rest of him hidden beneath the fluffy blanket from the back of the couch. That was good, let him rest, let him find his balance again. Tempting as it was to straightened the blanket or give that much-loved skull a pat, Stretch kept his hands to himself. Better not to take the chance of startling him, Toriel wouldn’t be happy if he voided her warranty, but damn if he didn’t want to.

For all his doubts, the Stooges actually did a pretty good job of cleaning up the kitchen. The remains of the table were cleared away and so was the worst of the paint. Stretch poured himself a travel mug of coffee before heading out to the bus stop, garment bag in hand.

A stop at the tailors to get his baby some real pants would help him get back in the direction of the normal Edge was craving. He hoped. Looked like Opposite Week wasn’t quite finished yet but that was okay. Stretch didn’t mind getting to be the protector, for once.

-fin

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

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bubblesthemonsterartist · 5 years

Note

Promptathon: Deep Water Prompt #547: "I went back in time five seconds. It was enough." Obi has a special power, and he has, in fact, always known how this story will go.

Prompts are currently closed while I catch up. I will announce when I am open! :)

A/N: A side adventure for The Ten Vows. Or, like, a previous incarnation of Shirayuki when she was more self-aware of just what she is. And what Obi is.

Content warning: Violence, off-screen death

Candlelight caught in crystal, silk drenched in water.

Fire and ashes, the angry growl of men.

These are the things he hears, the things he rememberstime and time again.

And yet she is still, serene, facing down the same stormshe faced down countless times before. It makes his heart claw at his throat,make his skin beg for blood.

“Mistress,” his voice is rough, hoarse, the cold tileshard beneath his knees. “We have to go.”

She doesn’t move, staring down on the village below. Therain doesn’t let up, her hair becoming like a slick of oil against the white andpink of her gown.

“Please.” The word comes in a plume of fog and his voicebreaks, just this once. He wonders if she hears it, if she knows how thesemoments tear him apart. “Let’s go. Just this one time.”

A sad smile plays across her lips when she peers at himover her shoulder and her face- her face has always been an honest one, eachand every form she takes never hiding her heart for an instant. But tonight,there’s something strange to it, something familiar that terrifies him. Tonightthe whole universe swirls in that depth of violet and he knows- he knows- and yet still he presses hisargument.

“I have to go to them,” she says, so softly, so simply,as if they didn’t cut him to the quick. As if she didn’t flay him raw with a single sentence. “This ismy fault.”

He shakes his head, throat too thick for words, and hepresses his forehead low until it touches cool marble. It’s not. It’s not. He doesn’t care one whit about hervows, not if it means-

Not if it means relearning her absence anew.

“Obi.” He winces at the sound of her voice, the certaintythere. He knows what she’s going to say. “Help me.”

Her bond tugs on him and like a stubborn dog pulling onhis lead, he thrashes against it. “No.”

She comes in from the rain, bare feet slappingagainst the floor. “You know what will happen to them if you don’t.”

Damnation. An eternity of rebirths. Hundreds of creaturesno better than him. Yes, he knows, and he doesn’t care.

Outside, the crowd is growing, their faces dashed withmud and smeared with rain. They scream, hurl insults not meant for his Lady’sears.

She lets him hear it. His Mistress is as cruel as she iskind and the wild, vengeful thing in his chest snarls, lashing out. He doesn’thave to raise his head to know the sudden heat in the room is not his surgingblood, but the flames from candlelight licking at the ceiling. The slow crackling and chime-likeshattering is untouched crystal falling to pieces across the floor.

How easy it would be to dispatch them. How easy would itbe to lay this whole city – this whole countryto waste. The blood would fill the streets and yes, oh yes, the room growshotter and he can remember it. The texture of flesh giving way under his hands;the snap of bones; the way the light goes out, their gaze filled with nothingbut the yellow eyes of a demon.

“Calm down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Whimpering like a whipped dog, he comes back. Curls into himself. His curse submittingso much more easily to her than it ever did to him.

“Obi.” Her voice is electric, thunder and lightningcracking overhead and he wants- he wants to crawl on his belly before her.Wants to offer her his neck. When she kneels before him, sinking her fingersinto his hair, he leans into it, every piece of him filled with wanting. “It’sthe only way.”

Screwing his eyes shut, he shakes his head, and she- she drawshim up, touching his face so gently that he has to look upon her. At this face. One moretime.

Her eyes glisten with tears she wants to shed. “Why areyou always like this?” she chokes, and- and she’s afraid. Not of death, butthe- the pain. “You know I’ll be back.”

Resting on his knees before her, his eyes skim her features,gathers her voice near to his heart. “But you always leave too soon.”

~ ~ ~

In the end, the Saints are human. And humans have alwaysbeen too easy to break. And come the first flush of dawn, all that is left, all that exists toremember her by, is ash and bone.

He stands helplessly among the remains when the othershave gone, when the storm has cleared, and- Nothinglasts forever, Obi. Not you. Not me. We must only use the time we have to dogood in this world. To relieve their suffering by some small amount-

His fist clench so hard they creek.

“Aye me,” a voice sighs. “How she manages to do thisevery time, I’ll never understand.”

Swallowing, he kneels, gathering up a shard of bone. It’ssmall, though nowhere near the frailty of a birds she so often seemed to be. “Youwere watching.”

“Nothing better to do.”

Tilting his head towards her, he asks, “And your Master?”

Torou looks towards the forest, hand on her hip and afamiliar look of longing etched to her face. “Still… lingering. Somewherebetween the worlds.”

Drawing in a shuddering breath, he almost collapses underthe weight of his mourning. It’s only the bite of her bone cutting into hispalm that keeps him present.

Death was a dream. Life always ended. Isn’t that- isn’t that what she always says?

Gritting his teeth, he stands up. This should be easier.He should be stronger. That is what his Mistress would want- for him to do morewith his time than wait.

“If you don’t have anything better to do,” Torou drawls,skiddling up closer to him. “It would be nice to- have a companion. Just for alittle while.”

Helplessly, he stares at nothing. Turns the words over in his head. And that- that would be nice. But- “Just until one ofthem returns.”

“Of course!” she beams and Torou has always been such astrange devil, her smiles more easier than most, the spark of her eyes moregenuine and he’s always wondered- always been curious- always wanted to ask-

But the question is pulled straight from his lungs. The world shudders, the air breaking all around them, andthe smile drops from her face in shock.

“By the thousand hands,” Torou mutters when it settles. “She came backquick.”

Shaken, he sniffs the air to be sure and catches herscent on the wind; feels the cry of a baby in the pulse of the earth.

They stare at each other for a moment, neither knowingwhat to say. There’s an apology on his lips, the promise of next time eventhough to say it aloud would be a new yet familiar kind of pain.

Torou smiles at him, patting his arm. “You should gogreet her.”

Obi clears his throat, casting one last glance at what remains aroundthem. At the village gone to rest. At the bones not consumed by fire. And stillhe burns with her.

“What’s the purpose?” he grunts. “The story always endsthe same.”

“It changes every time.” Eyes glinting up at him, lipsspread in a cat’s grin, she says, “You just aren’t paying attention.”

#bubbleswrites #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #reincarnation au #infinitelystrangemachinex

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innerpostmentality · 5 years

Text

The Road to Gretna Green Part 12 - Wish

All rights and many thanks are accorded to Pixelberry Studios. This takes place immediately after Part 11. Seriously, it will be very confusing if you haven’t read the other parts. Please see my Masterlist if you wish to catch up on the series. This is the final chapter of The Road to Gretna Green. But I am planning more story with some of these characters including Ernest and Rose. Rating: M, Erotica, seriously M Warnings: erotica Word count: around 4300 and a bit Tagging: @ritachacha @darley1101 @hopefulmoonobject @blackcatkita @speedyoperarascalparty @hellospunkiebrewster @tornbetween2loves @gardeningourmet @melodyofgraves @thequeenofcronuts @symonde

Dominique watched Bishop Monroe read Rose’s letter. He was frowning as he handed it back to her. A soft knock on the parlor door heralded the return of the young man with the tea cart. Which he brought in and served them each a cup of tea and a biscuit before the Bishop dismissed him with a wave. “Lady Dominique, this is most unfortunate.” He shook his head. “Have people been sent to stop this?” Dominique serenely stirred a lump of sugar into her tea and carefully set the spoon down and took a sip studying the Bishop the entire time before she answered. “You seem surprised. You know, I was at first.” She sipped the tea again. Slowly smiling. “My complements on the tea, your Grace. This blend is lovely.” She took another sip. The Bishop frowned at her. “This is disgraceful, my Lady. A scandal.”

Her head whipped up and her eyes were narrowed as she speared him with her gaze. Her tone snapped at him correcting an ignorant child. “Your Grace, I did Not come here this afternoon to be chastised.” She paused mid sip deliberately, carefully setting her cup down. “If my granddaughter does not see the value in following social expectations regarding her method of honoring her promise to Mister Sinclaire there is no disgrace in that.

I would say rather it reflects well upon her intellect that she has learned the folly of depending upon the dictates of others in the matter of her heart and future happiness. A lesson that you, sirrah held an integral part in teaching her!

Her parents were married here, by your hand. Her conception was not the unsanctified secret tryst of callow youth. And yet she was labeled a ‘natural’ daughter.

You put asunder that which you claimed God had joined for what? According to my husband’s ledger your thirty pieces of silver were five hundred pounds sterling.

But do not fret that I place blame on you alone for this. I bear my share I assure you. I was too busy keeping my eyes closed to my husband’s infidelities to stand up to him in the matter of our son’s happiness. It was not until after Rupert’s death that I knew of Vincent’s marriage to Rose’s mother. When I read his ledger I found out about the financially advantageous match that inspired him to have his son’s previous marriage annulled. Shall I show you the profit he made on the engagement with the widow Marlcaster? Shall I show you the letters he hid from his son and from me that spoke of undying love and my granddaughter? I think you do not want to see them for that allows you denial does it not? You never knew? You know. Before God you know. And we are not playing at this any longer.

In my arrogance and ignorance I contrived to make what I thought was an advantageous alliance for Rose with Duke Richards blinding myself with his title to his base nature. I excused the evidence before my eyes caught up in a romantic fantasy. And made a deal with the devil himself. Duke Richards has no contract with Rose. She never gave him more notice than the bare minimum dictates of civility; which as it turns out was more than he deserved and far, far more than he gave her. The night of their ‘engagement’ he left bruises on her arm. She showed them to me. He is no gentleman. I came here to get your support no matter what Duke Richards does. No matter how much money he offers your coffers I expect your support for my Granddaughters claim to Edgewater and the legitimacy of her contract and marriage to Mister Sinclaire. I have shown these gentlemen all these documents you seem disinclined to look at. And they bear witness to this conversation. I came here rather than taking this directly to the Archbishop as a courtesy to you. But I will do everything I must to ensure my Granddaughters rightful inheritance and her happiness. Is my position clear, your Grace?” Dominique held his gaze until he nodded. Then sipped more of her tea. They all sipped their tea in silence for several stunned minutes before the Bishop cleared his throat and spoke in a much subdued tone. “My Lady Dominique you must know that Duke Karlington will not take this well.” She nodded. “Oh I am aware. He was ranting in my house this very morning. If he pursues this to court I will simply declare that in light of the previous contract by Rose’s father with Mister Sinclaire that I had no knowledge of at the time. And without previous consultation with Rose I overstepped the boundaries of my authority. If his Grace insists on a marriage the only one I am at liberty to speak for is myself. If he persists then I will marry him.” Mister Konevi snorted his tea. The Bishop was taken with a fit of coughing. Mister Hartfield slapped his knee and guffawed with no pretense at even attempting to suppress his response. Dominique’s mouth was twitching as she tried to repress her own amusement. She lifted a brow and looked at each of them. “This seems quite logical to me. And frankly your Grace, I care not half a whit what Duke Karlington thinks or how he takes it. The Duke may be the cousin to Prinny, my linage goes back to the kings of Cordonia, Greece, and Spain.”

She finished her tea and rose walking over to the Bishop. “Your Grace I thank you for your audience. I trust I will have your support as regards my expressed wishes for the best interests of my Granddaughter. My question is bluntly, can you do this; or is this a matter which I must take to his excellency the Archbishop of Canterbury? Her gaze never wavered from his while he considered his answer. He finally nodded. “Let me write a letter to his Excellency. I will write in support of your position. Explaining that your son, Earl Edgewater and Mister Sinclaire wished Lady Rose to have free will in her choice of husband and therefore kept their agreement secret. That having witnessed the settlement I am in accord with you in this matter that her arrangement with Mister Sinclaire holds precedence over any claim that Duke Karlington would hold on her. It is my belief that his Excellency will support you and your Granddaughter.” Dominique nodded. “Good! I will have another cup of your lovely tea while you write your missive to the Archbishop.” Bishop Monroe lifted his brow and frowned. “You need not tarry. I will do as I’ve told you.” “I know you will. It’s no inconvenience. I like your tea. And as Mister Hartfield and Mister Konevi will be going to the Archbishop with the settlement papers to explain what is transpiring they may as well take your missive with them. I would not want you to have to go to an added expense and then possibly have it go astray in the post. We will wait.” She went over to the tea service and poured herself another cup of tea then asked the gentlemen if she might freshen their cups while she was pouring. Bishop Monroe did his best imitation of a gold fish opening his mouth as though he might protest until she lanced him again with her dark gaze that had him close his mouth and go to the writing desk in the room and compose his letter. After a few minutes Dominique took a cup of tea over to the Bishop and read the letter he was composing over his shoulder. She smiled and handed him his tea. When he finished he handed her the letter she looked it over then handed it to Mister Hartfield to look over. He nodded and handed it to Mister Konevi who looked it over before nodding then handing it back to the Bishop. “This will be most helpful. There is only one thing missing.” Looking distinctly annoyed the Bishop raised his brow at Mister Konevi. “And what might you require?” “Your seal, your Grace. The authenticity would certainly be questioned without your seal on the letter.” Dominique did not miss the clench of the Bishop’s jaw as he took the letter nodding, “Of course.” He went back to the desk and quickly dripped a bit of wax next to his signature and pressed his ring into it. Then handed it back to Mister Konevi. He examined the letter and nodded at the Dowager Countess. “This all seems to be in order.” She finished her tea and smiled at the Bishop. “I thank you, your Grace, for your hospitality and your assistance in this matter. I fear we must take our leave as there is much to prepare.” She rose and extended her hand to him. He bowed over it before shaking the hands of the Solicitors before they departed.

Once they were settled in the carriage on the way back to the townhouse Dominique looked at them. “Tell me gentlemen, what think you?” Mister Hartfield smiled, “Have you ever considered becoming a solicitor? I have seldom seen someone outside the profession cook an eel with such flair.

But the Duke is a powerful, well connected man. I have been looking into Duke Karlington’s business on Mister Sinclaire’s behest since the unfortunate incident with Mister Sinclaire’s late wife. And while there have been numerous instances where his predatory nature has created severe misfortune for others. There hasn’t been anything that might be brought before the courts to curtail him.

Recently however, he has been publicly associating with one Sir Gideon Payne. That man was exiled for conspiring against the Crown. And I am most curious to see what our ambitious Duke is doing with him. That relationship could quite possibly be the key to severing his favor with the Royal family. I have hired several men, former Bow Street Horsemen to assist me in this endeavor. It is my hope that their efforts may rid us of any threat of Duke Karlington in the near future.

But as to the matter of Lady Edgewater and Mister Sinclaire I think the case you laid out for his Grace the Bishop will work. And unless you are the heiress to lands the Duke would be aware of I don’t think you will be forced to marry him.” He grinned.

Mister Konevi nodded. “Karlington would not be inclined to marry Lady Rose if she were not a means to acquiring Edgewater. She is beautiful but her ‘Natural’ state would keep him from any consideration of her without her inheritance. But his history is one of vengeance for slights. So I would advise keeping trustworthy, capable men about. And being very wary of opportunities that might afford convenient tragic accidents. Double check your equipage. And I think we must try to get some trustworthy men to find the Sinclaires and accompany them home. So if you have such I think they should be assembled and sent with letters to find them.

And Lady Dominique, I think some correspondence with the Archbishop is in order. We need to inform him of the unfortunate misunderstanding while keeping the damning ledger information in reserve. I believe holding that information back will solidify Bishop Monroe’s allegiance to our cause. I would advise the Bishop’s missive, and the settlement papers be shown to his Excellency.”

Mister Hartfield considered a moment. “I believe Mister Konevi is wise in his advice. And we do have a serious advantage.” He grinned. “We have just such a man already keeping a close eye out for their wellbeing. A companion at arms and good friend to Mister Sinclaire, Mister Caiden Lykel. He is the gentleman Mister Sinclaire entrusted to fly before them making arrangements for their comfort and safety on their journey. If you have a trustworthy man to send, we can have him take a letter to Mister Lykel’s townhouse in Leeds. It would be the best chance to join him and help ensure they arrive back home safely.” Dominique frowned. “Well I thought I had such but I sent Mister Harper to seek Rose in Grovershire days ago and he never returned.” Mister Konevi cleared his throat and flushed a bit. “I expect he will return shortly.” “What’s this?” She raised her brow at the solicitor. “Mister Harper came to me when he did not find Lady Rose in Grovershire. Believing that your intention was to turn Lady Edgewater over to the Duke he wished to delay his return to allow her more time for escape. Once your intentions were made clear to me I have informed him. Now he is convinced that you would discharge him.” She chuckled shaking her head. “It seems my granddaughter has inspired much loyalty and has many allies in the household. This is a good thing. You may insure Mister Harper I have seen the folly of my ways and would not give the Duke a chicken much less my granddaughter. So he is welcome to return; and if he is willing he is the best horseman and able man I have to send on such a task.” Mister Hartfield nodded, “I will prepare a letter of introduction for Mister Harper. And a letter for Mister Lykel advising him of the current state of developments here. If either of you would like to send missives I suggest you prepare them. The sooner we send them the better. If your Mister Harper is a skilled horseman he should be able to make Leeds in two or three days. If he can get good horses. Hopefully he will not have to wait too long to connect with Mister Lykel once he gets there. Honestly, Lady Dominique my greatest concern at the moment is the possibility of the Duke putting a bounty on the Sinclaires with the less than savory connections he is nurturing.”

*****************

Ernest lay there exploring the velvet softness of her breasts with trembling fingers. Kissing the crystal tear drops on her cheeks before tasting the beauty of her smile that was lighting his heart. She had taken all of him. Even in her virgin state she had welcomed him. Even now she held him, tightly, deeply with all of herself. Her arms wrapped about him, hands caressing his back. Her mouth gently suckling his lips begging him to let their tongues dance together. Her legs wrapped about him her heels pressed into his buttocks holding him seated so deeply in her glorious, heavenly channel. Her fingers gently swiped his tears from his cheeks her voice filled with concern, “Ernest? My Love are you in pain?” He sobbed and was laughing and crying and pulled her tightly to him. “Oh no my darling. I am in heaven. I feel like a blind man who suddenly sees the world and is so overwhelmed because there is no way to express such profound joy. I love you.” She smiled, and yawned nuzzling into his shoulder. “And I love you my husband.” She was silent a moment. Then she kissed his side and relaxed against him.

A chill in the room woke him. The fire had burned down. Rose was curled against his side, relaxed in a deep slumber still wrapped around him with one arm and one leg. They were both on top of the dark blanket with no covers, cross wise in the bed. Ernest carefully, ever so gently disentangled from her and got up so he wouldn’t disturb her. He saw her move toward him as though searching for him even in her sleep and smiled.

He stirred the fire and added more wood to bring it to life then filled the kettle and put it on to heat. Her virgin blood was smeared across his thighs and groin and he grimaced. He knew it was natural and to be expected. And still that he would ever be the cause of her pain hurt his heart. He went and found a bathing sponge in the washstand and washed himself with a little of the cold water. But as he carefully cleaned himself pressing the hood of his soldier back he found himself growing firm again remembering her shy kiss on his tip as she bathed him earlier. He grinned as he realized that he now thought of his cock as his soldier.

“That’s my job.” The warm velvet tone of her voice stroked him.

He looked across and saw her sitting up watching him. And he was at full attention by the time he had crossed to her. “Rose…”

She shifted to kneel before him and pulled him down into her kiss. She teased his lips and suckled his tongue gently even as her hands wrapped around him stroking him firmly. He thrust his tongue into her mouth in imitation of her stroking moaning his need and then as he neared release he panted, “Rose I.. cannot.. hold longer. I will make a mess.”

She felt his strain for control and impulsively leaned into him pressing her breasts around his shaft and slipping his pulsing tip into her mouth. She painted circles around the sensitive ridge of his weeping tip with her tongue even as she suckled him repeating what she had done with his tongue moments before.

Crying her name in the extremity of his pleasure his shaking fingers tangled in her hair but not pulling her away from him. Then with a soul deep moan he was spurting what she thought of as slightly salty thick cream into her mouth. She swallowed it even as he pulled her up.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He was still gasping and pulling her to his chest. “Please forgive me. I could not help myself.”

“Ernest?” She was stroking him. Kissing his face. “I don’t understand Ernest. Why are you apologizing?”

“I, I would never ask you to… To minister to my soldier so. I never would expect.” He was flustered and blushing.

She was shaking her head confused. “You forced me to nothing, Ernest. You did not hurt me. I was curious. Earlier this evening when I kissed you there I thought you liked it. I am not hurt or offended.” She stroked his chest kissing him. “If you do not like me to kiss you so I will not. But it pleased me to see your joy. I think you taste like salted cream. You gave me much pleasure with your mouth earlier. I wanted to see if I could pleasure you that way as well. But I would not upset you. Please don’t apologize. I love you. We are married. Surely there can be no harm in pleasuring each other?”

“I love you Rose Sinclaire.” He held her to him kissing her deeply then kissing her hair. “You were virgin and still you teach me more of love every moment than all the other women I have ever known.” He lifted her chin to look in her eyes. “You were so right when you said that you were made for me. And I for you. I do not know how I survived so long without air.”

He kissed her then only breaking the kiss when the hissing of the kettle and the need for air forced him to release her mouth. “Come. Let me wash you my love. Then we may put our bed together and rest properly.”

She took his hand and let him lead her over to the fire before she giggled and blushed.

He was pouring the hot water into some cold in the basin, and he looked at her curiously, “And what might have my lady Wife so amused?”

“I’m happy. And was just thinking of me when I first saw your invitation to join you, and me now. That first night when I bathed in my chemise as I’d been taught since I was a child. And now frolicking with my husband even as God made Adam and Eve. Not so much as a fig leaf for modesty.” She flung her arms out and twirled. “I used to fear that you would think me low and wanton. Now I just feel free.”

He chuckled. “I think you are the Goddess of Love incarnate. No mortal cloth can be worthy to drape you in. And yet your beauty is perilous, for to witness it forever enslaves the heart and no other can ever satisfy the desire of a love so pure.”

She smiled. “I want no other. And I am as enslaved as you my husband… I love that. Calling you my husband.”

“Come then and let me minister to you. We must rest.” He washed her gently with the sponge kissing her navel and her breasts, her palms and fingers as he cared for her. Then wrapping her in a drying cloth before going to set the bed in order. He smiled as he found the rose from her hair between their pillows.

“And what great plans do we have that we must rest up for?” She asked as she donned her silk and lace chemise and then handed him a night shirt before she climbed into the bed admiring him with a saucy smile.

He grinned at her ogling his bareness showing his dimple before he slipped on the soft shirt that still smelled of sunshine.

She lifted the covers and grinned inviting him to join her in their bed.

“Here.” He refilled her glass of wine and handed it to her then grabbed his own before joining her in the bed. She adjusted the pillows so they might sit comfortably and he sipped the wine studying her with a soft smile. “I thought you might like to go fishing in the morning?”

Her brow rose, “Fishing? You want to go fishing?”

He nodded hiding his grin in his glass as he took another sip. “Oh aye. Mister Camran assured me that there is excellent fishing in the river here. I thought we might try it. There were poles I spotted by the kitchen fireplace. And you will have to get up very early to start the bread while I spade us up some worms for bait. But afterward we can walk to the river and do some fishing. Then we will have to take Buttercup back to Mister Camran. If we catch enough fish we can take the Camrans some. What think you?” He blinked as innocently as he could contrive at her.

Sipping her wine she studied him before setting it down on the bed table and nodding. “Oh aye. I think you are right. Also if the day is fair tomorrow I think I must wash all our travel clothes so they will be fresh for our return. Mayhap we should just invite the Camrans to join us here for dinner and perhaps some cards after?”

He set his wine down and pulled her to him with a primal growl and kissed her deeply, “I’ve another thought.”

“Oh?”

“I think I will not let you out of this bed on the morrow, mayhap for the entire week.” He fastened his lips to her neck and suckled a passion mark there. “I think I shall make love to you all the day and into the night.”

“So you don’t want to fish?”

He growled and sucked her nipple into his mouth teasing the tight peak with feather light strokes of his tongue before blowing on it and watching it pebble.

Rose giggled and reached beneath his shirt stroking his hardness. “You do not seem to need twine.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his mouth. “No, I need no twine.” He kissed her knuckles and sighed. “Sweetheart you are new breached. And I should let you rest and heal a bit. Trust me, and let me care for you. I would not hurt you more. You give me such joy. ”

She pouted at him, “I want you Ernest. I love our joining.”

He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and smiling softly at her. “As do I. But I will give you a choice. If you ask I will take you again, right here, right now, it would be against all my reason that says that would not be the best for you; my soldier as you see awaits your command. But if you ask this now; then I will go fishing alone in the morning and take Buttercup back to the Camran’s that you might have some time to ease yourself and rest.” He kissed her hands again. “Rose that you took me as you did is a marvel to me. But I know I caused you pain. Let us rest this evening. I promise I cannot deny both of us long in this.”

Curling into his side she slipped her hand beneath his night shirt and stroked his chest. “I wish that we could ever be like this. Together. No ton, Dukes, Grandmothers, burdens of property, just thinking about when we might make love again.

Kissing her forehead he stroked the silk of her hair. “We have seven days. And I promise I will try to ensure that every year of our lives we take seven days on our anniversary to flee the tyranny of society and be together. Would that please you my love?”

She nodded and kissed his breast.

“There is another thing I wish you to consider. Because it will be a fortnight before we return you may want to post letters to your friends and Grandmother letting them know that you are well. If we send them tomorrow they would precede our arrival by about a week.” He tilted her face up and smiled at her. “And of course you may sign them Mistress Sinclaire.”

------------- End of The Road to Gretna Green ----------------

#desire & decorum #ernest sinclaire #ernest sinclaire x mc #choices fan fic #the road to gretna green

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hopeishappinessff · 6 years

Text

Holding Onto Hope: Chapter 31

Destani

Wrapping my arms tighter around myself, I snuggled against the cool glass window and balled my fists into the oversized sleeves of my sweater. My body was drained and more than anything I was ready to get to my mama’s house and pass the hell out. Throughout the entire journey home, back to Virginia… I couldn’t bring myself anywhere close to sleep. Even after a long night up with Taylor before arriving at the airport for a seven a.m. flight, sleep still never found me on that flight. The only thing I could focus on was the girl I’d considered a sister since I was nine years old. She sat in the row across from me and though I tried not to stare, I couldn’t stop myself from carefully watching her tired and glossy eyes and her almost permanently reddened nose. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days and like she’d burst into tears at the drop of a dime. The color had been flushed almost completely from her face and there were dark circles beneath her eyes and my heart ached for her. I knew she was grieving over what’d gone down with Chris and though I didn’t know the full details of what exactly happened from the time she went to confront him about everything I’d spilled to her to now, I knew something major had to have happened and it was physically showing all over her face and demeanor.

We took the trip home together with Mama J and Tawny, and I noticed that throughout most of the journey to and through the airport, Mama made sure to stay near Sy and there were often times that she looked as though she would simply fall apart, but Mama was always there to hold her up and quickly whisper words of encouragement to her. My own eyes would tear up every time I looked at her because this wasn’t the Sy’Diyah I knew… this was nowhere near the shy, but vibrant lil yellow girl I grew up with and claimed to the world was my blood sister.

I wasn’t fully in the loop on what’d happened with Chris either. All I really knew was that some shit popped off between them and now… it was just Mama J, Sy, Tawny, and myself on the way to our neighborhood. I didn’t even bother with my nosy ritual to find out what happened because this one was involving two of my best friends and I wanted to respect them both enough to not just dive right in their business.

Sy’Diyah sat in the middle seat between Tawny and I in the car with Tootie, who’d driven her boyfriend’s truck to pick us up, and Mama J at her side in the passenger seat. As I sat there, consumed with all thoughts of my best friend and all the stress in her life that I knew she didn’t need, I couldn’t help but briefly shut my eyes and smirk softly at the feeling of her snuggling against my back with her head resting against my shoulder. She was tired, I was sure of that, and if I had to remain in this position for hours on end just so she could get some rest I would do just that. Unfortunately there was no way she could snuggle up and sleep for long though… we were already rounding the corner to our street.

“Babe,” I whispered, frowning at the thought of having to disturb her from any sort of peace she’d found, “I’m sorry love, but we’re home.”

Slowly pushing herself up from me, she sat up sluggishly in her seat and kept her weary gaze straight. I cautiously watched her for a moment and frowned at the realization of just how exhausted she looked.

“Come on girls, lets head over and see Maddie.” Mama J said in a voice that sounded just as tired as Sy looked. There were a few times throughout our trip home where I could tell that she too looked as though she wanted to burst into some serious tears, but she always managed to maintain her composure, just so she could be strong for Sy.

Following her lead, we each climbed dreadfully out of the car and faced the bone chilling weather head on. We were smack dab in the middle of winter in Virginia and it was only a matter of time before the streets resembled a winter wonderland. A smile of relief washed over my face though, even as the icy wind whipped against my skin… we were finally home. Though I’d only just seen my mama a month ago, I guess I hadn’t realized just how home sick I was until I stood there breathing in the familiar Virginia air.

Mama J led the way through the grass and up the driveway to Auntie’s door and she barely had time to press her finger against the doorbell before the door went swinging open. Aunt Maddie stood there with her hands clasped together against her chest for a minute and I prayed she would snap out of her trance a little quicker… I didn’t have on nearly enough layers to keep standing in this damn cold!

“Oh my babies, I missed you!” She squealed, finally pushing the screen door open to allow us access. The moment we each crossed the threshold into the house, she swept Mama J into a hug and they whispered to each other for just a minute before she moved onto Tawny and myself. Saving her distraught niece for last, I stood off in the den and watched as she gripped onto her shoulders and stared through the most sympathetic eyes at her. Sy attempted to give her a half whit smile, but the smile never made it to her eyes… that were already filling with tears. It killed me to see this girl this way because in all my years of knowing her, I’d never witnessed her so out of character. I wasn’t used to not seeing her with a constant smile on her face. Wasn’t used to her endless waterworks… and I certainly wasn’t used to seeing her without her other half somewhere close by.

With a hard sniffle, I blinked rapidly in an effort to keep my own tears at bay and swiftly turned to find a seat in the den. As sad as I wanted to feel for the situation at hand and as much as I wanted to cry with each look I took into Sy’s heartbreaking stare, I knew I had to keep myself together for the sake of her. I knew we all needed to be as strong as we could… for her and Mama J.

We shared greetings and hugged and talked for a while in the den, but Auntie eventually loaded Sy up and led her upstairs to lie down. It wasn’t hard to tell that she desperately needed rest and because no one was quite sure how she’d react to being left alone, Aunt Maddie stayed with her until she drifted off to sleep then she slowly and quietly made her way back down to the den with us.

“Oh Tootie, thank you so much for getting them all home from the airport. I wanted to be there to see them off the plane, but I wanted to make sure everything here was set up just perfect for my baby girl.” Aunt Maddie said as she plopped back on the short sofa beside Mama J.

“Auntie you know it was no problem at all. I wasn’t gone leave them stranded up there… for too long.” Tootie laughed which, for once, gave us all something to laugh about.

“Well how are you ladies doing? How were finals?” Aunt Maddie asked, looking from me to Tawny.

“First of all, I think I can speak for both of us when I say I’m so glad finals are over!” I exclaimed, gaining a giggle from Tawny who’d been exceptionally quiet since we left Atlanta, “And I’m just really glad to be back home.”

“And I’m glad to have my babies back home.” We were left with a thick layer of silence then and I couldn’t help but glance quickly at Mama J. Though I knew Auntie’s statement meant absolutely no harm, there was still an underlying sting in what she’d said that I’m sure touched her directly. Sure we were all home, Tawny included, but… there was one missing.

“Well, um… the girls know you all are in town. They should be here any…” As if on cue, Aunt Maddie’s sentence was abruptly cut short by the sound of the doorbell ringing obnoxiously. I’d almost completely forgotten that we were indeed back in Richmond and my heart raced with excitement at the thought of who was just on the other side of the door. A bitch barely had time to turn to face the door as Aunt Maddie opened it, before a furry blur flew my way and sent me nearly toppling off the edge of the couch.

“Ahhhhhhh, my biiiiiiiiiiiiitch!” Tameka shrieked as she catapulted her body on top of me, completely disregarding the fact that she was still on the back side of the couch. She ran so fast and jumped at me so hard, she literally ended up flying over the back of the couch and landing in my lap where she sat halfway while she embraced me in a tight bear hug.

“Ms. Tameka honey, you better watch that language.” Auntie giggled as she shut and locked the door behind… Dontay! My vision was still blurred with Tameka hogging the space in my lap, but there was no way I could ignore the presence of Dontay and Nalay both edging forward into the den with the broadest smiles.

“Meka get your ghetto self up so we can see her too, with your dramatic behind.” Nalay laughed as she crossed over in front of us and waited for an eye rolling Tameka to climb off me.

“Whatever Nay, don’t be a hater all yo life.” With a pronounced smack of her lips, she reluctantly scooted into the empty space between Tawny and I.

“Hey Nay, I missed ya’ll!” I hadn’t had such a big smile on my face until now and after greeting both her and Dontay, it seemed almost permanent. I stood jammed between the two of them now with one arm wrapped snuggly around each of theirs, and Dontay of course towering over me on one side, and finally turned my attention back to the couch. The sight of Tawny sitting there wedged as far into the corner as she could get, with flushed cheeks and apprehension masking her face, left me smirking and shaking my head… I swear the girl was more shy than her sister when I met her ass a decade ago.

“Dontay, Nalay, Tameka…” Aunt Maddie started as she stood off to the side of us grinning like a proud mother, “I would like you all to meet Tawny, Sy’Diyah’s baby sister.”

Shocked was an understatement for each of their reactions and of course before anyone could gather their composure, Meka’s ratchet ass just had to be the first to speak up.

“Baby sister… like by blood? What the fu…”

Shooting a warning glare in her direction, Auntie quickly cleared her throat and shot a reassuring smile in Tawny’s direction “The girls were introduced over the Thanksgiving holiday and we now have the pleasure of having Ms. Tawny join us for Christmas. She was very excited to come up and spend time with all of the people who mean the most to her sister, so… in good Virginia fashion, let’s make her feel right at home.”

“Hi Tawny, I’m Nalay… it’s very nice to meet you.” Nay spoke up with the brightest grin plastered on her face. If no one else in this room was gonna make this girl feel at home with us, it would surely be Nay’s motherly ass.

“And I’m Dontay, but you can call me Don, or Tay… or baby… or baby daddy, if you wa…” Instinctively I nudged an elbow into Dontay’s side and cut my eyes at him. Knowing just how bad Tawny’s nerves were, I didn’t want the boy to freak her the hell out and have her running off back to Georgia before Christmas day! Much to my surprise, Tawny’s cheeks simply blushed… but she failed the hide the grin behind her right hand and I couldn’t help but laugh when she dropped her head and giggled. Maybe Dontay’s dried up game would finally pay off with Tawny.

“Well where Sy and Chris at? I mean I know they prolly tired after the flight, but Auntie I know you ain’t let them just stay upstairs sleep while we down here!” Tameka exclaimed.

Naturally, I tensed up at the mention of Sy’Diyah… and Chris. I could feel Aunt Maddie and Tawny both looking back and forth between each other and myself before Auntie finally cleared her throat and gave a tight-lipped smile.

“Well… Sy wasn’t feeling well when they landed, so she’s upstairs resting.”

“What about Chris? I was looking forward to seeing him and whooping up on him in some 2k for a couple hours.” Dontay asked with humor in his tone.

“He had a couple things to wrap up with finals and his coach before he could leave.” I blurted, sensing Auntie’s reluctance to speak up.

“Ahh man, Imma have to hit him up later then. I swear I miss my dawg Breezy… no homo though.” Dontay chuckled. By the looks of it, it seemed as though they’d fallen for what I’d said and for that I was thankful. I didn’t know when or if there would ever be a right time to explain to them all what’d transpired in Georgia only days before we came home. All I knew was now wasn’t the time or place to share that with them.

Like the old days, everyone quickly came out of a few layers of clothing and made themselves right at home and by the constant smile on Auntie’s face, I knew she was perfectly content. There was something to her eyes though… something that she couldn’t quite mask because it was something that I felt as well. I knew she was carrying the weight of her niece’s troubles right on her shoulders, just as I felt like I was carrying the weight of my two best friends on mine. I was happy to be home and thrilled to be surrounded by my childhood friends, but there was an unmistakable void there and I couldn’t help but wonder just how long it would take to fill it…

Hope

I could hear the commotion downstairs. The voices of several of my childhood friends couldn’t be ignored, especially as I lie there wide awake. I wasn’t tired, as my aunt had assumed… well, my body was, but there was no way I could get my mind to slow down enough to even consider shutting my eyes. My heart raced with anticipation, for what I wasn’t sure. I felt nauseas and even beneath the thick sweater and fluffy socks that should have had me sweating like a pig… I trembled with anxiety. Though I was in no mood to socialize with anyone, I figured perhaps it would help me temporarily get out of my funk if I at least got out of this room. Being alone and stuck in silence for too long hadn’t been ideal for me for a while now, so with a low sigh I pushed myself into an upright position and cringed at the sensation of my hair matted against the side of my face. I didn’t feel up to taming it or even putting it into a bun, so I swiftly swept a hand through it to at least gather it on one side of my head then stood up and sluggishly made my way to the door.

By the time I made it almost halfway down the stairs, I could hear the talking and laughing and jovial commotion growing louder and I shut my eyes briefly to imagine myself that happy again. The slightest smile graced my face as my mind instantly rushed to my one source of happiness and the thought of his perfectly freckled golden face had me gripping the railing of the stairs a little too tight.

“Oh man, Sy… is that you!” I barely had time to get my eyes open before a tall, burly figure rushed forward up the last couple of steps and tugged me into an airtight bear hug. My heart nearly exploded with excitement and I found myself throwing my arms around this aromatic frame and squeezing like my life depended on it. It was him… I just knew it was him! I nearly shed tears from the thought of having him in my arms again and I felt my lips stretching into a smile so wide, I was sure my mouth would simply tear at the corners.

“It’s so good to see you girl. Damn, we missed you around here.” That voice… it snapped me out of my major moment of bliss and I snatched my eyes open and refrained from frowning deeply, because… that voice wasn’t his. Pulling back just slightly, I peered up to see just who I’d latched onto like a lost puppy and I realized then that it was Dontay that I was hugging… not my Charlie.

“Hi Don, how are you?” I giggled, because I was still genuinely happy to see him.

“I’m good… real good, now. Like I swear I can’t explain how much we missed ya’ll ‘round here. Life just ain’t been the same without my kinfolk down here so I finally feel complete!” He exclaimed happily.

“Really bro… you just gone stand over here and hog her like that?” With a playful roll of his eyes, Dontay moved to one side with one arm still comfortably tossed over the back of my shoulders and neither of us had much time to prepare for Tameka and Nalay both rushing up the stairs toward me. Of course Tameka flew past Nalay and embraced me well before she had a chance to and after finally hugging both girls, it seemed all thoughts of my troubles were tucked away… if for only a moment. The three of them led me carefully down the remaining steps as if I was a fragile porcelain doll and I locked eyes with Destani briefly as we rounded the corner into the den. She gazed at me like a proud mother with a tiny smirk on her face and I found myself, genuinely, smiling right back. There was no reason for me to lock myself away in the depressing confines of my room for the duration of this break while I had loved ones I hadn’t seen in months ready and willing to cheer me up. Besides, being surrounded by everyone would only aide me in saving my tears and actually looking forward to Christmas.

“I swear I don’t know if I just haven’t seen you in forever or what, but bih you are glowing… I swear you are.” Tameka said once we all filled up the den and claimed a seat. In that instant I could feel piercing stares coming from exactly where both Tawny and Destani sat, but I’d learned to maintain my composure at this point and I simply smiled and swept a hand through my wild tresses.

“I’m not sure what glow you see over here with my lack of makeup and sleep, but… thanks Meka.” The room burst into jovial laughter and my eyes danced over the span of the room, pausing for only a second on my aunt whose stare had awkwardly landed on my stomach. Unconsciously I tossed an arm up into my lap, wrapping it around my midsection, and continued laughing along with the group, because it felt good to laugh and not think about the issues at hand… for once.

“Where Mama J go?” Destani didn’t miss a beat and jumped right into a new topic, leaving me to breathe a hushed sigh of relief.

“I think she said she was going with Tootie to pick up Desean from his dad’s. That girl has been off and on with his father for I don’t know how long now. But today… I think they’re off, so Joyce has to be a mediator.”

We laughed at her revelation and I sat back and enjoyed my moment of bliss, even if it was only temporary.

I found it hilarious how determined and serious Dontay seemed about attempting to talk to Tawny. Much to my surprise, he managed to get her to open up to him and my heart fluttered for her each time I heard her cackle at one of his corny jokes. Nalay seemed to warm up to her almost instantly, simply because it was in her nature to be friendly to even strangers, but Tameka was a completely different story. She seemed less than enthused to have anything to do with Tawny and she barely even acknowledged that the girl was in the house. Whether because Tawny seemed to have Dontay wrapped around her finger without even trying, or because she was just unnaturally territorial, I wasn’t sure… whatever the reason, Tameka made it clear that her distaste for her was very real.

The four of us managed to weasel out of the den, leaving Dontay alone with his efforts to swoon Tawny and my aunt to take a private phone call she refused to have in our presence. I led the group on into the kitchen and hopped onto a barstool as they each parted ways to find their own snacks as they’d always done since we were kids.

“It don’t even be nobody in this house and your aunt stay stocked up like she feeding a damn tribe!” Destani exclaimed from the overly packed pantry.

“Girl that’s why I been fuckin with Auntie since day one… she know how to take care of the poor!”

We shared a laugh at Tameka’s comical, yet solemn, comment as she maneuvered her way around making a sandwich as if she were in her very own kitchen.

“So what is new ladies? Where has our communication been for the past six months? I feel like I haven’t seen ya’ll in years!” Destani said as she claimed a seat across from me with a bag of puffy Cheetos in tow.

“Not a damn thing for my ass! Ya’ll know with my broke ass mama, I had to take what I could get so I’m holding it down right here in VA at Reynolds!” Tameka said.

“Hey, that school ain’t half bad though. My dad got his associates there and I’ve always thought it was decent” Nalay chimed in, popping skittles individually into her mouth.

“Tuh, bitch please… you at the University with a scholarship. Of course a bitch ass community college would be decent to you.” We laughed as Nalay shook her head and smiled with a roll of her eyes.

“Whatever Meka, If I wouldn’t have gotten that scholarship I would have happily been right there at Reynolds with you.”

After graduation, Tameka and Nalay had both decided to stay back in Virginia for school… Nalay, because of her academic scholarship at the University of Virginia and Tameka, because she wanted to be closer to her mom to help her out at home.

“Well how’s mama doing Meeks?” Destani asked.

“Girl she aiight. Her and her bad ass Rugrats continue to live on my nerves. I’m still helping her around the house, but a bitch had to step out and get her own place ‘cause I could and would not survive in that hell house another day”

“What! You got your own place? When nigga… see this lack of communication we been on is childish!” Destani said.

With the most ratchet giggle, Tameka popped a few chips in her mouth and twirled around to the fridge to grab a bottle of water “It ain’t nothing fancy bitch, but you know… it’s a lil som’n. My new bae got me a lil hosting job at the clubs he be promoting or whatever, so I’m just doing what I do right now.”

“You have a new boyfriend?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling then, all dreamy like as if the thought of this guy alone brought her the most romantic feelings “Honey, yes! I met his ass on campus and he… is… fine! Like for real ya’ll, I don’t think I’ve felt a nigga like how I’m feeling this nigga in like… ever!”

I stared at her and smiled broadly. It felt amazing for me to witness my friends this way… happy and dare I say… in love.

“And what about you Dez? Found anybody to tame your wild ass in Georgia?” Nalay asked with a giggle.

With a roll of her eyes, Destani scoffed and flipped her curly tresses to one side of her head dramatically “Yes the hell I have, actually. And baby boy knows exactly how to tame this wild ass too.”

I rolled my eyes almost as hard as her and shook my head as the girls ogled over the man who was finally able to tame the beast. She even went as far as whipping out her phone and pulling up Taylor’s Facebook page to show him off to the girls, who of course ooh’d and aww’d and blew her head up even bigger than it already was over him.

“What about you Nay? Boo thang yet or is your head so far in the books you can’t see past the ink to find a nigga?” Destani snickered, leaning to the side to high five Tameka.

“Um, for your information Ms. Nosy… I am dating someone.” She said with a sly smirk.

“Where you meet him at?” Tameka asked.

“Here in Richmond…” Her sly smirk grew a bit and she raised a brow to match her mischievous expression.

“In Richmond… hol’ up, we know him?”

She nodded slowly and cast her gaze down onto the granite countertop “BJ…”

A layer of silence washed over the room for a split second before both Tameka and Destani burst into a screaming fit of excitement. I giggled at their antics and watched as Nalay slapped her hands up over her reddened face with embarrassment.

“Awww, don’t be embarrassed girl! You got you a good ole country Richmond nigga, ain’t nothing wrong with that… that’s what Sy did and her and Breezy are doing just fine.” Tameka laughed. The girls continued to laugh, but my laughter died down almost instantly as I absorbed her comment.

Before I could think to stop myself, I cleared my throat and crossed my arms over my midsection “Chris and I… we um… we actually broke up.”

Within seconds the entire kitchen was so silent, I had to look around to ensure I wasn’t the only one still sitting there. Nalay and Tameka both stared at me like two deer caught in headlights and Destani softly cleared her throat and dropped her head. For a moment I was overwhelmed by the silence and the sudden layer of awkwardness that seemed to sweep over the room and after a while I started to feel microscopic under the hard stare of the two girls.

“Aw Sy… I’m so sorry.” Nalay finally spoke up, in the softest and most sympathetic tone. Of course with her sitting closest to me, she reached over and pulled me into a side hug that should have had me crying, but after all the tears I’d been shedding lately I was thankful that I was finally learning to get a grip on my emotions.

“Well damn, if ya’ll ain’t make it… it ain’t no hope for the rest of us,” Tameka said with an expression of defeat on her face, prompting Destani to nudge her roughly in the side, “Shit bitch, ow! I’m just saying… I think we all had high ass hopes for Sy and Chris. I mean, no bullshit… they a match made in heaven.”

“That is true. Ya’ll were always the perfect couple… even before you became a couple.” Nalay said, leaving us all laughing awkwardly and sadly.

“But I mean, I thought it would be the end of humanity before ya’ll separated. What happened babe?” Tameka asked. The dreaded question… what happened. The question I’d hoped I could somehow avoid for the duration of this visit, had just come to light and it left my stomach churning. I couldn’t bring myself to reveal the dirty details of the demise of our relationship, so with a deep sigh through my nose I slowly shook my head and nibbled nervously into the inside of my lip.

“We just um… we decided to take a break for a while.” I mumbled. It wasn’t necessarily a lie that I’d told. It just wasn’t the cold and bitter truth that I myself could barely handle. I hadn’t even shared the complete truth with Destani because I simply couldn’t fathom the thought of anyone else harboring that truth.

#chrisbrown #chrisbrownff #chrisbrownfanfic #jasminesanders #chrisbrownfanfiction #jasminesandersff #teambreezy #teambreezyff #fanfiction #fanfic

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rhetoricandlogic · 6 years

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The Limitless Perspective of Master Peek, or, the Luminescence of Debauchery By Catherynne M. Valente

Issue #200, Special Double-Issue

, May 26, 2016

AUDIO PODCAST

EBOOK

(Finalist, Eugie Foster Memorial Award, 2017)

When my father, a glassblower of some modest fame, lay gasping on his deathbed, he offered, between bloody wheezings, a choice of inheritance to his three children: a chest of Greek pearls, a hectare of French land, or an iron punty. Impute no virtue to my performance in this little scene! I, being the youngest, chose last, which is to say I did not choose at all. The elder of us, my brother Prospero, seized the chest straightaway, having love in his heart for nothing but jewels and gold, the earth’s least interesting movements of the bowel which so excite, in turn, the innards of man. Pomposo, next of my blood, took up the deed of land, for he always fancied himself a lord, even in our childhood games, wherein he sold me in marriage to the fish in the lake, the grove of poplar trees, the sturdy stone wall, our father’s kiln and pools of molten glass, even the sun and the moon and the constellation of Taurus. The iron punty was left to me, my father’s only daughter, who could least wield it to any profit, being a girl and therefore no fit beast for commerce. All things settled to two-thirds satisfaction, our father bolted upright in his bed, cried out: Go I hence to God! then promptly fell back, perished, and proceeded directly to Hell.

The old man had hardly begun his long cuddle with the wormy ground before Prospero be-shipped himself with a galleon and sailed for the Dutch East Indies in search of a blacker, more fragrant pearl to spice his breakfast and his greed whilst Pomposo wifed himself a butter-haired miller’s daughter, planting his seed in both France and her with a quickness. And thus was I left, Perpetua alone and loudly complaining, in the quiet dark of my father’s glassworks, with no one willing to buy from my delicate and feminine hand, no matter how fine the goblet on the end of that long iron punty.

The solution seemed to me obvious. Henceforward, quite simply, I should never be a girl again. This marvelous transformation would require neither a witch’s spell nor an alchemist’s potion. From birth I possessed certain talents that would come to circumscribe my destiny, though I cursed them mightily until their use came clear: a deep and commanding voice, a masterful height, and a virile hirsuteness, owing to a certain unmentionable rootstock of our ancient family. Served as a refreshingly exotic accompaniment to these, some few of us are also born with one eye as good as any wrought by God, and one withered, hardened to little more than a misshapen pearl notched within a smooth and featureless socket, an affliction which, even if all else could be made fair between us, my brothers did not inherit, so curse them forever, say I. No surprise that no one wanted to marry the glassblower’s giant hairy one-eyed daughter!

Yet now my defects would bring to me, not a husband, but the world entire. I had only to cut my hair with my father’s shears, bind my breasts with my mother’s bridal veil, clothe myself in my brothers’ coats and hose, blow a glass bubble into a false eye, and think nothing more of Perpetua forever. My womandectomy caused me neither trouble nor grief—I whole-heartedly recommend it to everyone! But, since such a heroic act of theatre could hardly be accomplished in the place of my birth, I also traded two windows for a cart and an elderly but good-humored plough-horse, packed up tools and bread and slabs of unworked glass, and departed that time and place forever. London, after all, does not care one whit who you were. Or who you are. Or who you will become. Frankly, she barely cares for herself, and certainly cannot be bothered with your tawdry backstage changes of costume and comedies of mistaken identity.

That was long ago. So long that to say the numbers aloud would be an act of pure nihilism. Oh, but I am old, good sir, old as ale and twice as bitter, though I do not look it and never shall, so far as I can tell. I was old when you were weaned, squalling and farting, and I shall be old when your grandchildren annoy you with their hideous fashions and worse manners. Kings and queens and armadas and plagues have come and gone in my sight, ridiculous wars flowered and pruned, my brothers died, the scales balanced at last, for having not the malformed and singular eye, neither did they have the longevity that is our better inheritance, fashions swung from opulence to piousness and back to the ornate flamboyance that is their favored resting state once more.

And thus come I, Master Cornelius Peek, Glassmaker to the Rich and Redolent, only slightly dented, to the age which was the mate to my soul as glove to glove or slipper to slipper. Such an age exists for every man, but only a lucky few chance to be born alongside theirs. For myself, no more perfect era can ever grace the hourglass than the one that began in the Year of Our Lord 1660, in the festering scrotum of London, at the commencement of the long and groaning orgy of Charles II’s pretty, witty reign.

If you would know me, know my house. She is a slim, graceful affair built in a fashion somewhat later than the latest, much of brick and marble and, naturally, glass, three stories high, with the top two being the quarters I share with my servants, the maid-of-all-work Mrs. Matterfact and my valet, Mr. Suchandsuch (German, I believe, but I do respect the privacy of all persons), and my wigs, my wardrobe, and my lady wife, when I am in possession of such a creature, an occurrence more common and without complaint than you might assume, (of which much more, much later). I designed the edifice myself, with an eye to every detail, from the silver door-knocker carved in the image of a single, kindly eye whose eyelid must be whacked vigorously against the iris to gain ingress, to the several concealed chambers and passageways for my sole and secret use, all of which open at the pulling of a sconce or the adjusting of an oil painting, that sort of thing, to the smallest of rose motifs stenciled upon the wallpaper.

The land whereupon my lady house sits, however, represents a happy accident of real estate investment, as I purchased it a small eternity before the Earl of Bedford seized upon the desire to make of Covent Garden a stylish district for stylish people, and the Earl was forced to make significant accommodations and gratifications on my account. I am always delighted by accommodations and gratifications, particularly when they are forced, and most especially when they are on my account.

The lower floor, which opens most attractively onto the newly-christened and newly-worthwhile Drury Lane, serves as my showroom, and in through my tasteful door flow all the nobly whelped and ignobly wealthed and blind (both from birth and from happenstance, I do not discriminate) and wounded and syphilitic of England, along with not a few who made the journey from France, Italy, Denmark, even the Rus, to receive my peculiar attentions. With the most exquisite consideration, I appointed the walls of my little salon with ultramarine watered silk and discreet, gold-framed portraits of my most distinguished customers. In the northwest corner, you will find what I humbly allege to be the single most comfortable chair in all of Christendom, reclined at an, at first glance, radical angle, that nevertheless offers an extraordinary serenity of ease, stuffed with Arabian horsehair and Spanish barley, sheathed in supple leather the color of a rose just as the last sunlight vanishes behind the mountains. In the northeast corner, you will find, should you but recognize it, my father’s pitted and pitiful iron punty, braced above the hearth with all the honor the gentry grant to their tawdry ancestral swords. The ceiling boasts a fine fresco depicting that drunken uncle of Greek Literature, the Cyclops, trudging through a field of poppies and wheat with a ram under each arm, and the floor bears up beneath a deep blanket of choice carpets woven by divinely inspired and contented Safavids, so thick no cheeky draught even imagines it might invade my realm, and all four walls, from baseboard to the height of a man, are outfitted with a series of splendid drawers, in alternating gold and silver designs, presenting to the hands of my supplicants faceted knobs of sapphire, emerald, onyx, amethyst, and jasper. These drawers contain my treasures, my masterpieces, the objects of power with which I line my pockets and sauce my goose. Open one, any one, every one, and all will be revealed on plush velvet cushions, for there rest hundreds upon hundreds of the most beautiful eyes ever to open or close upon this fallen earth.

No fingers as discerning as mine could ever be content with the glazier’s endless workaday drudge through plate windows and wine bottles, vases and spectacles and spyglasses, hoping against hope for the occasional excitement of a goblet or a string of beads that might, if you did not look too closely, resemble, in the dark, real pearls. No, no, a thousand, million times no! Not for me that life of scarred knuckles whipped by white-molten strands of stray glass, of unbearable heat and even more unbearable contempt oozing from those very ones who needed me to keep the rain out of their parlors and their spirits off the table linen.

I will tell you how I made this daring escape from a life of silicate squalor, and trust you, as I suppose I already have done, to keep my secrets—for what is the worth of a secret if you never spill it? My deliverance came courtesy of a pot of pepper, a disfigured milkmaid, and the Dogaressa of Venice.

It would seem that my brothers were not quite so malevolently egomaniacal as they seemed on that distant, never-to-be-forgotten day when our father drooled his last. One of them was not, at least. Having vanished neatly into London and established myself, albeit in an appallingly meager situation consisting of little more than a single kiln stashed in the best beloved piss-corner of the Arsegate, marvering paltry, poignant cups against the stone steps of a whorehouse, sleeping between two rather unpleasantly amorous cows in a cheesemaker’s barn, I was neither happy nor quite wretched, for at least I had made a start. At least I was in the arms of the reeking city. At least I had escaped the trap laid by pearls and hectares and absconding brothers.

And then, as these things happen, one day, not different in any quality or deed from any other day, I received a parcel from an exhausted-looking young man dressed in the Florentine style. I remember him as well as my supper Thursday last—the supper was pigeon pie and fried eels with claret; the lad, a terrifically handsome black-haired trifle who went by the rather lofty name of Plutarch—and after wiping the road from his eyes and washing it from his throat with ale that hardly deserved the name, he presented me with a most curious item: a fat silver pot, inlaid with a lapis lazuli ship at full sail.

Inside found I a treasure beyond the sweat-drenched dreams of upwardly mobile men, which is to say, a handful of peppercorns and beans of vanil, those exotic, black and fragrant jewels for which the gluttonous world crosses itself three times in thanks. Plutarch explained, at some length, that my brother Prospero now dwelt permanently in the East Indies where he had massed a fabulous fortune, and wished to assure himself that his sister, the sweet, homely maid he abandoned, could make herself a good marriage after all. I begged the poor boy not to use any of those treacherous words again in my or anyone’s hearing: not marriage, not maid, and most of all not sister. Please and thank you for the pepper, on your way, tell no one my name nor how you found me and how did you find me by God and the Devil himself—no, don’t tell me, I shall locate this lost relative and deliver the goods to her with haste, though I could perhaps be persuaded to pass the night reading a bit of Plutarch before rustling up the wastrel in question, but, hold fast, my darling, I must insist you submit to my peculiar tastes and maintain both our clothing and cover of darkness throughout; I find it sharpens the pleasure of the thing, this is my, shall we say, firm requirement, and no argument shall move me.

Thus did I find myself a reasonably rich and well-read man. And that might have made a pleasant and satisfying enough end of it, if not for the milkmaid.

For, as these things happen, one day not long after, not different in any hour or act than any other day, a second parcel appeared upon my, now much finer, though not nearly so fine as my present, doorstep. Her name was Perdita, she was in possession of a complexion as pure as that of a white calf on the day of its birth, hair as red as a fresh wound, an almost offensively pregnant belly, and to crown off her beauty, it must be mentioned, both her eyes had been gouged from her pretty skull by means of, I was shortly to learn, a pair of puritanical ravens.

It would seem that my other brother, Pomposo—you remember him, yes? Paying attention, are we?—was still in the habit of marrying unsuspecting girls off to trees and fish and stones, provided that the trees were his encircling arms, the fish his ardent tongue, and the stones those terribly personal, perceptive, and pendulous seed-vaults of his ardor, and poor, luckless Perdita had taken quite the turn round the park. Perhaps we are not so divided by our shared blood as all that, Pomposo! Hats off, my good man, and everything else, too. Well, the delectably lovely and lamentable maid in question found herself afflicted both by Little Lord Pomposo and by that peculiar misfortune which bonds all men as one and makes them brothers: she had a bad father.

Perdita told me of her predicament over my generous table. She spoke with more haste than precision, tearing out morsels of Mrs. Matterfact’s incomparable baked capon in almond sauce with her grubby fingers and fumbling it into that plump face whilst she rummaged amongst her French pockets for English words to close in her tale like a green and garnishing parsley. As far as I could gather, her cowherding father had, in his youth, contracted the disease of religion, a most severe and acute strain. He took the local clergyman’s daughter to wife, promptly locked her in his granary to keep her safe from both sin and any amusement at all, and removed a child from her every year or so until she perished from, presumably, the piercing shame of having tripped and fallen into one of the more tiresome fairy tales.

Perdita’s father occupied the time he might have spent not slowly murdering his wife upon his one and only hobby: the keeping of birds of prey. Now, one cannot fault the man for that! But he loved no falcons nor hawks nor eagles, only a matched pair of black-hearted ravens he called by the names of Praisegod and Feargod (there really can be no accounting for, or excusing of, the tastes of Papists) which he had trained from the egg to hunt down the smallest traces of wickedness upon his estate and among his children. For this unlikely genius had taught his birds, painstakingly, to detect the delicate and complex scents of sexual congress, and the corvids twain became so adept that they were known to arrive at many a village window only moments after the culmination of the act.

Now you have taken up all the pieces of this none-too-sophisticated puzzle and can no doubt assume the rest. My brother conquered Perdita’s virtue with ease, for no such dour and draconian devoutness can raise much else but libertines, a fact which may yet save us from the vicious fate of a world redeemed, and put my niece (for indeed it proved to be a niece) in her with little enough care for anything but the trees and the fish and the stones of his own bucolic life. No sooner than he had rolled off of her but Praisegod and Feargod arrived, screeching to wake the glorious dead, the scent of coupling maddening their black brains, and devoured Perdita’s eyeballs in a hideous orgy of gore and terribly poor parenting. Pomposo, ever steadfast and humbly responsible for his own affairs, sent his distress directly to me and, I imagine, poured a brimming glass of wine with which to toast himself.

“My dear lady,” said I, gently prying a joint of Mrs. Matterfact’s brandied mutton from her fist, hoping to preserve at least something for myself, “I cannot imagine what you or my good brother mean me to do with a child. I am a bachelor, I wish devoutly to remain so, and my bachelorhood is only redoubled by my regrettable feelings toward children, which mirror the drunkard’s for a mug of clear water: well enough and wholesome for most, he supposes, but what can one do with one? But I am not pitiless. That, I am not, my dear. You may, of course, remain here until the child... occurs, and we shall endeavor to locate some suitable position in town for one of your talents.”

Ah, but I had played my hand and missed the trick! “You misunderstand, monsieur,” protested the comely Perdita. “Mister Pompy didn’t send me to you for your hospitalité. He said in London he had a brother who could make me eyes twice as pretty as they ever were and would only charge me the favor of not squeezing out my babe on his parlor floor.”

Even a thousand miles distant, my skinflint family could put the screws to me, turn them tight, and have themselves a nice giggle at my groans. But at least the old boy guessed my game of trousers and did not give me up, even to his paramour.

“They was green,” the milkmaid whispered, and the ruination of her eye sockets bled in place of weeping. “Like clover.”

Oh, very well! I am not a monster. In any event, I wasn’t then. At least the commission was an interesting enough challenge to my lately listless and undernourished intellect. So it came to pass that over the weeks remaining until the parturition of Perdita, I fashioned, out of crystal and ebony and chips of fine jade, twin organs of sight not the equal of mortal orbs but by far their superior, in clarity, in beauty, even in soulfulness. If you ask me how I accomplished it, I shall show you the door, for I am still a tradesman, however exalted, and tradesmen tell no tales. I sewed the spheres myself with thread of gold into her fair face, an operation which sounds elegant and difficult in the telling, but in the doing required rather more gin, profanity, and blows to the chin than any window did. When I had finished, she appeared, not healed, but more than healed—sublimated, rarefied, elevated above the ranks of human women with their filmy, vitreous eyes that could merely see.

I have heard good report that, under another name, and with her daughter quite grown and well-wed, Perdita now sits upon the throne of the Netherlands, her peerless eyes having captivated the heart of a certain prince before anyone could tie a rock round her feet and drop her into a canal. Well done, say all us graspers down here, reaching up toward Heaven’s sewers with a thousand million hands, well done.

Now, we arrive at the hairpin turn in the road of both my fortunes and my life, the skew of the thing, where the carriage of our tale may so easily overturn and send us flying into mud and thorns unknown. Brace your constitution and your credulity, for I am of a mind to whip the horses and take the bend at speed!

It is simply not possible to excel so surpassingly as I have done and remain anonymous. God in his perversity grants anonymity to the gifted and the industrious in equal and heartless measure, but never to the splendid. Word of the girl with the unearthly, alien, celestial eyes spread like a plague of delight in every direction, floating down the river, sweeping through the Continent, stowing away on ships at sea, until it arrived, much adorned with my Lady Rumor’s laurels, at the palazzo of the Doge in darling, dripping Venice.

Now, the Doge at that time had caused himself, God knows why or by dint of what wager, to be married to a woman by the name of Samaritiana. Do not allow yourselves to be duped by that name, you trusting fools! Samaritiana would not even stop along the side of the road to Hell to wrinkle her nose at the carcass of Our Lord Jesus Christ, though it save her immortal soul, unless He told her she was beautiful first. Oh, ’tis easy enough to hate a vain woman with warts and liver spots, to scorn her milk baths and philtres and exsanguinated Hungarian virgins, to mock her desperation to preserve a youth and beauty that was never much more enticing than the local sheep in the first place, but one had to look elsewhere for reasons to hate Samaritiana, for she truly was the singular beauty of her age. Black of hair, eye, and ambition was she, pale as a maiden drowned, buxom as Ceres (though she had yet no issue), intoxicating as the breath of Bacchus. Fortunately, my lady thoughtfully provided a bounty of other pantries in which to find that meat of hatred fit for the fires of any heart.

She was, quite simply, the worst person.

I do not mean by this to call the Dogaressa a murderess, nor an apostate, nor a despot, nor an embezzler, nor even a whore, for whores, at least, are kindly and useful, murderers must have some measure of cleverness if they mean to get away with it, apostates make for tremendous company at parties, despots have a positively devastating charisma, and, I am assured by the highest authority, which is to say, Lord Aphorism and his Merry Band of Proverbials, that there is some honor amongst thieves. No, Samaritiana was merely humorless, witless, provincial, petty, small of mind, parched of imagination, stingy of wallet and affection, morally conservative, and incapable, to the last drop of her ruby blood, of admitting that she did not know everything in all the starry spheres and wheeling orbits of existence, and this whilst believing herself to possess all of these that are virtues and eschew all that are sins. Can you envisage a more wretched and unloveable beast?

I married her, naturally.

The Dogaressa came to me in a black resin mask and emerald hooded cloak when the plague had only lately checked into its waterfront rooms, sent for a litter, and commenced seeing the sights of Venice with its traveling hat and trusted map.

Oh, no, no, you misapprehend my phraseology. Not that plague. Not that grave and gorgeous darkling shadow that falls over Europe once a century and reminds us that what dwells within our bodies is not a soul but a stinking ruin of fluid and marrow and bile. The other plague, the one that sneaks on nimbly putrefying feet from bedroom to bedroom, from dockside to dinner party, from brothel to marital bower, leaving chancres like kisses too long remembered. Yes, we would have to wait years yet before Baron von Bubœ mounted his much-anticipated revival on the stage, but never you fear, Dame Syphilis was dancing down the dawn, and in those days, her viols never stopped nor slowed.

That mysterious, morbid, nigh-monstrous and tangerine-scented creature called Samaritiana darkened my door one evening in April, bid me draw close all my curtains, light only a modest lantern upon a pretty lacquered table inlaid with mother of pearl which I still possess to this day, and stand some distance away while she removed her onyx mask to reveal a face of such surpassing radiance, such unparalleled winsomeness, that even the absence of the left eye, and the mass of scars and weals that had long since replaced it, could do no more than render her enchanting rather than perfect.

It would seem that the Dogaressa danced with the Dame some years past. Her husband, the Doge, brought her to the ball, she claimed, having learned the steps from his underaged Neapolitan mistress, though, as I became much acquainted with the lady in later years, I rather suspect she found her own way, arrived first, wore through three pairs of shoes, departed last, and ate all the cakes on the sideboard. But, as is far too often the case in this life ironical, that mean and miserly soul found itself in receipt of, not only the beauty of a better woman, but the good fortune of a better man. She contracted a high fever owing to her insistence upon hosting the Christmas feast out of doors that year, so that the gathered noblility could see how lovely she looked with a high winter’s blush on her cheeks, and this fever seemed to have driven, by some idiot insensate alchemy, the Dame from the halls of Samaritiana forever, leaving only her eye ravaged and boiled away by the waltz.

All was well in the world, then, save that she could not show herself in public without derision and her husband still rotted on his throne with a golden nose hung on his mouldering face like a door knocker, but she had not come for his sake, nor would she ever dream of fancying that it was possible to ask a boon of that oft-rumored wizard hiding in the sty of London for any single soul on earth other than herself.

“I have heard that you can make a new eye,” said she, in dulcet tones she did not deserve the ability to produce.

I could.

“Better than the old, brighter, of any color or shape?”

I could.

She licked her lily lips. “And install it so well none would suspect the exchange?”

Perhaps not quite, not entirely so well, but it never behooves one to admit weakness to a one-eyed queen.

“You have already done me this service,” said she to me, loftily, never asking once, only demanding, presuming, crushing all resistance, not to mention dignity, custom, the basest element of courtesy, beneath her silver-tooled heel. She waved her hand as though the motion of her fingers could destroy all protestation. The light of my lantern caught on a ring of peridot and tourmaline entwined into the shape of a rather maudlin-looking crocodile gnawing upon its own tail, for she claimed some murky Egyptian blood in the dregs of her familial cup, as though such little droplets could mark her as exceptional, when every dockside lady secretly fancies herself a Cleopatra of the Thames.

“Produce the results upon the morrow! I will pay you nothing, of course. A Dogaressa does not stoop to exchange currency for goods. But when two eyes look out from beneath my brow once more, I will present you with a gift, for no particular reason other than that I wish to bestow it.”

“And if I do not like your gift, Clarissima?”

Puzzlement contorted her exquisitely Cyclopean visage, causing a most unwelcome familial pang within my breast. “I do not take your meaning, Master Peek. How could such a thing possibly occur?”

There is, it seems, a glittering point beyond which egotism achieves such purity that it becomes innocence, and that was the country in which Samaritiana lived. In truth, had she revealed her gift to me then, or even promised payment in the usual manner, I might have refused her, just to experience the novel emotion of rejecting royalty—for I am interested in nothing so much as novelty, not love nor death nor glass nor gold. Something new! Something new! My kingdom for something new! But she caught me, the perfumed spider, wholly without knowing what she’d done. I did indeed take up her commission, and though you may conclude in advance that this recounting of the job will proceed according to the pattern of the last, I shall be disappointed if you do, for I have already told you most vividly that herein lies the skew of my tale.

For the sake of the beautiful Dogaressa, I took up my father’s battered old pipe and punty. I cannot now say why; for a certainty I owned better instruments by far, and had not touched the things in eons except to brush them daintily with a daily sneer. Perhaps a paroxysm of sentimentality seized me; perhaps I despised her too much even then to waste my finer appliances on her pox-punched face, in any event, I cannot even say positively that the result blossomed forth from the tools and not some other cause, and I fear to question it now. I sank into the rhythm of my father and grandfather and his before him: the dollop of liquid glass, the greatbreath of my own lungs expelled through the long, black pipe, the sweet pressure and rolling of the globule against the smooth marver stone, the uncommon light known only to workers of glass, that strange slick of marmalade-light afire within crystal that would soon ride a woman’s skull all the way through the days of her life and down into her tomb.

The work was done; I fashioned two, an exquisitely matched pair, in case the other organ required replacement in the unseen feverish future. Samaritiana, in, so far as I may know or tell, the sole creative decision of her existence, chose not one color for the iris but all of them, dozens of infinitesimal shards chipped from every jewel in my inventory: sapphire, jade, emerald, jasper, onyx, amethyst, ruby, topaz. The effect was a carnival wheel of deep, unsettling fascination, and when I sewed it into her flesh with my golden thread she did not wail or struggle but only sighed, as though lost in the act of love, and, though her faults were called Legion, they were as yet unknown to me, thus, as my needle entered her, so too did my fatal softening begin.

The Dogaressa departed with her stitching still fresh, leaving in her wake but three souvenirs of our intimate surgery: one gift she intended, one she did not, and her damnable scent, which neither Mrs. Matterfact nor Mr. Suchandsuch, no matter how they scrubbed and strove, could remove from the premises. I daresay, even this very night, should you venture to my old house on the High Street and press your nose to its sturdy bones, still yet you would snatch a whiff of tangerine and strangling ivy from the foundation stones.

The gift she intended to leave was a lock of her raven hair, the skinflint bitch. The other, I did not perceive until some weeks later, when I adjourned to my smoking room with a bottle of brandy, a packet of snuff, and a rare contemplative mood which I intended to spend upon a rich, unfiltered melancholy as sweet as any Madeira—for it is a fact globally acknowledged that idle melancholy, like good wine, is the exclusive purview of the wealthy. To aid in my melancholy, I fingered in one hand the mate to the Dogaressa’s harlequin eye, rubbing my thumb over that strange, motley iris, marveling at the milky sheen of the sclera, admiring, unrepentant Narcissus that I am, my own skill and artistry. I removed my own, ordinary, unguessable, nearly flawless glass eye and held up the other to my empty socket like a spyglass, and a most thoroughly stupendous metamorphosis transpired: I could seethrough the jeweled lens of that artificial eye! Truly see, without cloud or glare or halo—ah, but what I saw was not the walls of my own smoking room, so tastefully lined with matching books chosen to neither excite nor bore any guest to extremes, but the long peach-cream and gold hall of the palazzo of the Doge in far-distant Venice! The chequered black and white marble floors flowed forth in my vision like a houndstooth river; the full and unforgiving moon streamed glaucous through tall slim windows; painted ceilings soared overhead, inlaid with pearl and carnelian and ever-so-slightly greyed with the smoke of a hundred thousand candles burnt over peerless years in that grand corridor. Women and men swept slowly up and down the squares like boats upon some fairy canal, swathed in gowns of viridescent green cross-hatched with silver and rose, armored in bodices of whalebone and opal, be-sailed in lacy gauze spun by Clotho herself upon the wheel of destiny, cloaked and hooded in vermillion damask, in aquamarine, in citron and puce, their clothing each so splendid I could scarce tell the maids from the swains—and thus looked I upon a personal paradise heretofore undreamt of.

But there were worms in paradise, for each and every beauty in the Doge’s palace was rotting in their finery like the fruit of sun-spoiled melons within their shells. Their flesh putrefied and dripped from their bones and what remained turned hideous, sickening colors, choleric, livid, cyanic, hoary, a moldering patina of death whose effusions stained those bodices black. Some stumbled noseless, others having replaced that appendage with nostrils of gold and silver and crystal and porcelain, and others, all hope lost, sunk their visages into masks, though they could not hide their chancred hands, the bleeding sores of their bosoms, the undead tatters of their throats.

Yet still they laughed, and spoke animatedly, one to the other, and blushed in virtuous fashion beneath their putridity. Such is the dance of the Dame, who enters through the essential act of life, yet leaves you thinking, breathing, walking whilst the depredations of the grave transact upon your still-sensate flesh, making of this world a single noisy tomb.

My breath would not obey me; my heart ricocheted amongst my ribs like a cannon misfired. Was it truly Italy I saw bounded in the tiny planet of a glass eye? Had I stumbled into a drunken sleep or gone mad so swiftly no asylum could hope to catch me? I shot to my feet, mashing the eye deeper into my socket until stars spattered my sight—closer, look closer! Could I hear as well? Smell? Taste the tallowed air of that far-off moonlit court?

I could not. I could not hear their footsteps nor inhale their perfume nor feel the fuzzed reek of the mildewed canals on my tongue nor move of my own volition. I apprehended a new truth, that even the impossible possesses laws of its own, and those unbendable. I could only observe. Observe—while my vision lurched forward, advancing quickly, rocking gently as with a woman’s sinuous gait. Graceful, slender arms extended as though from my own body, opening with infinite elegance to embrace a man whose head was that of a Titan cast down brutally into the pit of Tartarus, so wracked with growths and intuberances and pulsating polyps that the plates of his skull had cracked beneath the intolerable weight and shifted into a new pate so monstrous it could no longer bear the Doge’s crown, which hung pitifully instead from a ribbon slung round his grotesque neck. Those matchless arms which were not my own enfolded this hapless creature and, encircling the middle finger of the hand belonging to the right arm, I saw with my altered vision the twisted peridot and tourmaline crocodile ring of the Dogaressa Samaritiana.

I cast the glass eye away from me, sickened, thrilled, inflamed, ensorcelled, the fire in my midnight hearth as nothing beside the conflagration of curiosity, horror, and the beginnings of power that crackled within my brain-pan. In that first moment, standing among my books and my brandy drenched in the sweat of a new universe, an instinct, a whisper of Truth Profound, permeated my spirit like smoke exhaled, and, I confess to you now, all these many years hence, still I enshrine it as an article of faith, for it was with breath that God animated the dumb mud of Adam, breath that woke Pandora from stone, breath that demarcates the living and the dead, breath with which we speak and cry out and divide ourselves from the idiot kingdom of animals, and breath, by all the blasted saints and angels, with which the glassblower shapes his glass! The living breath of Cornelius Peek yet permeates every insignificant atom of his works; each object broken from his punty, be it window or goblet or cask or eye, hides the sacred exhalations of his spirit co-mingled with the crystal, and it is this, it is this, I tell you, that connects the jeweled eye of the Dogaressa with the jeweled eye in my hand! I dwell in the glass, it cannot dispense with me any further than it can dispense with translucency or mass, and therefore it carries the shard of Cornelius whithersoever it wanders.

Let us dispense with a few obnoxious but inevitable inquiries into the practicality of the matter, so that we may move along past the skew. How could this mystic connection have escaped my notice till now? It is only sensical: Perdita vanished away to the Netherlands with both marvelous eyes, and no window nor goblet nor cask is, in its inborn nature, that organ of sight which opens onto the infinite pit of the human soul. Would any eye manufactured in the same fashion result in such remote visions? They would indeed, my credulous friend. Does every glassblower possess the ability to produce such objects, should he but retain one eye whilst selling the other at a fair price? Ah, here I must admit my deficiency as a philosopher, for which I apologize most obsequiously. It cannot be breath alone, for I made subtle overtures toward the gentleman of the glassmen’s guild and I can say with a solemn certainty that none but Master Peek can perform this alchemy of sclera and pupil. Why should it be so? Perhaps I am a wizard, perhaps a saint, perhaps a demiurge, perhaps the Messiah returned at last, perhaps it owes only to that peculiar rootstock of my family which grants me my height, my baritone, the hairiness of my body. Grandfather Polyphemus’s last gift, lobbed down the ancestral highway, bashing horses as it comes. I am a man of art, not science. I ask why Mrs. Matterfact has not yet laid out my supper oftener than I ask after the workings of the uncluttered cosmos.

Thus did I enter the business of optometry.

When you have placed a mad rainbow jewel in the skull of a Dogaressa as though she were nothing but a golden ring, a jewel which drove the rotting men of Venice insane with the desire to tie her to a bridge-post and stare transported into the motley swirling colors of the eye of God, lately fallen to earth, they began to say, somewhere in Sicily, advertisement serves little purpose. I opened my door and received the flood. It is positively trivial to lose an eye in this wicked world, did you know? I accepted them warmly, with a bow and a kerchief fluttered to the mouth in acute compassion, a permanently sympathetic expression penciled onto my lips in primrose paint—for that moth-eaten scab Cromwell was finally in the grave, where everything is just as colorless and abstemious and black as he always wished it to be, so full of piss and vitriol that it poisoned him to the gills, and Our Chuck, the Merry Monarch, was dancing on his bones.

Fashion, ever my God and my mother, took pity upon her poor supplicant and caused a great miracle to take place for my sake—the world donned a dandy wig whilst I doffed my own, sporting my secret womanly hair as long and curled as any lord, soaking my face in the most masculine of pale powders, rouges, lacquers, and creams, encasing my figure, such as it ever was, in lime and coral brocade trimmed in frosty silver, concealing my gait with an ivory cane and foxfurred slippers, and rejoicing in the knowledge that, of all the men in London, I suddenly possessed the lowest voice of them all. So hidden, so revealed, I took all the one-eyed world into my parlor: the cancerous, the war-wounded, the horse-kicked, the husband-beaten, the inquisitor-inquisited, the lightning-struck, the unfortunately-born, the pox-blighted, and yes, the Dame’s erstwhile lovers, for she had made her way to our shores and had begun her ancient gambols in sight of St. Paul’s. And for each of these unfortunate angels of the ocular, I fashioned a second eye in secret, unknown entirely to my custom, twin to the one that repaired their befouled faces, with which I adjourned night by night to a series of successive smoking rooms, growing grander and finer with each year, holding those orbs to the light and looking unseen upon every city in Christendom, along with several in the Orient and one in the New World, though it could hardly be called a city, if I am to be honest. And Venice, always Venice, the first eye and only, her eye, gazing out on the water, the moonlight, the dead.

In this fashion, I came to know that the Doge had died, succumbed to the unbearable weight of his own head, long before Samaritiana appeared on my night-bestrewn doorstep, the saffron gown she wore in the moonlight, and every other in her trunk, torn violently, soaked with bodily fluids, rent by the overgrown nails of the frenzied rotting horde who had chased her from the palazzo through every desperate alleyway and canal of the city, across Switzerland and France, in their anguished longing to touch the Eye of God, still sewn into the ex-Dogaressa’s skull, to touch it but once and be healed forever.

But of course I aided the friendless and abandoned Good Samaritiana as she wept beside her monstrous road. Oh, Clarissima, how dreadful, how unspeakable, how worthy of Mr. Pepys’ vigilant pen! I shall have to make introductions when you are quite well again. I sent at once for a fine dressmaker of my acquaintance to construct a suitable costume for the lady and save her from the immodesty of those ragged silken remnants of her former life with which, even then, she attempted to cover her body with little enough success that, before the dressmaker could so much as cross the river, I learned something quite unexpected concerning the biography of Samaritiana, former queen of Venice.

She was quite male. Undeniably, conspicuously, astonishingly, fascinatingly so.

I called up to Mrs. Matterfact for cold oxtongue, a saucer of pineapple, and oysters stewed in Armagnac, down to Mr. Suchandsuch for carafes of hot claret mulled via the latest methods, and listened to the wondrous chimera in my parlor tell of how that famous Egyptian blood was not in the least of the Nile but of the Tiber, on whose Ostian banks a penniless but beautiful boy had been born in secret to one of the Pope’s mistresses and left to perish among the reed-gatherers and the amber-collectors and the diggers of molluscs.

But perish the lad did not, for even a grass-picker is thoroughly loused with the nits of compassion, and the women passed the babe one to the other and back again, like a cup of wine that drank, instead, from them. Now, it is well known to anyone with a single sopping slice of sense that the Pope’s enemies are rather like weevils, ever industrious, ever multiplying, ever rapacious, starving for the chaff of scandal with which to choke the Holy Father and watch him writhe. They roved over the city, overturning the very foundational stones of ancient Rome in search of the Infallible Bastards, in order, not to kill them like Herod, but to bring them before the Cardinals and etch their little faces upon the stained glass windows as evidence of sin. My little minx, having already long, lustrous hair and androgyne features more like to a seraph than a by-blow son, found it at first advantageous to effect the manners and dress of a girl, and then, when the danger had passed, more than that, agreeable, even preferable to her former existence. Having become a maid to save her life, she remained one in order to enjoy it. Owing to the meager diet of the Tiber’s tiniest fish, little Samaritiana never grew so tall nor so stout as other boys, she remained curiously hairless, and though she escaped the castrato’s fate, her voice never dipped beneath the pleasing alto with which she now spoke, nor did her organ of masculinity ever aspire to outdo the average Grecian statue, and so, when the Doge visited Ostia after the death of his first wife, he saw nothing unusual walking by the river except for the most beautiful woman in the Occident, balancing a basket of rushes on her hip with a few nuggets of amber rolling within the weave.

“But surely, Clarissima,” mused I, savoring the tart song of pineapple upon my tongue, “a bridegroom, however ardent, cannot be so easily duped as a vengeful Cardinal! Your deception cannot have survived the wedding bower!”

“It did not survive the engagement, my dear Master Peek,” Samaritiana replied without a wisp of blush upon her remarkable cheek. “Oh, mistake me not, I do so love to lie—I see no more purpose in pretending to be virtuous in your presence than I saw in pretending to be fertile in his. But there could be no delight in a deception so deep and vast. It would impair true marriage between us. I revealed myself at Pentecost, allowing him in the intensity of his ardor to unfasten my stays and loose my ribbons until I stood clad only in honesty before His Serenity and awaited what I presumed to be my doom and my death. But only kisses fell upon me in that moment, for the Doge had long suppressed his inborn nature, and suffered already to get upon his departed wife the heirs he owed to the canals, and though my masquerade, you will agree, outshines the impeccable, he would later say, on the night of which you so confidently speak, that some sinew of his heart must always have known, since first he beheld me with my basket of amber and sorrow.”

I did not exchange trust for trust that night among the oysters and the oxtongue. I have a viciously refined sense of theatre, after all. I made her wait, feigning religion, indigestion, the vicissitudes of work, gout, even virginity, until our wedding night, whereupon I allowed Samaritiana, in the intensity of her ardor, to unfasten my stays and loose my ribbons until at last all that stood between us was the tattered ruin of my mother’s ancient bridal veil, and then, not even that.

“Goodness, you don’t expect me to be surprised, do you?” laughed the ex-Dogaressa, the monster, the braying centaur, the miserly lamia who would not give me the satisfaction of scandalizing her! That eve, and only that eve, under the stars painted upon my ceiling, I applied all my cruellest and most unfair arts to compel my wife to admit, as a wedding present, that she had not known, she had never known, never even suspected, loved me as a man just as I loved her as a woman, and was besides a brutal little liar who deserved a lifetime of the most delectable punishment. We exchanged whispered, apocryphal, long-atrophied names beneath the coverlet: Perpetua. Proteo.

Samartiana treated me deplorably, broke my heart and my bank, laughed when she ought to have wept, drove Mrs. Matterfact to utter disintegration, kept lovers, schemed with minor nobles. We were just ferociously happy. Are you surprised? I, too, am humorless, witless, provincial, petty, small of mind, parched of imagination, stingy of wallet and affection, a liar and a cad. He was like me. I was like her. I had, after all, seen as she saw, from the very angle of her waking vision, which in some circles might be the definition of divine love. I have had wives before and will have again, far cleverer and braver and wilder than my Clarissima, but none I treasured half so well, nor came so near to telling the secret of my smoking room, of the chests full of eyes hidden beneath the floorboards. Samaritiana had her lovers; I had my eyes, the voyeur’s stealthy, soft and pregnant hours, a criminal sensorium I could not quit nor wished to.Yet still I would not share, I held it back from her, out of her reach, beyond her ken.

The plague took her in the spring. The Baron, not the Dame. The plague of long masks and onions and bodies stacked like fresh-laid bricks. I buried her in glass, in my incandescent fury at the kiln, for where else can a man lose his whole being but in a wife or in work? These are the twin barrels in which we drown ourselves forever.

It soon came to pass that wonderful eyes of Cornelius Peek were in such demand that the possession of one could catapult the owner into society, if only he could keep his head about him once he landed, and this was reason enough that, men being men and ambition being forever the most demanding of bedfellows, it became much the fashion in those years to sacrifice one eye to the teeth-grinding god of social mobility and replace it with something far more useful than depth perception. Natural colors fell by the wayside—they wanted an angel’s eye, now, a demon’s, a dryad’s, a goblin’s, more alien, more inhuman, less windows to the soul than windows to debauched and lawless Edens, and I, your servant, sir, a window-maker once more. I cannot say I approved of this self-deformation, but I certainly profited by the sudden proliferation of English Cyclopses, most especially by their dispersal through the halls of power, carrying the breath of Peek with them into every shadowy corner of the privileged and the perverse.

I strung their eyes on silver thread and lay in a torpor like unto the opium addict upon the lilac damask of my smoking room couch, draping them round and round my body like a strand of numberless pearls, lifting each crystal gem in turn to gaze upon Paris, Edinburgh, Madrid, Muscovy, Constantinople, Zurich—and Venice, always Venice, returning again and again, though I knew I would not find what I sought along those rippling canals traveled by the living dead. It became my obsession, this invasion of perspective, this theft of privacy, the luxurious passivity of the thing, watching without participating as the lives of others fluttered by like so many scarlet leaves, compelled to witness, but not to interfere, even if I wished to, even if I had liked the young Earl well enough when I installed his pigment-less diamond eye and longed to parry the assassin’s blade when I saw it flash in the Austrian sunset. I saw, with tremulous breath, as God saw, forced unwilling to allow the race of man to damn or redeem itself in a noxious fume of free will, forbidden by laws unwritten not to lift one hand, even if the baker’s boy had laughed when I offered him a big red eye or a cat-slit pupil or a shark’s unbroken onyx hue, any sort, free of charge, even the costliest, the most debonair, in honor of my late wife Samaritiana who in another lifetime paid me in hair, not because she would wish me to be generous but because she would mock me to the rafters and howl hazard down to Hell, begging the Devil to take me now rather than let one more pauper rob her purse, even if I saw, now, through his eye, saw the maidservant burning, burning in the bakery on Pudding Lane, burning and screaming in the midnight wind, and then the terrible, impossible leap of the flames to the adjoining houses, an orange tongue lasciviously working in the dark, not to lift one hand as what I saw in the glass eye and what I saw in the flesh became one, fusing and melding at last, reality and unreality, the sight I owned and the sight I stole, the conflagration devouring the city, the gardens, and my house around me, my lovely watered ultramarine silk, my supremely comfortable chair stuffed with Arabian horsehair, my darling gold and silver drawers, as I lay still and let it come for me and thee and all.

I did not die, for heaven’s sake. Perish the thought! Death is terrifically gauche, don’t you know, I should never be caught wearing it in public. I simply did not get up. Irony being the Lord of All Things, the smoking room survived the blaze and I inside it; though the rafters smoked and blackened and the walls swelled with heat like the head of a Doge, the secret chambers honeycombing the place contained the inferno, they did not stove in nor fall, save for one shelf of books, the bloody Romans, of all things, which, in toppling, quite snapped both my shinbones beneath a ponderous copy of Plutarch. Mrs. Matterfact and Mr. Suchandsuch fought valiantly and gave up only the better part of the roof, though we lost my lovely showroom, a tragedy from which I shall never fully recover, I assure you. And for a long while, I remained where the fire found me, on the long damask couch in my smoking room, wrapped in lengths of eyes like Odysseus lashed to the mast and listening to all the sirens’ mating bleats, still lifting each in turn and fixing it to my empty socket, one after the other after the other, and thus I stayed for years, years beyond years, beyond Matterfact and Suchandsuch and their replacements, beyond the intolerable plebians outside who wanted only humble, honest brown and blue eyes again, their own mortal eyes, having seen too much of wildness. And what, pray tell, did I do with my impossible sight, with my impossible span of time?

Why, I became the greatest spy the world has ever known. Would you have done otherwise?

Oh, I have sold crowns to kings and kings to executioners, positions to the enemy and ships to the storm, murderers to the avenging and perversities to the puritanical, I have caused ingenious devices to be built in England before the paint in Krakow finished drying, rescued aristocrats from the mob and mobs from the aristocracy by turns, bought and traded and brokered half of Europe to the other half and back again, dashed more sailors against the rocks than my promethean progenitor could have done in the throes of his most orgiastic fever-dream. I have smote the ground and summoned up wars from the deeps and I have called down the heavens to end them, all without moving one whisper from my house on Drury Lane, even as the laborers rebuilt it around me, even as the rains came, even as the lane around it became a writhing slum, a whore’s racetrack, a nursery rhyme.

Look around you and look well: this is the world I made. Isn’t it charming? Isn’t it terrible and exquisite and debased and tastefully appointed according to the very latest of styles? I have seen to every detail, every flourish—think nothing of it, it has been my great honor.

But the time has come to rouse myself, for my eyes have begun to grow dark, and of late I spy muchly upon the damp and wormy earth, for who would not beg to be buried with their precious Peek eye, bauble of a bygone—and better—age? No one, not even the baker’s boy. The workshop of Master Cornelius Peek will open doors once more, for I have centuries sprawled at my feet like Christmas tinsel, and I would not advance upon them blind. I have heard the strange mournful bovine lowing of what I am assured are called the proletariatoutside my window, the clack and clatter of progress to whose rhythm all men must waltz. There is much work to be done if I do not wish to have the next century decorated by some other, coarser, less splendid hand. I shall curl my hair and don the lime and coral coat, crack the ivory cane against the stones once more, and if the fashions have sped beyond me, so be it, I care nothing, I will stand for the best of us, for in the end, the world will always belong to dandies, who alone see the filigree upon the glass that is God’s signature upon his work.

After all, it is positively trivial to lose an eye in this midden of modernity, this precarious, perilous world, don’t you agree?

#Catherynne M. Valente #The Limitless Perspective of Master Peek #Or #The Luminescense of Debauchery #short story #actually long story

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nebbychan · 6 years

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Donk and Sparrow - Halloween

Crisp and brittle leaves of all colors; scarlet, bronze, and gold all breaking off from their homes among the branches to gracefully cascade, floating along the breeze and landing on the pavement. The chill made it clear that winter was on its way, and any self-respecting Dallington resident would know that it was time to wrap their bodies in a multitude of neutral fabrics. Fall was a special time in Dallington, it signaled the end of barbecues, poolside parties, and humidity of the summer heat and announced the return of the infamous pumpkin spice lattes, succulent vegetables and fruits ripe for harvesting as citizens of all ages would charge to the nearest pumpkin patch or apple orchard to pick only the fattest and juiciest. But fall also served as a warning of the hard winter that was yet to come, temperatures were dropping faster than that of a piano at high altitude, and elderly residents would soon be packing and catching flights in Buffalo or driving to the nearest warmer states.

The worst of it all was the Christmas season.

Nebby had to relive those horrors year after year once she’d become working age, and make no mistake, the first Black Friday always left mental scars in a retail associate’s brain. She had no doubt that Tim becoming a sales floor associate at the old Sears in Pine Woods Mall will be one hell of a shocker for him. She didn’t do it in front of him, but behind the scenes she’d be crossing herself repeatedly and uttering, “En el hombre Del Padre, y Del Hijo, y Del Espíritu Santo. Amen.” Thankfully, Canny Tim had yet to fully grasp Spanish, though that doesn’t mean he didn’t know what “puta” or “cabrón” meant.

And what also served as a saving grace was the holiday that came before Christmas; Halloween.

Halloween was always a popular holiday in the states, especially in Dallington. Once a year, a massive festival would be held, honoring the town’s founding. Meanwhile, the town’s club owner and DJ, Salem had decided to pack up and go off to the mountains for the weekend. It was a strange tradition of hers; she’d pack the RV with all the essentials, and drive deep into the woods only to emerge on November 1st. No one knew why she did it, but when approached she’d instantly snap, “I just need some time to myself, okay?” Nope, definitely not suspicious at all, nope!

Of course, some punk kid would start a rumor that Salem was a serial killer or a narcotics addict, neither of which held enough evidence to prove either theories plus the addition of Nebby’s frightful gaze said otherwise. Nebby herself believed she was just writing new songs or trying to enjoy nature, she’d always remembered Salem as an avid hiker and birdwatcher. Lame activities, but someone has to have a believable hobby, right? Ann had her baking, and Nebby had her trips to the gym.

Nebby stopped by Salem’s small bungalow with croissants and parfaits, “Hey! Going on that yearly trip again?” she greeted. Salem had hoisted the last bag into her RV just as she’d approached her driveway, she smiled, “Yeah, oh hey, are those for me?” “Well who else in this town eats parfaits with pomegranates, dark chocolate mousse, and gluten-free vegan yogurt?” Nebby placed a hand on her hip and flashed a roguish grin. “Don’t you diss the good name of Velvet yogurt, its good shit and you know it.” Salem laughed as she accepted the care package, “So I hear this is gonna be Tim’s first Halloween, it kinda sucks I won’t be here to see it.” “Yeah well, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do anything with him; fucker’s still shaken up after watching IT last night.” Nebby folded her arms and scoffed, “Lost his shit at the sewer drain scene and wouldn’t keep his hands off his face to watch the rest.” “R.I.P Georgie.” Salem shook her head, “You know Tim’s a medieval solider, right? His time was really fucked up you know, and I don’t think introducing him to horror movies was a good idea, you might trigger something.” “He watched the entirety of the Exorcist without blinking an eye, matter of fact…other horror movies are just fine with him- well, except the time he got super nauseated after watching the Saw movies.” Nebby scratches her head.

“You think he might have coulrophobia?” “Canny Tim, afraid of clowns…? I’ve heard of his discomfort towards mirrors, but not clowns.” “Well, it’s a possibility. You said he couldn’t watch IT without covering his eyes.” “In his defense, I probably should’ve warned him there was gonna be a lot of child death in this…” “Well if he does, then you guys might want to be careful.” “And why do you say that?” “Well, I guess there are clowns popping up all over the country again.” “Really, are you serious? This shit again? Welp, welcome to Clownpocalyse, mother fuckers, buckle up!” “Yeah, I’d recommend carrying bear mace or something.” “I’ll add that to my grocery list.”

Salem snorted, “Anyway, I should probably start heading out before traffic starts congesting like flu season. You got your meds, right?” “Like I want to spend this year’s Halloween stuck in bed.” Nebby rolled her eyes, “you have a safe trip, okay?” “You better have some tamale ready for me when I get back.” Salem stuck her tongue out at Nebby, earning a playful expression in return. She waved goodbye as her friend pulled out and drove off. Putting her hands into her pockets, she sighed and began the walk home.

“Me? Going on a hunting trip with you! Oh no, fuck no, last time I went you nearly took an eye out!” Orion angrily pointed to his left eye. Kardok frowned and punched his shoulder, “’at was ower 700 years ago, wimp, gle ower it.” “I know you’re just going to leave me in the woods or use me as target practice.” The clone glared daggers at the centaur, folding his arms and tapping his non-bandaged foot. “Ah won’t, Ollie said Ah cooldn’t anyway.” Kardok groaned, “an’ besides, dae ye pure want tae bide haur an’ deal wit’ Zarok instead ay shootin’ deer an’ elk?” He did drive a good point, whichever minion that stayed behind had to give him a bubble bath. And bubble baths were the worst, last person to go was Oliver, and he was later found in his room rocking himself by a corner. Orion cringed, “Okay, I guess you’re right.” “’En gle packin’, yoo’re burnin’ daylecht haur.” Kardok shoved him towards the stairs, Orion stumbled and grumbled to himself as he regained balance and began walking up towards his room to pack. Oliver entered the foyer with suitcases in hand, “I’m so excit’d! A whole weekend trippeth all to ourselves!” he smiled, “and twas awfully kind of Zeal to lend us the RV, I wast almost worried we’d has’t to travel by foot!” “Aye, its bin tay lang since I’ve shot myself a braw stag ur tois.” Kardok agreed, stretching out his arms. He took the bags from Oliver and brought them outside to the RV. “Come your ways, doest that gent coequal knoweth we’re going on this trippeth?” Oliver inquired, slightly anxious.

“Ye pure techt Zarok…? Nope, has nae scooby whit we’re daein’.” “I see, then we’d best beest off ere that gent notices.” “Exactly wa Ah tauld Orion tae coorie th’ heel up…!” “Right, oh and ere we wend, may we cease at Lady Donk’s house?” “Wa dae ye want tae gang thaur?” “Just to inquire on which places maketh the best camping ground, we can’t just wend anywhere in the woods.” “Braw, an’ mebbe while we’re thaur she can hook us up wit’ some ay ‘er scran.”

Oliver grinned and once Orion finally pulled through with his luggage- even though he wound up falling down the stairs due to the weight, they headed out. Of course, there was the quick stop at Nebby’s house. Kardok stopped the RV and hopped out with the others, knocking on her front door. Lately he’d noticed the unusual change in setting, not just in this house but all over town; carved pumpkins scattered everywhere, cheap cloth with faces crudely drawn onto them, fake displays of witches and cobwebs. He’d once almost jumped at the sight of the giant spider resting on Ann’s rooftop! None of it was real, of course, but still, quite the scare! Apparently, this was for “Halloween”. Kardok had never heard of it, nor was he interested in knowing what it was about.

What also annoyed him were the inconsistent puns. Oh, the puns.

“Spooky Savings”

“Boo-ze for you”

“Three fears for discounts”

“Witches Crew”

God, if he had to endure one more pun, so help him he will go on a rampage. And wrestling with an enraged centaur was not easy. Just then, the front door opened, and standing there with a cup of tea in hand and glowering at him was Tim. He hissed, “What do you want, Bhaltair?” “Is Nebby haem?” He frowned.

“I’m afraid not, she’s gone to see Ms. Hallows at the moment.” He shook his head, “Now, please leave.” He was about to shut the door when Kardok blocked him with one of his hooves. Tim was getting frustrated, “I already told you, she’s not home, leave or I’m calling the authorities!” “Ah still need somethin’ ye ken.” Kardok said firmly, “I’m gonnae oan a huntin’ trip for th’ weekend an’ Ah need scran. Ye ken hoo te cuik sae gie tae it!” “Why you…! Well, first of all-!” But Tim stopped to think for a moment, a whole weekend without Kardok around? That means 48 hours of no hooves clattering against the pavement, no heavy breathing over his shoulder, and no threat of his magic arrows! This was perfect! And all he’d have to do was cook for him? Seems like a fair trade to him! “…fine, make yourselves at home, I’ll whip something up for you.” He sighed, slowly opening the door for him. Kardok grinned, but before entering smacked the mug out of Tim’s hand, causing the porcelain to shatter and its contents to get all over the wood flooring. Tim opened his mouth to say something, but just shook his head instead and slinked off to the kitchen.

Once he’d finished, he exited carrying with him several containers and pots all stacked together. “Alright, I’ve prepared enough food to last you the weekend, please return the containers and pots when you return, Ms. Nebula will not be happy to find that her cookware has gone missing.” Tim informed, carefully lending it to Oliver. And speak of the devil…

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Nebby growled.

Kardok replied, “Huntin’ trip.” “Oh. You’re going too? Well if you see Salem tell her I said hey.” She brightened up, only to immediately darken, “Next time though, wait for me to get home before you decide to invite yourself in, and for fuck’s sake, quit breaking my shit!” “Duly noted, terribly my most humble apology by the by, we’re in a drive and this trippeth wast last minute.” Oliver nodded. “Its fine, you guys go on ahead.” Nebby shooed them away. Orion stayed behind, “Hey, before I go, do you have like, a bunch of scary stories I could use? I want to try and fuck with Kardok on this trip.” “Do I look like a fucking library to you? Talk to Winston, he should hook you up.” Nebby then shoved him out. She then glanced at Tim, “What’d you make?” “Oh, not much, just some honey cakes and chicken soup.” He laughed, “But I’m glad to see you back home.”

A grin crept up on Nebby’s face, “Awesome, I’m gonna head to the store to pick up some candy for the trick-or-treaters, you wanna come? There’s a chocolate in it for you.” She offered in a sing-song voice. “Make it two cases of sugar frosted cookies and I’ll grab my coat.” Tim smirked. “You fucking pig, get upstairs.” She snorted. “You created a monster Ms. Nebula!” Tim joked. “Fuck you!” she called back as he marched up the stairs.

Tim entered his room, it’d gotten better since he’d moved in; he had some posters hung up on the wall along with the many flowers Winston would gift to him on a regular basis. It’d gotten to a point where he had hung some of them onto the ceiling; it was neat save for a few fallen petals on the carpet. He opened the sliding door to the closet, inside was as equally organized. He had coats hung based off color coordination, size, and style, shirts and pants folded neatly inside drawers, plus he had a shoe rack to better arrange his shoes, ranging from sneakers to dress shoes. Other items were found such as a laundry basket and a backpack. He took a step back to think which he’d like to take, only to settle for a dark red coat with black buttons. After slipping it on, he practically flew down the stairs and outside, grabbing a lanyard and turning the porch light on as he exited.

The lanyard wasn’t anything special as it held a cardholder which kept his license and a copy of the house key. Latching the front door shut, he entered the passenger side of Nebby’s car. She smiled, “Took you long enough.”

As they drove towards the direction of the supermarket, Tim looked out into the window. “Ms. Nebula,” He started, “Tell me more about Halloween.” “Sure, you want the short version or the long version? The long version also includes some of Dallington’s history.” She offered. “The long version, please, I want to know everything.” He answered.

“For starters, Halloween wasn’t always called that,” she began, “It has its roots in age-old European traditions, it started with the Celtics, and they called it Samhain, it was a festival consisting of bonfires and people wearing costumes and carving into vegetables to ward off ghosts. They believed that on that night, the boundary between the realms of the living and dead became blurred. So to any evil spirits, it was like a possession buffet for them.” Nebby continued, “But uh, nowadays people dress up for the fun of it…spirit of the season and all that. Anyway, Halloween didn’t come to America until the colonial times, but it wasn’t celebrated as frequently, but when it was, colonizers gathered to exchange ghost stories and start fucking shit up. At that time, they called it, All Hallows Eve. The holiday didn’t pick back up until the early 20th century during the Second World War, when kids started begging for food, marking the staple of Halloween, trick or treating. And Jack-O-Lanterns didn’t pick up until the immigration wave, thanks to the Irish.”

“But what does your town have to do with it?”

“Glad you asked, to give a better understanding, Dallington was founded by Quakers back on October 31st in 1643, before the Salem Witch Trials in Massachusetts. Before then, it was at first a clan of Irish, Spanish, and French immigrants, along with Native Americans and freed or escaped slaves.” She explained, “They were a small community at first, looking to help each other out and find true peace in the New World. The population was small; I’d say around 150 people- farmers and merchants before the trials. By that time, those who had managed to flee upon accusation came here to hide and later start anew. When the trials were over, on Halloween of 1693, the citizens had gathered outside Salem’s cemetery to mourn and give their respects to those who had lost their lives. Then a year later, a massive feast was held to honor them and those who had passed in their town or in the immigrant’s home countries, some female residents dressing as witches and male residents as demons…basically a middle finger to the Puritan assholes and to the bitchy group of teen girls that started the hysteria.”

“All in all, Halloween was the staple of Dallington’s history, serving as a break from the hardworking conformity.” She smiled, “Although, this is just barely scratching the surface. There’s a lot more to this town than a discount Dia de Los Muertos celebration to piss off religious conservatives.”

He blinked, “I had no idea Dallington had such a connection.” “Well, they did.” She chuckled, “Though, no town goes without its enemies. After that little stunt, in January 4th, 1694, nearby Puritan settlements launched an attack on Dallington. There weren’t any casualties, but they did try to burn down the library, which they hated the most, by the way. Yeah, they didn’t get along, like, at all. Hell, at the end of that month, they tried bringing the Witch Trials back, though it was unsuccessful.” “And why was that?” He wondered. “Easy, because all their women freaked out and moved to Dallington; and without women they couldn’t populate, so the remaining settlers basically died off, probably of dysentery or something to warrant the Darwin Award…” She answered, gripping onto the steering wheel, “Good on them, I hate Puritans.” Tim laughed, “Even if they’re not around anymore?” “Oh no, they’re still here, they’re just not called that anymore.” She shook her head.

They arrived at a nearby Halmart a while later, and after going inside, Nebby grabbed for a shopping cart and darted straight for the seasonal section. Being this was Dallington, their seasonal section was massive, as it took up nearly half of the gardening section! Stocked were bags of mixed candies, trick-or-treating pails, boxes stuffed with inflatable or cluttered decorations, and of course, costumes! Seeing as lately her hands had been tied with practically babysitting Tim, putting up with likes of Zarok, her store, and occasional trips to the gym, Nebby had little time to decide on a costume. But she decided, hey, while she was there, why not pick something out? And maybe she could include Tim in this if he wanted to. Walking through the candy aisle, she extended her arm so her hand would be knocking over all the bags, and when she began to power walk past, bags filled with candy began falling off the shelves and into her shopping basket. When she was sure her basket was filled completely, she turned towards the costumes. Tim kept close to her as they walked, completely perplexed by what she’d done.

“Hey Timmy, look at this costume!” Nebby pulled out a costume from the rack, it was contained in a bag, but the front had a picture of a person dressed in a blue tunic with white trousers and boots, and holding in his hand was a sword and a shield. It said “Breath of the Wild”, though in all honesty, everyone knew who this was. She grinned, “Do you want to dress up for Halloween? It’s not too late to get a costume!” “Isn’t dressing up a children’s activity?” he asked. “You’re never too old to dress up! I don’t understand where the fuck these bullshit adult expectations came from, just because I’m 30 doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy anything!” She retorted, “C’mon, at least try to have fun.” Tim sighed and took the bag from her, “Fine, I’ll give it a try.” “Yes!” She fist pumped in victory. As Nebby left the aisle, and Tim hadn’t noticed this before, he noticed a figure standing across from a display of inflatable ghosts, he’d only managed to catch a glimpse of a red nose and confetti-like clothing, the wide grin and light waving made Tim’s stomach flip. He was about to take a step forward to investigate when he heard her calling, “Hey Tim, are you coming? I need to pick up some bear mace.”

“O-Oh, yes, I am! Coming, Ms. Nebula!” He then exited the aisle, before he did, however, he looked back to find the figure gone. Must’ve been his imagination…or perhaps it wasn’t.

Orion stretched his arms as he’d finally finished setting up the grill Zeal had lent to them, “Thought I’d never get it done…” He’d been left alone to prepare the grill while Kardok and Oliver hunt for deer, which wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for when he’d said he’d like to go on this trip. Then again, it was either this or scrubbing Zarok’s back. And on the plus side, it was relatively tranquil in the woods; he’d almost missed the smell of pine cones and that sweet fresh air that filled his lungs. Maybe it wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was still nice to have proper time to relax for once in a millennia. When he’d thought about it, all he remembered was nothing but stuffy rooms and endless clashing against swords. He’d obtained many scars and bruises in his life, most come from either Kardok or Zarok himself. But just one, just for one moment, he could have a moment to rest. The first day had gone off without a hitch, though not much happened. They simply scouted the area with the little daylight they had left, finding the best common ground for deer and whatnot, Kardok had already marked which areas he’d like to visit on his map! Afterwards, they sat outside the RV and eagerly wolfed down the chicken soup Canny Tim had provided for them, and then turned in for the night. Today was more about him setting up the grill and waiting for his comrades to return from hunting, they returned earlier for lunch, and though he wasn’t a cook, he’d managed to throw some meat in between two slices of bread and call it a meal, even if it displeased the centaur. It took an entire loaf, a whole bag of cool ranch Doritos, and a jug of iced tea to get him back on the field, and it was understandable, with an anatomy as complicated as Kardok’s it’d demand the twice amount of nourishment! That’s why they packed extras.

He then turned his head in the direction of leaves rustling; thinking Kardok or Oliver had finally returned Orion opened his mouth to greet them, only for it to be someone else.

He’d seen her before on occasion, particularly when Oliver came to the club for an interview. Her ombre hair hidden in an odd looking hood; tan leather- at least he thought it was leather, adorned with horns, fur, and animal bones. Orion blinked, “Uh…hey Salem, what brings you to the campground?” “Nothin’, Nebby texted me and told me you and the guys are here to do some redneck shit.” She joked. “Redneck…?” Orion repeated. “You know, hunt and get stupidly drunk. I’ve seen it before; my Dad and Uncle Mason did it when they were young.” She laughed. “Are they here with you?” He queried, but Salem shook her head, “Nah, Uncle Mason’s six feet under and my Dad is with my Mom back in Oklahoma.” Oh, so her uncle was-?

“Sorry to hear that.” He said softly. “Its fine, he’s actually buried near my campsite, I come up here every year to pay respects. And my camp is not that far from yours, it’s about half a mile up north.” She smiles, “If you guys want to drop by and have a beer later, I’m open for it.” “That’d be great, but just a fair warning, Kardok can be an ass sometimes.” He laughed.

“He’s part horse, though it’d make more sense if it were half donkey.” “Good one! So, any reason for the weird poncho you got there?” “This…? This belonged to my Uncle Mason; I wear it whenever I come to visit him.” “You two seemed pretty close.” “Are you kidding? He was my best friend before I met Nebby and Ann! Don’t tell them I said that.” “I’ll try not to squeal,” He smirked, “But hey, before you go, do you have any scary stories?” “Why do you want to know? Are you planning on scaring Oliver?”

“More like Kardok and getting back at him for all the bullshit I endured,” He huffed, “I mean, I get it, I looked like some arrow fodder and bear half of his DNA, but the other half isn’t him!” “Let me guess, he doesn’t accept that you’re not who he wants you to be?” She sighed, “Yeah, I get it. And as a matter of fact, I do have a story for you.” She pulls up a chair and seats herself next to the fire pit.

“Alright Orion, you ever heard of the Wendigo?”

The sun had already set by the time Kardok returned, a fat and limp deer resting on horseback, a huge grin on his face. Oliver applauded, “Thee didst such a wonderful job! That deer nev'r saw it coming!” but his face then fell somber, “twas a shame we only managed to shoot one, doth thee bethink we've gone rusty?” But the centaur shook his head, “It ay practices mebbe, but definitely nae terrible.” They stopped in front of the campground, where Orion was found sitting alone by the RV. Kardok opened his mouth to ask, but was immediately stopped by the clone’s sudden remark, “Yes, the grill is ready, do what you need to do so we can eat already. I’m worn out so I can’t help, if I move another muscle I’d just fall apart!” Kardok huffed, seating himself by the fire pit and drawing out his knife to skin the deer and take its meat. Oliver stood by to take the undesirable parts and toss them aside, while also trying not to gag at the stench. Once Kardok had finished carving juicy pieces of meat, he got up to marinade them and put them in the grill.

As he did so, Oliver smiled, “Lest I so my most humble apology thee couldn't cometh, but, I trust that thee enjoyed the silence?” “I did, best three hours I’ve had in my entire existence.” He smiled back as he kicked back in his chair. But Oliver didn’t like that response, just as he was about to retort, Orion spoke up, “Seeing that it’s nighttime and we have a fire going, why don’t we exchange scary stories while we wait for the meat to cook?”

Kardok huffed, “Och yeah, there's th' Fortesque half ay heem...”

Orion rolled his eyes, “It’s a good one, I promise, and it does not involve a self-insert.” Though skeptical, the centaur seated himself back by the fire pit, mildly intrigued by that last detail. Oliver himself sat close by with as much interest. Orion grinned and rested his elbows on his legs when he crossed them, “Salem told me this story, she dropped by earlier to say hi and decided to tell me this frightening tale.”

“They say, that in these woods- for centuries even, has been inhabited by a petrifying, gruesome creature known only as the Wendigo.” He began, “She tells me that Wendigo had lived in Dallington even before the settlers arrived and started building their colony. Though, there is a way to become one of them. This spot where we reside in as of now; was once the sight of an atrocity, the worst that this town has ever seen!” Now color Kardok intrigued! “Gang oan 'en, aam listenin'!” Orion nodded and proceeded with the story, “It was back in December of 1643, the year they had settled, while most settlers stayed within its borders two families didn’t. They were simple farmers, living a mundane and monotonous routine, at least up until the winter came. It had crept up on them so quickly, that before they could expect it, their crops had nearly wasted and shriveled up. Fearful that they would starve, the husband sent his wife, infant daughter, and young sons to live with a friend in town while he, his older sons, and the neighbor and his sons stayed behind to try and salvage for any good crop that may have survived. Alas, it didn’t. By the time they decided to join the others in town it’d had all been too late, the roads had become too treacherous and it wasn’t long until they forced into the farmer’s cottage.”

“Little by little, day by day, their supplies slowly dwindled. The farmer grew more distressed as each minute that passed was another minute without food. The nights were long; the husband began to hear tapping noises, which he had at first ignored. But when food became scarce, the tapping only worsened, growing louder each night until all he could hear in his head was the tapping and the painful growls of his stomach, begging and pleading with him for nourishment,” He continued, “The farmer knew that he and the others would not live to see the first spring if they didn’t eat. On the 50th day, the farmer had a new craving, the last of their food had gone, and now, they had nothing. But he was determined to provide, but to do so have to come at a heavy price. He’d eyed his current occupants, deciding that the fattest would have to go. That night, he ventured outdoors to retrieve an axe, and then crept back inside to his second oldest room. That morning, they had food. The neighbor counted heads and asked where the second eldest went, as usually he’d be down here shoving everything down his gluttonous gullet, but no answer came from the farmer, who was busy gorging himself.”

Kardok could only cringe, he knew exactly what was going on, and dare he think a man could do such a thing to his own flesh and blood. But Orion continued much to his dismay, “But as quickly as it came, it’d gone. And so the oldest of the neighboring family was paid a visit, that morning they had meat again, but the neighbor and his sons refused to eat, they’d become afraid of the farmer. The neighbor had noticed a change in the farmer’s appearance; he’d be seen drooling frequently, he’d lick his lips whenever he stared him and his sons down. They’d tried to leave, but the threatening snow storms threatened to gobble them up, and would shove them back inside, back into the awaiting hunger of the farmer. Eventually, the snow had consumed the cottage entirely, and they knew that they would not live to see the spring. At night, the husband was spotted mumbling to himself; his skin became increasingly paler by each passing day and his hair had grayed and fallen out in clumps prematurely, his eyes would stay open and bloodshot as his hunger kept him up at night, his hands would be shaking as it held the only axe in the house, the only weapon for miles. The creaking floorboards made the neighbor and his remaining sons, knowing of what they’d eaten, beg God for forgiveness as they knew that the farmer would come for them, after all, he was hungry. There was no fighting chance against the farmer. Come spring was when the farmer’s wife returned, opening the door, only then screaming in horror when her eyes laid upon the figure that was once her husband, digging his vicious claws into and feasting on the insides of their oldest son, still breathing, clinging onto life. His eyes rolled back, his arm reach out to her as a warning.”

“It was already too late for him, and it would be too late for her if she didn’t run.” He shook his head, “And that she did, but she never made it out of those mountains. Witnesses claimed to have heard her desperate pleas for help, her cries of agony, but no one came, for they were much too afraid of meeting the same fate.”

Orion concluded, “The wendigo- the horrid creature the farmer had become, was a frightening being of Algonquian folklore, and was born when a man selfishly slaughtered and tasted human flesh in times of famine, the first taste would be nothing, but slowly his mind would only have one thought; he had to have more. And the more he’d get, then the more monstrous he’d become. And although he’d have the food he’d so craved- being at the cost of his humanity, it would never be enough to sate his gluttonous desires.” “Och aye but whit abit th' other kids…? Th' yoonger ones fa biddin wi' their mammy…?” Kardok’s eye widened. “Lucky for them, they thrived within the town’s borders, and never once did they venture past,” Orion grinned maliciously, “For fear that they too would become the meal of the wendigo.” Understandably, Kardok didn’t feel like eating and neither did Oliver, as they’d lost their appetite. Quickly, they scurried into the RV to cleanse themselves and prepare for bed, but they knew no matter how many times they washed their hair or scrubbed their bodies with soap, it wouldn’t be enough to erase the ick of the tale.

Falling asleep was a challenge as well, especially for Kardok. He lied awake, his eye still wide open. He could not erase the horrible details from his head, and why couldn’t he? He was tough! A story like this couldn’t deter him from having fun. This was his trip, his vacation! Whether it was true or not, he didn’t need to know. Maybe tomorrow when they return from the mountains he could drop by at the Gold Room downtown and drown these silly fears with a few beers.

As his eyelids grew heavy, as his muscles loosened from the pressure, and his breathing had become less anxious, he’d finally began to drift off.

But then he heard tapping.

Kardok sat up, but thought, it was just a branch. There was no wendigo here, plus, how would it still be around if no one wanted to come here? Logically, without any victims, the wendigo would’ve died of starvation. Okay, maybe they and Salem being exceptions but it was only fall! If these creatures only appeared in the winter- at least he hoped so, then he had nothing to worry about. But that wasn’t it, as the tapping continued. Kardok lied back down and shoved his pillow over his head to block out the noise, it wasn’t that he feared the wendigo, when something out of the ordinary happens; the least that could be expected was something within logic, the worst was the last thing on anyone’s mind. Perhaps there was a woodpecker or a homeless man trying to grab his attention, or perhaps it was a branch, the RV was parked under a tree, and loose branches were hanging close to the windows. Satisfied with this theory, Kardok began to relax and drift off.

But it wasn’t a branch, Kardok’s eye opened as he’d finally figured out what was causing the tapping; he’d seen Orion do it multiple times on their way here.

That was a fingernail.

Slowly, the centaur got up and reached around for a hunting knife, if it was an intruder, then he’d have something to fend them off. He was not afraid; he was Zarok’s Grand Champion! He’d seen much worse in his life, and had committed various atrocities not excluding murder. He’d ripped men apart with his bare hands, and he even shot a man’s eye out! The sound of the tapping bounced around the room, he looked down at Oliver’s sleeping figure, how in the hell could he sleep through all this?

Just as the tapping had started, it immediately stopped as Kardok then heaved a sigh of relief; finally he could rest easy now. At least, he thought so, as the tapping started back up once again, this time it was as if all the fingernails were tapping against the window rhythmically. He could tell that whatever was out there was just trying to get him to come outside, or at the very least annoy him. A sinking feeling in Kardok’s stomach forced him to edge slowly to the window; Oliver had them drawn closed before he went to sleep. As much as he liked it, he wasn’t necessarily fond of the sun getting into his eyes when he woke up in the morning. Reasonable, but considering the circumstance, it made Kardok all the more uncomfortable. With his free hand, he shakenly grasped onto the heavy fabric, the sweat that had accumulated and glossed over his palms was drenched by the curtain.

Quickly, he opened the curtain to see who it was that was annoying him. To his relief, it was Orion, hair strewn all over the place, strands sticking out into the air and covering a portion of his face- well, more so than usual. His eyes had bags under them and he was slouched over, clearly a spitting image of Fortesque. Orion yawned and whispered, “Sorry to wake you up, I had to take a leak but I think I accidentally locked myself out, could you let me in?” Kardok blinked several times, fighting the urge to grin and suppressing his laughter, for Oliver’s sake. Of course this idiot would lock himself out. Kardok quietly exited the bedroom and made his way over towards the door, careful as to not knock anything over, after all, this was Zeal’s RV.

He stretched his arms and his hand then rests on the handle, the door opened, and Kardok poked his head out, turning it to see if Orion had stayed put or was at least standing by the door, but he wasn’t there. He frowned, “Orion, Orion, whaur ur ye? Ah swear, if thes is a prenk aam gonnae make sure ye gie sponge bath duty fur lae ay th' year!” But no answer, only the wind and the crickets could be heard. Strange, where was he? He was outside just a second ago. Grumbling, he shut the door and locked it, if that’s how it was going to be then he could stay outside all night! Kardok went back to bed, and while he managed to get some sleep, it wasn’t long for the tapping to wake him up again. He reached around for the alarm clock; “Its 2 in the fucking morning, what is this man’s problem?” Kardok thought to himself, once again covering his head with the pillow to drown out the noise, “He has the entire woods to use as a bathroom and the forest floor to use as a bed, why can’t he just shut up?” The attempts were once again futile. The only way Kardok could get any sleep was if he just went out there and shut Orion up himself.

As he got up, however, Kardok realized he’d left the curtains open from the last time he’d gotten up. And his stomach dropped like an anchor when he saw that it was not Orion outside. Matter of fact, he wasn’t sure what it was!

This man- no, this creature was tall, gangly and thin. It stood there, gaunt to the point of emaciation, its desiccated skin pulled tightly over the bones. With its bones pushing out against the skin, its complexion an ashy gray, and its icy glossed eyes pushed deep into its dark sockets. It was as if it were a skeleton that had risen from beyond the grave, what lips it had was since long gone, red liquid dripping from between its fangs, though Kardok could see a long, slimy greyish-blue tongue slither out from between the gaps to lap the blood from over its yellowed fangs. And though they were separated by the glass, Kardok gagged at the horrific stench of decay. Granted, he was no stranger to the stench, but this…this wasn’t anything like it! The creature, seeing that Kardok was up, opened its mouth, matted black hair glued to the sallow skin. The maw revealed rows of its needlelike teeth, the hands were gnarly, razor-like talons, and Kardok could spot tufts of stained, matted snow-white fur. Around the neck and barely hiding beneath its fur the creature adorned a necklace made with human bones. And atop its head stood tall and proud, a set of antlers; whether they were that of a deer or elk, Kardok did not care, as he quickly sprang into action and shut the curtains tight. He turned over to Oliver who was still fast asleep, but now Kardok realized, Orion was still outside. Should he go out there? No, it was likely that Orion was a goner. But, Oliver was the kind of man who’d want everyone to stick together, “no man left behind” as they say.

To hell with it! If Orion’s gone, that’s going to be Zarok’s problem! He wasn’t going to go out there and risk dying again for this idiot! He wanted to be outside, so he had to pay the consequences. “Kardok?” he turned to see Orion up and unharmed, “What the hell are you doing? It’s 2 a.m.! Get some sleep.” Kardok blinked, how the hell was he still alive? “What're ye daein'? Ah thooght ye waur ootwith…!” He whispered angrily. “Outside…? Kardok, I’ve been in the RV this whole time, I just got up to take a piss and I came here to grab my flashlight!” Orion whispered back. So much for an honorable sacrifice, but still, it was good to see that he was unharmed. Kardok pinched his temples, “Nae, ye dornt need tae gang ootwith. Jist use th' a body we hae haur…!” “But the loo’s broken thanks to your fat ass!” Orion argued. “Jist use it, yoo're nae gonnae ootwith!” Kardok hissed. But despite his efforts, Orion grabbed the flashlight and proceeded to walk towards the door. He could’ve said nothing, he could’ve just let whatever that was out there snatch him up and gobble him whole, and yet, something within him told him he needed to say something.

Because without thinking, Kardok then blurted, “But there’s a wendigo it thaur…!”

Orion was seconds away from opening the door, he looked up at him and gave him an unamused glance, “Oh my god, Kardok, it was just a story, the wendigo are basic mythology and therefore don’t exist.” “Weel centaurs aren’t supposed tae be real an' yit haur Ah am.” Kardok crosses his arms. He did have a point there.

It seemed like whatever was out there had finally gotten fed up, as the RV began to shake. The sudden movement nearly jolted Oliver awake, while Kardok and Orion went pale as they then heard movement coming from the roof of the RV. “Its oan th' roof…! Its oan th' feckin' roof…!” Kardok panicked. “Then don’t stand there with your dick in your hands, get us out of here!” Orion pulled Kardok out of the bedroom and shoved him towards the driver’s seat. “Ah cannae drife, aam part cuddie…!” Kardok protested as he was forced to sit down, breaking the back part of the seat. “You’re going to be in half if you don’t drive, now floor it!” Orion yelled, “The force should knock this fucker off!” The centaur was fiddling with the keys, finally jamming them into the slot and turning them, but the damn engine wouldn’t turn on. Oh why, oh why did the engine have to go kaput at a time like this? Kardok kept twisting it, uttering “Come on” repeatedly, his voice cracking occasionally and nearly breaking the key when the roar of the engine along with the high beams turned on at last. Just as Kardok was about to put on his seat belt, the wendigo crawled down from the roof and onto to the windshield like a spider, its head turning a full 360˚ and tapping on the glass. Orion and Kardok let out a shriek of terror, Kardok then slamming his front right hoof into the gas pedal, the tires emitting an ugly squeal. Turning the wheel all the way, Kardok began speeding off and out of the campground, madly turning the RV to shake the creature off, but it persisted.

It was no surprise that in amidst the chaos, Oliver would wake up as he was now standing by the breakfast nook grasping onto the kitchen counter and the wooden table for dear life, fully awake and confused. “What's going on, wherefore art we leaving the camp?” But no answer from either was necessary as his eyes were now directed towards the wendigo, he screamed, “Oh mine god, what is that, what the fuck is that!” “Wendigo and it won’t come off!” Just as Kardok answered this, glass shattered in his face as the wendigo had slammed its grotesque antlers against the windshield and with just enough space to hold on, its claws reached in to grab for the closest morsel; Kardok. The centaur began screaming like Jesus was on him; Oliver sprang into action by grabbing a knife from the block, “Hence with thee, demon from hell, back to the icy void from whence thee cameth!” and sunk the blade into its wrist. Blood gushed and spurted out like a geyser, getting into Kardok and Oliver’s faces as the wendigo howled in agony, simultaneously losing its grip on the frame of the vehicle and falling off. The loud, satisfying THUD along with a tremendous bump from beneath their feet made them all sigh in relief. Orion let out a shaky breath, “Good job, Oliver, now let’s get the fuck out of these mountains.”

Way to jinx it, as now they heard sputtering, the RV was coming to a stop.

“Nae…! Nae! Nae! Nae! Nae! Dornt teel me 'at hin' hud fucked wi' th' engine!” Kardok hyperventilated. Unfortunately, it had, as within seconds, the RV had come to a complete stop. “Fuck!” He slammed his fists against the horn; the noise could be heard for miles. They couldn’t stay here, the windshield was already smashed and none of them knew how to kill a wendigo. And no doubt the creature was not too far away from them, and it wouldn’t be long until it recovered and came back for a second round.

Oliver had never seen Kardok flustered before, normally he was fearless- hell, he was Fear itself! But to see him reduced to this, it made him feel lost. Kardok was the one with all the knowledge, experience, and power to kill whatever crossed his path. But that was when they reigned in Gallowmere; this wasn’t Gallowmere, this was 21st century America and everything around them was a complete stranger to them. He didn’t know if they could kill a wendigo or not, heck, they might not live to see tomorrow if they don’t end up as a happy meal to a cannibalistic juggernaut. And rebuilding a body once it’s reduced to a chewed up, bloody mush was no easy task! Orion paced around for a moment to think; a lightbulb went off as he then whipped out a phone- a gift from Zeal he’d received a while back, and thank god, he was likely within close proximity of a telephone pole because he had bars! He switched the data on and typed into the screen. Kardok was appalled, “What're ye daein', thes is nae time tae be textin'!” “Shut up, I’m doing some research and it just might save our asses!” Orion snapped. A minute passed, and Kardok spoke up once again, “Och mah god, coorie up!” “Just a second, and…got it!” Orion beamed, “Okay, we can temporarily disarm the beast with silver blades, that knife Oliver used must’ve been made out of that. And it says here they hate fire, it’ll get pissed off but it should buy us extra time to run!” “And what about killing t, how doth we killeth t?” Oliver queried. “Stake it through the heart with a silver axe, lock it in a silver box, and bury it in a cemetery or churchyard,” Orion read the passage on his screen, “Use the axe to dismember the wendigo, salt each body part and either burn it or scatter the pieces by burying them in far, separate, and inaccessible locations like a well or lake.” “But we don't has't an axe, or knowledge of any nearby wells or waters.” Oliver shook his head. “'en that's it, we're fucked!” Kardok shouted. “Not if we leave the mountains, a small detail I left out was that the wendigo never ventures past its territory.” Orion frowned, slipping his phone into his pocket and opening the door, “We don’t have a lot of time, that wendigo might’ve healed by now, if we don’t move it’ll get in and devour us all.”

He was right, and before stepping out of the vehicle, Kardok armed himself with a few knives, a lighter, and a bottle of hair spray, just to be safe. Why he had a lighter and hairspray in his possession, no one knew, but at a time like this, it was best to keep silly questions until they were back in town. Plus, a makeshift flamethrower would be handy! Off they went, Orion using his phone’s flashlight as a means to guide him and the others towards civilization. Thanks to Kardok’s reckless driving, they weren’t that far off from the borders that separate the woods from the town.

As they wandered through the woods, the group stayed huddled together, and by that, it meant riding on Kardok’s back- Oliver in the back as the lookout, and Orion as the guide. Aside from the flashlight, it was pitch black outside. The dark clouds had swallowed the moon whole, not a star was out to light up the sky either, every tree trunk reminded Kardok of the wendigo’s horrific dried up skin, every twig that snapped beneath his hooves made his stomach jump. His upper body was shivering despite the cozy sweatshirt he had on, an icy chill breezed past him, tickling the hairs on the back on his neck and goosebumps popping from the skin. He could swear the winds were whispering his name, he wanted to stop, but he knew that if he did he’d be condemning him and his comrades to the mercy of the wendigo.

They weren’t sure how long they’d been wandering, but clearly it was too long since the sun was beginning to rise. And by the time they reached their neighborhood, it was 5 am, and they collapsed on their driveway. The men were sleep deprived due to their paranoia and therefore on edge after their walk that they’d failed to notice the squad cars outside Nebby’s house! But in all honesty, they didn’t care what happened, it was likely nothing compared to what they’d just endured.

To add insult to injury, an RV was sitting on their driveway, and out stepped Salem. “Oh hey, lost your RV?” Oliver raised his head and nodded, “We hadst an accident last night and we hadst to walketh home...” “Sorry to hear that, boys,” She consoled, “Oh, and my Uncle Mason said you guys were a lot of fun to hang out with, he wants to do this again next year!” If Orion hadn’t been as exhausted as he was, he would’ve said something snarky. But, something about that sentence didn’t make sense, besides, wasn’t her uncle dead?

Halloween night, unfortunately, Nebby’s plans to take Tim to the festival fell on its back when he’d displayed symptoms for the stomach flu. Turns out McDonald’s for dinner yesterday wasn’t a good idea, who knew his stomach could be as fragile as it is? Clearly he wasn’t lovin’ it! Still, Tim was not about to let that minor setback keep him from enjoying his first Halloween ever! He decided that he should stay behind and pass out candy while Nebby, Ann, and the rest go out to enjoy the festival downtown. After all, there was always next year. Before leaving, Nebby had set up the sofa to make it so Tim was comfortable and provided a waste basket in case he needed quick access. She’d just about finished adjusting the tiara and pencil on her costume, the others had already arrived; Ann was dressed as a ragdoll- a character named Sally, Una invited herself dressed in a spider web poncho and her hair done up in a high ponytail, Winston and Willow dressed in red jumpers with the tags, “Thing 1” and “Thing 2” on them with the tips of their hair dyed with temporary blue hair dye, and Sodreco…Sodreco was a unicorn. It took all within Tim’s power to not start laughing when he first saw it, and a good thing too, his stomach was currently in agony. “Remind me what you’re supposed to be again.” Winston looked up and down at Nebby, who posed heroically and declared, “Wonder Ramsay! I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to be Wonder Woman or Gordon Ramsay, and Tim said if I liked both, then I could be both!”

Willow giggled, “It looks strangely enough, very fitting on you! If I were a judge at the costume contest, I’d give you points for originality and creativity!” “Yeah well, if only I had a whip and a whole slew of TV shows to complete the look.” Nebby shrugged, “That would’ve been perfect.”

Winston seated himself next to Tim, who decided to rest his head on his shoulder. In response, Winston wrapped an arm around his sweetheart, “Are you sure you don’t want us to stay here and keep you company? I feel bad leaving my sweetheart alone on Halloween night.” “Its fine,” Tim smiled weakly, “I doubt there’d be a lot of ginger ale at the festival, plus, I don’t think I can keep myself standing up for more than a few minutes. And who else is going to hand out candy to those trick-or-treaters?” “Oy, Tim! You know what to give to the adults with crappy costumes, right?” Nebby called. “Ms. Nebula, I’m not handing out three year old M&M’s and bubblegum.” The archer frowned. “It was worth a shot.” She shrugged once again. Winston laughed, then gave Tim a quick peck on the lips, “Alright, I trust you. There’s always next year, I guess.” Ann joined in, “We can pick up candy for you, if you’d like.” Tim sat up, “Ooh! Yes, plenty of peanut butter cups and chocolate!” Sodreco smiled, going over to ruffle his student’s head, “You can only have them when you’re feeling better.” To which Tim pouted playfully.

Nebby, who had broken off from the group earlier, had just returned, “Alright, all doors and windows are locked, curtains are drawn, I’ve signed into Netflix, and there’s chicken soup and ginger ale ready for you on the counter.” “Thank you for your kindness.” Tim smiled warmly, “Though, if I may ask, why latch up the whole house?” “To prevent any drunken morons from breaking in; happened to me last year and it was a bitch getting all those frat boys out of my basement.” Nebby cringed, “I still remember the togas.”

Willow felt a tug on her onesie; she turned to see it was Una, whom after getting her attention pointed to the time shown on her lock screen. She concluded, “And speaking of drunks, I think we’d better get going, they’ll start coming in around 8.” “Ah fuck, you’re right.” Nebby grabbed her keys, “We’ll be back soon. Call us if there’s an emergency or if Zarok’s at the door, call Zeal.” “Have a good time.” Tim waved as she exited the house. Winston bade him goodbye by giving him another kiss, “Happy Halloween, my sweetheart, get well soon.” “And to you too, have fun, love.” He watched as he and the others left. Once they were all gone and the front door locked with a satisfying click, Tim lied back down…until he felt lightheaded. Thank god he was alone.

The first wave of trick or treaters came at least ten minutes after the group had left, and for a minute, Tim thought there wouldn’t be enough candy to last him the night. But thankfully he’d located the piles upon piles of extra candy, so all worries were set aside. This neighborhood housed a lot of kids, and he wasn’t exaggerating, there was a lot! Tim got up- on average, of 6 times every ten minutes to hand out candy. Though it may sound like an annoyance, it really wasn’t. Tim enjoyed handing out candy, and seeing them dressed in their costumes, whether store-bought or handmade made him happy. Heck, he just might be able to pull through! The last wave of trick-or-treaters came around 7:30 pm, ending with a little brunette boy dressed in the exact same costume as him. He ran through the decorations set up by Nebby on the front yard, and came to the door accompanied by his blonde mother. The boy held out his bag in excitement as Tim answered the door one final time. “Trick-or-treat!” the boy was grinning from ear to ear. Tim handed him a generous portion of candy, dropping them into the child’s bag. He swore he saw those eyes light up like stars as he looked at his mother, “Momma! Look! He’s dressed like me!” “I see that, my little warrior,” She giggled, “Now what do we say?” To which the child nodded and chirps, “Thank you, Happy Halloween!” “And to you too, have a good evening! Be safe out there!” Tim laughed as he watched the pair exit the premises. As he closed the door and locked it, he couldn’t help but feel that those two reminded him too much of his own mother and himself when he was a child. Fond memories they were, being an energetic youth yet at the same time oddly shy, the only bounds being his own imagination, which seemed almost endless. Maybe, if he’d been born another time, Tim would’ve been able to have unique memories like Trick-or-Treating. But it wasn’t like he could pick and choose when and where his life would take place.

His thoughts were interrupted by another pang of pain in his stomach, a sign that he’d been standing for too long and needed to lie down, he groaned and sulked back to the living room to lie down. Tim reached for the remote and hit the play button, continuing a movie he’d decided to watch on Netflix. The movie was called, “Halloween”, and it was about a masked serial killer that struck only on Halloween. Simple plot, but hey, it didn’t need anything grand for it to be good. According to Nebby- who recommended it, said it had a low budget but still managed to scare audiences across the country!

As the movie progressed, right as the killer was about to stab another victim to death, Tim jumped to the sound of the landline going off. Strange, he hadn’t heard that thing go off in weeks. Nebby made it abundantly clear to all telemarketers that she was not interested and to remove her from the call-list. She also had a rule about the landline, to which Tim quoted under his breath, “If it’s important, they’ll call again or leave a message.” And just as he’d predicted, after the first ring, the phone went off again. Ah, so it was important. Tim carefully got up, “Just a minute…!” Thankfully, he’d reached the phone, which was in the hallway; he picked it up and answered with a “hello”. He expected it to be either one of his friends calling to check up on him, but was instead met with heavy breathing. Now this was unusual.

Confused, Tim repeated, “Hello?” But all he could hear was heavy breathing.

This had to be Nebby calling; she was probably already drunk and butt-dialing the house. He rolled his eyes as he hung up, but before he could return to his seat, the phone rang again. Okay, this couldn’t be a butt-dial. But Tim didn’t want to answer it; he wanted to hear the voicemail. He got what he asked for, and what did this oh-so elusive voicemail consist of? If your guess was heavy breathing, then you’d be correct. This was definitely no coincidence, and Tim was now mildly annoyed. Those kids and their prank calls, ha! Tim decided that it’d be best to ignore the calls and let them go straight to voicemail. And while he felt like he’d made the right decision, he couldn’t feel as if something were off.

Two hours passed, and the calls had slowly become more frequent, and now Tim was annoyed. He couldn’t even enjoy the movie or even take a nap! Just how persistent were these kids anyhow? “That’s it, if these kids call one more time, I’m going to scream!” He grumbled. And what happened next? The phone rang. Tim growled, “That’s it!” with all the strength he could muster, he stomped over to the phone and as soon as the heavy breathing started, he let loose the angriest, most irritated scream he could conjure up. “There, see how you like having your ears bleed!” and he slammed the phone back into the receiver. He slumped back into his seat, just in time to receive a facetime call from Nebby. He answered, revealing his friend at the bar. He smiled, “Oh, Ms. Nebula! Hello!” Seeing her face calmed him down, it almost made him forget about those obnoxious calls. “Hey Tim, how’re you holding up?” She frowned, “You don’t look so good.”

“Ah, I’m a little irritated right now.” “Ah shit, is Netflix not working?” “Netflix is fine, it’s these phone calls I kept receiving.” “Are stupid kids calling the house phone?” “Yes, and they’ve been at it for two hours, I fear I’m getting more weary just thinking about it!” “Two hours? That seems a bit too dedicated if you ask me, are you sure it’s kids?” “Considering I just screamed into the speaker, I hope it is. Maybe they’ll learn their lesson.” “Oh yeah, you’re going to get a lot of those calls on Halloween, don’t worry.” “Oh! How was the festival?” “Wild, taking a break though, your boyfriend’s got the munchies and I need a drink!” “Just not too much, you have work in the morning.” “I know, I know. Okay, looks like everything’s all good here, I’ll let you go.” “Thank you, I’ll see you soon!”

Just as he hung up, lo and behold, the house phone rang once again. Tim was appalled, just how dedicated were these kids? He groaned, getting up to answer the phone, “Okay, I don’t think I’ve made myself clear; Stop. Calling. The house! What’s wrong with you? I’ve been sick like a dog all day, all I ask is for a nice night to watch movies and recover. I can’t get any of that done when you’re calling me every five seconds! If you call again, I will alert the authorities!” He was about to hang up when he heard a gruff, distorted voice, “Don’t forget to turn off the stove.” Turn off the stove? He turned his head to peak into the kitchen, and wouldn’t you know it, the stove was on. Bewildered, he set the phone to the side, and then crept over to the stove to turn it off. How did he know about the stove? And besides, the stove was already off when Nebby and the others left. These were no kids he was dealing with, but a lonely man stalking him.

Great, now he was the teenage girl home alone, just like in those horror movies!

And Tim couldn’t be more irritated. So much for a good first Halloween, it was bad enough already he was sick! He’d forgotten to hang up, as the voice then asked, “Do you like clowns, Tim? I bet you like clowns.” No, he didn’t. He didn’t like clowns, but he wasn’t about to tell this stranger that. He placed the phone back onto the receiver after hanging up yet again, now feeling slightly uncomfortable. “How did he know my name…?” Tim’s eyes widened slightly. But then his eyebrows furrowed into a frown, wait a second…He grabbed the phone and dialed the number. Zarok’s croaky voice answered, “What do you want, Andrews?” “Zarok, I know it was you calling me! Do you have any idea what time it is?” He placed a hand on his hip.

“I was, but then you screamed into my ears, you worm!” “Good, I hope I ruined your ears, now will you stop calling me?” “I did, I did stop calling you!” “Then why did you ask me if I liked clowns? I hate clowns!” It was silent on the other end, and Zarok answered in a confused tone, “You hate clowns?” “Yes! You asked me if I liked them! And before that, you told me the stove was on! Don’t tell me you broke into the house again!” It was silent again. Tim huffed, “If I look out the living room window right now, and I see you standing there, I will get Ms. Nebula’s handgun and put a bullet somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine!” He walked towards the window, pulling back the curtains to see what was in the front yard. Standing underneath a lamppost was a figure dressed in a clown suit, mask and all. It even had a phone held up to its ear. Tim grinned in triumph, getting his other phone to take a picture, “Aha! Now I’ve got you! I see you there, trying to scare me, well let’s see how you like it when squad cars are congesting your driveway!”

He then heard another voice on the line, a bit of bickering in the background and eventually, Zeal’s voice was on the line, “Hello? Timothy, is that you?” Wait. Zeal’s talking to him. There was only one person outside. “Y-Yes, yes it’s me.” He trembled.

“Timothy, it’s midnight, I’d hate to be rude, but you really shouldn’t be calling at this hour.” “O-Oh, yes, I-I understand. I’m sorry, but he’s been calling me repeatedly and…” “I see, I’m sorry about that, and Nebula told me you were sick, you poor man.” “Yes, I am. Don’t worry, I’m recovering.” “That’s good! My brother said you were about to call the police?” “N-No, I’m sorry, I think there’s someone else responsible for the calls.” “Calling you after 8 pm? Oh no, I believe you’re mistaken, Zarok is asleep at that hour. Is everything alright over there?” “Do you want my honest opinion? No. There’s a weirdo in a clown suit standing outside the house, and now…I’m afraid.” Tim looked away from the window, the curtain drawing back. Okay, okay, so there was a man stalking him, likely another if the stove was on. Zeal was beginning to sound uncomfortable, “Timothy, Timothy if you’re in danger, get out of the house! I’m going to call Nebula right now!” Tim looked at the curtain, and as tempting as it was to leave them alone and leave, he had to see if the clown was within close range of the yard. When he did, Tim was relieved to find that the clown was gone. He sighed in relief, “No, no, its fine now, the clown is gone. Besides, I know how to-“but as he turned around, he then came face to face with a rubber clown mask.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like clowns?”

Tim let out the most bloodcurdling scream he’d ever made in his life, dropping the house phone.

Police units arrived at the Donk residence within twenty minutes after Zeal tipped off police officers and explained that a home invasion was in progress. Nebby and the others arrived later than that thanks to traffic, and were alarmed to see cars parked out in the driveway. Winston and Sodreco burst out from the backseat when they saw a masked intruder being led out in handcuffs, covered in blood. Assuming the worst, they entered to find Tim, alive and well, lying on the sofa covered in blankets giving a statement to the police. “- I’d assumed it was a prank, but when they addressed me by name I knew it was no prank.” He concluded. “Timothy!” Winston hurried over to embrace him, “Timothy, what happened?”

“Your boyfriend managed to beat up and perform a citizen’s arrest on an escaped criminal.” The officer informed him, “From the looks of it, he threw the suspect out that window,” he pointed to a shattered window, both heard Nebby outside screeching, “OH MY-! FUCK me with my own FIST! He broke my fucking window!”

“Subject wasn’t able to speak due to a brutal punch or kick to the throat, and well, let’s just say he beat him to a pulp and call it a night.” The officer chuckled, “We’ll still be collecting evidence, however.”

Winston blinked, then looked at Tim, “Sweetheart, you did all that?”

“What? I hate clowns.

#Donk and Sparrow #((had to post here since DeviantArt says the file was too big))

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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Catelyn

Ned and the girls were eight days gone when Maester Luwin came to her one night in Bran's sickroom, carrying a reading lamp and the books of account. "It is past time that we reviewed the figures, my lady," he said. "You'll want to know how much this royal visit cost us." Catelyn looked at Bran in his sickbed and brushed his hair back off his forehead. It had grown very long, she realized. She would have to cut it soon. "I have no need to look at figures, Maester Luwin," she told him, never taking her eyes from Bran. "I know what the visit cost us. Take the books away." "My lady, the king's party had healthy appetites. We must replenish our stores before—" She cut him off. "I said, take the books away. The steward will attend to our needs." "We have no steward," Maester Luwin reminded her. Like a little grey rat, she thought, he would not let go. "Poole went south to establish Lord Eddard's household at King's Landing." Catelyn nodded absently. "Oh, yes. I remember." Bran looked so pale. She wondered whether they might move his bed under the window, so he could get the morning sun. Maester Luwin set the lamp in a niche by the door and fiddled with its wick. "There are several appointments that require your immediate attention, my lady. Besides the steward, we need a captain of the guards to fill Jory's place, a new master of horse—" Her eyes snapped around and found him. "A master of horse?" Her voice was a whip. The maester was shaken. "Yes, my lady. Hullen rode south with Lord Eddard, so—" "My son lies here broken and dying, Luwin, and you wish to discuss a new master of horse? Do you think I care what happens in the stables? Do you think it matters to me one whit? I would gladly butcher every horse in Winterfell with my own hands if it would open Bran's eyes, do you understand that? Do you?" He bowed his head. "Yes, my lady, but the appointments—" "I'll make the appointments," Robb said. Catelyn had not heard him enter, but there he stood in the doorway, looking at her. She had been shouting, she realized with a sudden flush of shame. What was happening to her? She was so tired, and her head hurt all the time. Maester Luwin looked from Catelyn to her son. "I have prepared a list of those we might wish to consider for the vacant offices," he said, offering Robb a paper plucked from his sleeve. Her son glanced at the names. He had come from outside, Catelyn saw; his cheeks were red from the cold, his hair shaggy and windblown. "Good men," he said. "We'll talk about them tomorrow." He handed back the list of names. "Very good, my lord." The paper vanished into his sleeve. "Leave us now," Robb said. Maester Luwin bowed and departed. Robb closed the door behind him and turned to her. He was wearing a sword, she saw. "Mother, what are you doing?" Catelyn had always thought Robb looked like her; like Bran and Rickon and Sansa, he had the Tully coloring, the auburn hair, the blue eyes. Yet now for the first time she saw something of Eddard Stark in his face, something as stern and hard as the north. "What am I doing?" she echoed, puzzled. "How can you ask that? What do you imagine I'm doing? I am taking care of your brother. I am taking care of Bran." "Is that what you call it? You haven't left this room since Bran was hurt. You didn't even come to the gate when Father and the girls went south." "I said my farewells to them here, and watched them ride out from that window." She had begged Ned not to go, not now, not after what had happened; everything had changed now, couldn't he see that? It was no use. He had no choice, he had told her, and then he left, choosing. "I can't leave him, even for a moment, not when any moment could be his last. I have to be with him, if . . . if . . . " She took her son's limp hand, sliding his fingers through her own. He was so frail and thin, with no strength left in his hand, but she could still feel the warmth of life through his skin. Robb's voice softened. "He's not going to die, Mother. Maester Luwin says the time of greatest danger has passed." "And what if Maester Luwin is wrong? What if Bran needs me and I'm not here?" "Rickon needs you," Robb said sharply. "He's only three, he doesn't understand what's happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him, so he follows me around all day, clutching my leg and crying. I don't know what to do with him." He paused a moment, chewing on his lower lip the way he'd done when he was little. "Mother, I need you too. I'm trying but I can't . . . I can't do it all by myself." His voice broke with sudden emotion, and Catelyn remembered that he was only fourteen. She wanted to get up and go to him, but Bran was still holding her hand and she could not move. Outside the tower, a wolf began to howl. Catelyn trembled, just for a second. "Bran's." Robb opened the window and let the night air into the stuffy tower room. The howling grew louder. It was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair. "Don't," she told him. "Bran needs to stay warm." "He needs to hear them sing," Robb said. Somewhere out in Winterfell, a second wolf began to howl in chorus with the first. Then a third, closer. "Shaggydog and Grey Wind," Robb said as their voices rose and fell together. "You can tell them apart if you listen close." Catelyn was shaking. It was the grief, the cold, the howling of the direwolves. Night after night, the howling and the cold wind and the grey empty castle, on and on they went, never changing, and her boy lying there broken, the sweetest of her children, the gentlest, Bran who loved to laugh and climb and dreamt of knighthood, all gone now, she would never hear him laugh again. Sobbing, she pulled her hand free of his and covered her ears against those terrible howls. "Make them stop!" she cried. "I can't stand it, make them stop, make them stop, kill them all if you must, just make them stop!" She didn't remember falling to the floor, but there she was, and Robb was lifting her, holding her in strong arms. "Don't be afraid, Mother. They would never hurt him." He helped her to her narrow bed in the corner of the sickroom. "Close your eyes," he said gently. "Rest. Maester Luwin tells me you've hardly slept since Bran's fall." "I can't," she wept. "Gods forgive me, Robb, I can't, what if he dies while I'm asleep, what if he dies, what if he dies . . . " The wolves were still howling. She screamed and held her ears again. "Oh, gods, close the window!" "If you swear to me you'll sleep." Robb went to the window, but as he reached for the shutters another sound was added to the mournful howling of the direwolves. "Dogs," he said, listening. "All the dogs are barking. They've never done that before . . . " Catelyn heard his breath catch in his throat. When she looked up, his face was pale in the lamplight. "Fire," he whispered. Fire, she thought, and then, Bran! "Help me," she said urgently, sitting up. "Help me with Bran." Robb did not seem to hear her. "The library tower's on fire," he said. Catelyn could see the flickering reddish light through the open window now. She sagged with relief. Bran was safe. The library was across the bailey, there was no way the fire would reach them here. "Thank the gods," she whispered. Robb looked at her as if she'd gone mad. "Mother, stay here. I'll come back as soon as the fire's out." He ran then. She heard him shout to the guards outside the room, heard them descending together in a wild rush, taking the stairs two and three at a time. Outside, there were shouts of "Fire!" in the yard, screams, running footsteps, the whinny of frightened horses, and the frantic barking of the castle dogs. The howling was gone, she realized as she listened to the cacophony. The direwolves had fallen silent. Catelyn said a silent prayer of thanks to the seven faces of god as she went to the window. Across the bailey, long tongues of flame shot from the windows of the library. She watched the smoke rise into the sky and thought sadly of all the books the Starks had gathered over the centuries. Then she closed the shutters. When she turned away from the window, the man was in the room with her. "You weren't s'posed to be here," he muttered sourly. "No one was s'posed to be here." He was a small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing, and he stank of horses. Catelyn knew all the men who worked in their stables, and he was none of them. He was gaunt, with limp blond hair and pale eyes deep-sunk in a bony face, and there was a dagger in his hand. Catelyn looked at the knife, then at Bran. "No," she said. The word stuck in her throat, the merest whisper. He must have heard her. "It's a mercy," he said. "He's dead already." "No," Catelyn said, louder now as she found her voice again. "No, you can't." She spun back toward the window to scream for help, but the man moved faster than she would have believed. One hand clamped down over her mouth and yanked back her head, the other brought the dagger up to her windpipe. The stench of him was overwhelming. She reached up with both hands and grabbed the blade with all her strength, pulling it away from her throat. She heard him cursing into her ear. Her fingers were slippery with blood, but she would not let go of the dagger. The hand over her mouth clenched more tightly, shutting off her air. Catelyn twisted her head to the side and managed to get a piece of his flesh between her teeth. She bit down hard into his palm. The man grunted in pain. She ground her teeth together and tore at him, and all of a sudden he let go. The taste of his blood filled her mouth. She sucked in air and screamed, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her away from him, and she stumbled and went down, and then he was standing over her, breathing hard, shaking. The dagger was still clutched tightly in his right hand, slick with blood. "You weren't s'posed to be here," he repeated stupidly. Catelyn saw the shadow slip through the open door behind him. There was a low rumble, less than a snarl, the merest whisper of a threat, but he must have heard something, because he started to turn just as the wolf made its leap. They went down together, half sprawled over Catelyn where she'd fallen. The wolf had him under the jaw. The man's shriek lasted less than a second before the beast wrenched back its head, taking out half his throat. His blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across her face. The wolf was looking at her. Its jaws were red and wet and its eyes glowed golden in the dark room. It was Bran's wolf, she realized. Of course it was. "Thank you," Catelyn whispered, her voice faint and tiny. She lifted her hand, trembling. The wolf padded closer, sniffed at her fingers, then licked at the blood with a wet rough tongue. When it had cleaned all the blood off her hand, it turned away silently and jumped up on Bran's bed and lay down beside him. Catelyn began to laugh hysterically. That was the way they found them, when Robb and Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik burst in with half the guards in Winterfell. When the laughter finally died in her throat, they wrapped her in warm blankets and led her back to the Great Keep, to her own chambers. Old Nan undressed her and helped her into a scalding hot bath and washed the blood off her with a soft cloth. Afterward Maester Luwin arrived to dress her wounds. The cuts in her fingers went deep, almost to the bone, and her scalp was raw and bleeding where he'd pulled out a handful of hair. The maester told her the pain was just starting now, and gave her milk of the poppy to help her sleep. Finally she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they told her that she had slept four days. Catelyn nodded and sat up in bed. It all seemed like a nightmare to her now, everything since Bran's fall, a terrible dream of blood and grief, but she had the pain in her hands to remind her that it was real. She felt weak and light-headed, yet strangely resolute, as if a great weight had lifted from her. "Bring me some bread and honey," she told her servants, "and take word to Maester Luwin that my bandages want changing." They looked at her in surprise and ran to do her bidding. Catelyn remembered the way she had been before, and she was ashamed. She had let them all down, her children, her husband, her House. It would not happen again. She would show these northerners how strong a Tully of Riverrun could be. Robb arrived before her food. Rodrik Cassel came with him, and her husband's ward Theon Greyjoy, and lastly Hallis Mollen, a muscular guardsman with a square brown beard. He was the new captain of the guard, Robb said. Her son was dressed in boiled leather and ringmail, she saw, and a sword hung at his waist. "Who was he?" Catelyn asked them. "No one knows his name," Hallis Mollen told her. "He was no man of Winterfell, m'lady, but some says they seen him here and about the castle these past few weeks." "One of the king's men, then," she said, "or one of the Lannisters'. He could have waited behind when the others left." "Maybe," Hal said. "With all these strangers filling up Winterfell of late, there's no way of saying who he belonged to." "He'd been hiding in your stables," Greyjoy said. "You could smell it on him." "And how could he go unnoticed?" she said sharply. Hallis Mollen looked abashed. "Between the horses Lord Eddard took south and them we sent north to the Night's Watch, the stalls were half-empty. It were no great trick to hide from the stableboys. Could be Hodor saw him, the talk is that boy's been acting queer, but simple as he is . . . " Hal shook his head. "We found where he'd been sleeping," Robb put in. "He had ninety silver stags in a leather bag buried beneath the straw." "It's good to know my son's life was not sold cheaply," Catelyn said bitterly. Hallis Mollen looked at her, confused. "Begging your grace, m'lady, you saying he was out to kill your boy?" Greyjoy was doubtful. "That's madness." "He came for Bran," Catelyn said. "He kept muttering how I wasn't supposed to be there. He set the library fire thinking I would rush to put it out, taking any guards with me. If I hadn't been half-mad with grief, it would have worked." "Why would anyone want to kill Bran?" Robb said. "Gods, he's only a little boy, helpless, sleeping . . . " Catelyn gave her firstborn a challenging look. "If you are to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Robb. Answer your own question. Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping child?" Before he could answer, the servants returned with a plate of food fresh from the kitchen. There was much more than she'd asked for: hot bread, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, a rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of mint tea. And with it came Maester Luwin. "How is my son, Maester?" Catelyn looked at all the food and found she had no appetite. Maester Luwin lowered his eyes. "Unchanged, my lady." It was the reply she had expected, no more and no less. Her hands throbbed with pain, as if the blade were still in her, cutting deep. She sent the servants away and looked back to Robb. "Do you have the answer yet?" "Someone is afraid Bran might wake up," Robb said, "afraid of what he might say or do, afraid of something he knows." Catelyn was proud of him. "Very good." She turned to the new captain of the guard. "We must keep Bran safe. If there was one killer, there could be others." "How many guards do you want, rn'lady?" Hal asked. "So long as Lord Eddard is away, my son is the master of Winterfell," she told him. Robb stood a little taller. "Put one man in the sickroom, night and day, one outside the door, two at the bottom of the stairs. No one sees Bran without my warrant or my mother's." "As you say, m'lord." "Do it now," Catelyn suggested. "And let his wolf stay in the room with him," Robb added. "Yes," Catelyn said. And then again: "Yes." Hallis Mollen bowed and left the room. "Lady Stark," Ser Rodrik said when the guardsman had gone, "did you chance to notice the dagger the killer used?" "The circumstances did not allow me to examine it closely, but I can vouch for its edge," Catelyn replied with a dry smile. "Why do you ask?" "We found the knife still in the villain's grasp. It seemed to me that it was altogether too fine a weapon for such a man, so I looked at it long and hard. The blade is Valyrian steel, the hilt dragonbone. A weapon like that has no business being in the hands of such as him. Someone gave it to him." Catelyn nodded, thoughtful. "Robb, close the door." He looked at her strangely, but did as she told him. "What I am about to tell you must not leave this room," she told them. "I want your oaths on that. If even part of what I suspect is true, Ned and my girls have ridden into deadly danger, and a word in the wrong ears could mean their lives." "Lord Eddard is a second father to me," said Theon Greyjoy. "I do so swear." "You have my oath," Maester Luwin said. "And mine, my lady," echoed Ser Rodrik. She looked at her son. "And you, Robb?" He nodded his consent. "My sister Lysa believes the Lannisters murdered her husband, Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King," Catelyn told them. "It comes to me that Jaime Lannister did not join the hunt the day Bran fell. He remained here in the castle." The room was deathly quiet. "I do not think Bran fell from that tower," she said into the stillness. "I think he was thrown." The shock was plain on their faces. "My lady, that is a monstrous suggestion," said Rodrik Cassel. "Even the Kingslayer would flinch at the murder of an innocent child." "Oh, would he?" Theon Greyjoy asked. "I wonder." "There is no limit to Lannister pride or Lannister ambition," Catelyn said. "The boy had always been surehanded in the past," Maester Luwin said thoughtfully. "He knew every stone in Winterfell." "Gods," Robb swore, his young face dark with anger. "If this is true, he will pay for it." He drew his sword and waved it in the air. "I'll kill him myself!" Ser Rodrik bristled at him. "Put that away! The Lannisters are a hundred leagues away. Never draw your sword unless you mean to use it. How many times must I tell you, foolish boy?" Abashed, Robb sheathed his sword, suddenly a child again. Catelyn said to Ser Rodrik, "I see my son is wearing steel now." The old master-at-arms said, "I thought it was time." Robb was looking at her anxiously. "Past time," she said. "Winterfell may have need of all its swords soon, and they had best not be made of wood." Theon Greyjoy put a hand on the hilt of his blade and said, "My lady, if it comes to that, my House owes yours a great debt." Maester Luwin pulled at his chain collar where it chafed against his neck. "All we have is conjecture. This is the queen's beloved brother we mean to accuse. She will not take it kindly. We must have proof, or forever keep silent." "Your proof is in the dagger," Ser Rodrik said. "A fine blade like that will not have gone unnoticed." There was only one place to find the truth of it, Catelyn realized. "Someone must go to King's Landing." "I'll go," Robb said. "No," she told him. "Your place is here. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She looked at Ser Rodrik with his great white whiskers, at Maester Luwin in his grey robes, at young Greyjoy, lean and dark and impetuous. Who to send? Who would be believed? Then she knew. Catelyn struggled to push back the blankets, her bandaged fingers as stiff and unyielding as stone. She climbed out of bed. "I must go myself." "My lady," said Maester Luwin, "is that wise? Surely the Lannisters would greet your arrival with suspicion." "What about Bran?" Robb asked. The poor boy looked utterly confused now. "You can't mean to leave him." "I have done everything I can for Bran," she said, laying a wounded hand on his arm. "His life is in the hands of the gods and Maester Luwin. As you reminded me yourself, Robb, I have other children to think of now." "You will need a strong escort, my lady," Theon said. "I'll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen," Robb said. "No," Catelyn said. "A large party attracts unwelcome attention. I would not have the Lannisters know I am coming." Ser Rodrik protested. "My lady, let me accompany you at least. The kingsroad can be perilous for a woman alone." "I will not be taking the kingsroad," Catelyn replied. She thought for a moment, then nodded her consent. "Two riders can move as fast as one, and a good deal faster than a long column burdened by wagons and wheelhouses. I will welcome your company, Ser Rodrik. We will follow the White Knife down to the sea, and hire a ship at WhiteHarbor. Strong horses and brisk winds should bring us to King's Landing well ahead of Ned and the Lannisters." And then, she thought, we shall see what we shall see.

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