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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Twelve

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale Chapter 12

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six][Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight][Part Nine][Part Ten][Part Eleven] Part Twelve [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

It’s surprising how quickly the tournament and festival grounds between the estate and the supporting town went from a rather bare patch of land near the estate to this bustling and populous collection of tents and people.

The weather is even fair, none of the humidity that can sometimes start early as spring bleeds into summer.

While the galas in the city will be the wedding celebration for those of the middle and upper classes who were not invited to the wedding proper, this festival is the primary public celebration for the common people of Northridge, although plenty of guests who’ve already arrived are joining in.

You’ve never been to a fair of this caliber. Your family estates were a sprawling country house with very little town outside of the estate itself and your housing in the port city where most of your fief lived. You expect a sprawling country festivals to be a different sort than city ones—in some ways at least. The frivolity and wonderful smells and general atmosphere are the same, but there is more space and less permanence to it all.

Still, as with those city ones you attended with your family, you itch to explore on your own, not be stuck at the ceremonial high table—as wonderful as your meal has been. You eye Dale and notice the way he finally seems to have eaten his fill and hope no one notices that he’s had an entire turkey to himself.

Without meaning to, your eyes drift to his clothed arm and side, his now practically invisible cut on his forehead. People seem to believe that the speed at which Dale seems to be healing from the hunt only a couple days ago is merely a sign that the injuries had looked worse than they were. Dale himself is playing into that idea, as well as giving your bandages more credit than they likely deserve. Although at least the doctor is throwing his weight behind that supposition, having eventually been able to treat Dale without getting his head bitten off—figuratively or literally, of course.

Despite Dale’s injury due to the hunting incident, he’s still competing in the tournament which starts tomorrow. The only change in deference to the incident is that the lists were adjusted and the timing of who went up against who was tweaked, leaving Dale in the final group of competitors, rather than him drawing lots with the others. This leaves him with the maximum amount of time to recover. The physician had insisted that such an allowance be made and Grandmother had backed him up wholeheartedly.

You’re glad Dale didn’t push this allowance, both because you were worried about his physical condition, and if he could even properly assess it, in addition to your worry that someone would notice his faster than usual recovery. With both of those fears primarily assuaged at this point which leaves you with one primary concern. The tales told of the boar incident have been told and retold as these tales often are and while everyone knew such things happened, there was a level of admiration that made you uncomfortable.

In particular, the emphasis on Dale wrestling with the creature, how long he was able to cling to its back. That makes you worry about the very public martial tournament he’s about to compete in. In front of any early wedding guests, local townsfolk, and those who travel just to compete, Dale is going to fight and you’re rather worried he’s going to demonstrate some sort of supernatural strength—let alone any other abilities, if pushed.

These tournament displays are already notorious for their ‘accidents’, although how any of it can be considered an accident when the entire point is to attack one another with minorly blunted weapons while wearing a facsimile of armor is beyond you. You’ve never enjoyed them, perhaps because you were never able to attend until you were old enough to grasp the danger the competitors were in. Obviously anyone could get injured during typical training or practice, but these tournaments are on a different level. Everyone knows someone’s cousin or neighbor or whoever that had been permanently injured or worse in some similar display.

And to think some people like how dangerous they are, finding them more prestigious than something safe. Original Dale was certainly one of those types—thoroughly believing in both his own skill and with the strong conviction of someone young, who’d never had their body betray them, that that sort of incident happened to other people, not him. Now, your concern is that Dale will end up backed into a corner and in the heat of the moment give himself away—or as you said, from the beginning be unable to gauge his own strength. Even if initial suspicion is roused only regarding him having enhanced his abilities with illegal demonic supplements can only spell the end. Too many of the ways to detect such things overlap with those to detect possession.

You hope during the first few rounds of the tournament or perhaps even witnessing some of the various fair games will help Dale develop a better sense of what the typical human strength is. That is, if Grandfather ever lets you out of his sight.

You’d hoped with two of his children here, Wellington and Breighton, that he would be sufficiently occupied, but he and Grandmother seem determined to include you and Dale, which is actually very kind of them, at least on Grandmother’s part. Grandfather is acting mostly normal, but his eyes are too sharp on both Dale and you for you to trust his regard anymore. Grandmother is content to hold court at this dais table, talking with her children and other grandchildren, picking on food, for the rest of day—she’d told you as much her self. Grandfather seems more ready to walk to the various games and booths now that the most recent performance is over, but you’d rather not have him along.

It’s Dale who finds the right opening, as one of his cousins—and his three children—begs Grandfather to accompany them to the falconers’ competition on the other side of the fair. Dale resists the invitation to join them, claiming to want to continue his conversation with Grandmother. Then he lets her get distracted by someone else.

Before you know it, your arm is in his and you’re heading in the opposite direction from Grandfather.

Dale smiles down at you. “As happy as I am to speak with my family, there is so much else to do. I hope you do not mind my pulling us away—I simply have to walk around or else I’m liable to fall asleep after such food.”

You smile up at him, with how much of it he put away, you’re not surprised. “I agree. I’ve never had lamb cooked that way before, but we should see if Cook Ubrey can obtain the recipe.”

Dale seems pleased to talk about the food, comparing them with dishes he enjoyed on his travels. He wants to see if they can get some of those prepared in Northridge, he explains as you stroll by the various sellers that line the ramshackle lanes of the festival. All the townsfolk seem to have dredged their inventories to put their very best wares on display and the displays are eye catching—for all you follow your mothers rule of these festivals which cover multiple days: never buy anything on the first day. Part of her many lessons on being frugal, they had started when you were first permitted out of the house and to the marketplaces with a small allowance.

Dale has no such rule, but he seems as happy looking at things as he does actually purchasing items—only acquiring a new handkerchief and gloves. Instead, his eyes stray towards the games and sport more than anything. There are a mix of group, partner, and individual games, all with far more space to play than you’re used to, especially as you get closer to the outskirts of the grounds. Long ranges for archery and hammer throwing, are in the distance, but even nearby, the ring toss and horseshoe lanes have far more space to them than you’re used to.

You end up stopped by the horseshoe stall, watching a pair of brothers compete with more and more specific and ridiculous insults tossed between them. They’re drawing an entertained crowd of onlookers.

You notice the way Dale has a considering look on his face as the men throw the horseshoes and you try to evaluate their ability as well. “They seem like strong competitors,” you say with a nod toward the other horseshoes littered around and in particular on the ground before the stake. “Although it appears as though many underestimated the weight of the shoe and couldn’t reach the stake at first.”

Dale’s eyes narrow and then dart to the third lane, where a woman is attempting to ignore the crowd around the other two to make her throws. Sure enough, on her first throw, the shoe doesn’t go nearly far enough. “Yes, so it would appear. These two look strong though, not blacksmiths, but perhaps carpenters.”

You look the men over. Everyone is wearing, while perhaps not their best clothes, but certainly not their everyday clothes for the festival. That made it harder to tell what exactly people’s profession might be whereas wear and tear, stains, and so on would usually help point you in one direction or another. “Perhaps.” You watch as the older brother rings a second horseshoe around the stake to tie with the younger one.

“Accuracy seems to be more important than strength though,” Dale observes.

On cue the younger brother’s next pitch goes too far past the stake earning him a heckle from his brother about getting overexcited.

“Yes,” you agree. “That is a fair assessment. However, you don’t want to throw too hard or it might bounce off the stake regardless of your aim.”

Dale nods and you chat as the brothers continue to play until finally the older brother wins with a final ringer. He accepts his prize of a bag of horse bristles and a round of drinks bet from his brothers.

“Do you want to play a round?” you ask Dale, when he continues to look at the game and with the brothers gone, the crowd is drifting away. Perhaps this could be a good way for him to evaluate his own strength and accuracy. Low stakes, but with convenient comparables from a wide range of people.

Dale eyes the iron stake in the ground, the past throws which litter the ground around it, and the steel horseshoes in the bucket. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I’ve not played… in many years, I mean. When I was a child.”

You hope he sounds more natural when talking with his family. Perhaps you should be glad only Grandfather seems suspicious after all.

“Then it seems as though you are due to play once more,” you say and he smiles at you in response.

You both make your way over to the man running the booth and he readily accepts the coin Dale gives him with a grin. When Dale admits to not playing in a number of years, the man is quick to give him pointers and you feel yourself relax. Games and good food, even the weather cooperating, this is shaping up to be a fine day. You hadn’t realized how nervous you’d gotten under Grandfather’s watchful and suspicious eye—or even just the eyes of all the visitors and those who’d glance at the dais during the festival.

Some look your way, but it's easier to be anonymous, to be seen more generally at least, mixed in with the crowd as you roam. You’ve missed that about the city and this festival, for all its clear country trappings, is able to recapture that feeling.

Dale seems to have paid enough to have received horseshoes for a few innings and you stand nearby to watch, leaning against a fencepost. Dale’s frowning in concentration, dark eyes intent. His first throw arcs from the left to the right a bit too sharply and contrary to the others. He seems to have over compensated for the weight, resulting in the horseshoe going out of bounds past the stake.

The game runner is quick to tease Dale, but it's nothing too out of the ordinary. He gets better at straightening out his arc as he goes and while the horseshoes continue to go too far, he’s getting closer and closer to the stake.

It’s not until he’s left with just one more pitch that it goes wrong. Just as Dale is only starting to get ready to throw, a loud noise—likely a firecracker set off too soon–cracks through the air. You jump where you stand and a number of those around you swear, but your eyes are on Dale. He flinches and pitches his last horseshoe without thought instinctively.

The horseshoe flies at the stake and you already know it's been thrown with far too much force, especially given the lack of significant windup. Even more unfortunately, it's the most accurate throw yet. It strikes the stake soundly with a clang louder than any previous ringers. You flinch from the sound and the way the stake is pushed, rather than the shoe ringing around it. The stake ends up levering out of the ground entirely, sending a clod of dirt and grass into the ground and landing with a metallic thud.

Well, you think, so much for an easy way to help Dale reign in and evaluate how much strength a typical human has without anyone taking note.

The man in charge of the stall and the few onlookers stare in silence before a child claps. Dale winces. You’re inordinately grateful that too many had been distracted by the sound and didnt notice what happened. Still, some murmurs break out as the stall owner starts to say something, turning to frown at Dale in confusion and then closes his mouth. He recovers after a few seconds, saying, “Stake must have gotten loose, jostled by the other competitors.” He looks uncomfortable and somewhat disbelieving even as he continues, “Apologies, mi’lord. Still, a mighty impressive throw.”

Dale inclines his head in thanks for the compliment as you decide it’d be best if you moved on from here before anyone thought overmuch about what just happened. As soon as possible. “I believe I see a vendor with wine, my lord. I find myself rather thirsty in this heat.”

“Of course, my lady,” Dale agrees easily.

Neither of you chose to speak of what just happened. Dale ends up talking about the wine you purchase and comparing it to some he came across on his travels. You hope he’s only mentioning places Dale visited, but you’re not well traveled enough to know for sure.

You pass other games as you walk around, picking up some nibbles along the way as you both try to relax. You pass a few more games, but Dale seems reluctant to give any of them a try and you don’t feel comfortable encouraging him either. You’ve never understood the point of some anyways. You eye two blindfolded women trying to catch a chicken in a pen in particular. Many seem to be for the watchers' amusements rather than for the ones playing.

You end up watching a children’s small boat race and following along with the river around the eastern edge of the grounds for some cooler air. While the weather is fair, there are far too many people in such a confined area for it not to get warm. You end up circling back to some of the larger, more martial games, skirting the wrestling ring to find yourself at tug o’ war with the offshoot stream as the halfway marker. It’s the middle of a match, with an hourglass signaling plenty of time before a tie has to be called and the scoreboard showing two to one for those on the farther side of the stream.

Both sides are trying to recruit from the growing crowd and the divide seems to be those from the town proper and those who work on the estate itself. With those from the estate down a point. You determine that the first to make it to three victories wins the large coin purse, filled by those who paid to compete.

You stop to watch as the estate team loses further ground, cursing some who evidently took a break for some ale and haven’t returned—they do have notably fewer players. A laundress from the estate joins in, her arm strength winning them at least a foot on the onset, but the teams seem even enough that a young man drops out at his father’s bidding from the town side with no loss of ground on their end.

You narrow your eyes trying to see if you can name or at least place each member of the estate team. While the estate has many workers and none of these are in their uniforms, but you’ve been here long enough you should be able to at least guess at their position based on familiarity. Grandfather and Grandmother always address their servants by name and you want to do your part to show you’re a worthy successor, with the same attention to detail they have.

You’ve identified two footmen, a scullery maid, the laundress who joined most recently, a carriage driver, and two guards when one of the people in the middle the rope spots Dale and grins at him.

“So kind of you to grace us with your presence, my lord,” he calls. You’re pretty sure he’s a stablehand, one you’ve seen Dale speak with before. He certainly seems familiar enough to be joking with him.

“You have something that can tempt me down from my tower, Micha?” Dale asks with a false imperiousness that matches Micha’s as you both drift closer to him.

“Only the very honor of your soon-to-be estate,” he replies with a grin, not moving an inch despite the other team trying to take advantage of what they see as his distraction by making conversation.

“I suppose that might be important enough, but you seem to be losing,” Dale points out, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the tally marks.

Micha rolls his eyes. “Yes, because Keyler and Tawny left to fetch Nair from wasting his time playing marbles and help us out. So now we’re down two and can’t afford to send anyone else after them.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Dale replies with a teasing glint in his eyes.

Micha sticks his tongue out like a child and Dale laughs. Then Micha’s eyes light up. “You could always lend us your immeasurable strength so we can muster the numbers we need to win.”

Dale falters at the suggestion, dubiously looking over the rope and the competitors.

“You can join at the end,” Micha says with a scoff, “Wouldn’t want your clothes to get too dirty.”

You’ve never been so grateful that Dale used to be so fussy about his clothes before, anything that lends plausibility to his reluctance to join in. You’re certain he’d take the opportunity to impress his superiority on others otherwise.

“Come on, D-milord,” Micha asks, wheedling, “help us out while Geoff hunts down the others.”

Tug o’ war seems very high risk to you, gambling on a bad hand, but maybe he’s learned from the horseshoes. With enough men here, perhaps any discrepancies in Dale’s strength won’t be obvious. Of course, it could be far more obvious instead, you think, shoulders tense.

His eyes dart to yours and he looks hopeful, earnest. You reluctantly hold out your hand, “Let me hold your cane and your coat.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he says with a smile, handing them over and accepting the gloves handed to him so he doesn’t get rope burns.

The estate team decides to shuffle their whole order while the town team tries to take advantage of the movement. In the end, one of the guards dashes off to find those missing teammates Micha spoke of and Dale’s near the end of the line of people on this side of the river. He’s far enough from the mud per Micha’s offer in deference to his clothes, but not that far because the flag that marks the original middle of the rope has moved significantly closer to the other team’s side of the river.

You nibble your lip as you watch Dale try to sort out his footing amid the renewed shouting between teams. Without his cane and with all the shuffling, he's clearly not steady on his feet, despite the rope to hang onto the people in front and behind him on the rope.

You’re glad another wineseller is next door and help yourself to some more drink as you watch Dale struggle not to end up in the mud as another person joins the town team. By the time you’ve received it, Dale has settled into some sort of stance in between the jostling and movement of the rope as everyone on both teams has awoken from the tied lull to truly throw their backs into the competition.

Micha turns his head to face Dale and says, “Are you here, milord? Or have you gotten soft from all the travel and airs?” Dale stares at him for a moment before sticking his own tongue, pulling a startled laugh from him. “Then lose your perfect posture. Drop your weight and lean.”

Obligingly, Dale grits his teeth, dropping his stance and leaning at the same angle at the others. Micha glances back again and nods approvingly, “There you go, now you’re remembering.” He turns back to face forward and gives a whistle. “V! Let’s regain this ground!”

A kitchen hand at the front whistles back and counts down from five, her lighter voice cutting through the crowd and noise. On ‘two’, everyone on the estate team takes a step back with their left feet, hand tight on the rope to pull it with them. Dale’s out of sync and while he keeps up, it's clear he’s not contributing anything of particular help. The town teams are quick to pull back on their end and a few of the estate team reluctantly have to resettle their feet much closer together than initially planned.

“Again!”

This time, you count in your head and after four beats, the team tries again, leaning at an even deeper angle. This time, Dale’s ready for it. He pulls his own weight far better this time, getting a better feel for how much strength everyone else is using and with the timing correct that round.

The town is trying to arrange their own pulls in the lull between, but they’re not as organized and someone drops out, leaving them unbalanced.

The next pull has Dale's arms tighten further than before, the muscles obvious under his white linen shirt. Not only is he able to step back further, but so is everyone in front of him.

“There we go!” Micha cheers along with the others

Steadily, their team brings the flag back to the center of the stream, getting surer ground under their feet and working the other team up. Dale’s focus must seem like mere concentration on his grip and stance, but you bet it's him seeing just how much strength he can use. That first pull was a little too much in your estimation and Dale seems to agree as no other round to the retreat as much as that one.

By the time Geoff returns, you’ve finished your glass of wine and the flag is far closer to the estate team’s side of the stream bank. As they make room for them on the rope, Micha tries to entreat Dale to stick around. “See how much help you were able to provide, esteemed one?”

“I have done my duty,” Dale replies dryly, handing his gloves over to a rather intimidated looking man, clearly not expecting to be replacing the Northridge heir. “And I believe the team maximum is eight.”

“If you want to leave us for your fiance,” Micha volleys back, eyes darting to you, catching you by surprise. “Just say so.”

Dale smirks. “Would you not choose a lovely woman over mud?”

“No,” Micha replies cheekily with a wink at Dale. “No offense, milady.” You smile even as the others boo Micha and encourage Dale to go to you. The laundress goes as far as to tell Dale if he’ll not join you, she will. You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks at such blatant flirting, even if it's obviously motivated by alcohol more than anything else and perhaps the novelty of joking with a lord.

“This is the gratitude I receive for lending you my aid,” Dale replies in the same theatrical manner as he and Micha seem to like to play at. “I see how it is and take my leave of you.”

He accepts his coat, pulling it back on, before taking his cane, his fingers warmer than usual when they brush yours. You leave as the newly bolstered estate team begins another round of heaving.

With the wine you’ve had and Dale’s good cheer buoying your spirits, you let yourself get cajoled into a game of ring toss. Strength, you only have a minimal amount, no matter the basic skills you’ve had lessons in—accuracy though, you’re a bit better with. That's about gauging your own ability, your own strength and the distance you need to cross. If you can see your target and it's not too far away, you're reasonably confident.

The weight of the rings is what you need to account for the most and you’re not discouraged when your first toss comes up short. Your second is even closer and your third neatly rings around the short pole. Dale tucks the blossom you win neatly behind your ear, the color complementing your gown and Dale complimenting you.

Passing the longbow ranges, Dale steers you towards the hammer throwing. He is quick to walk over to the table with the various spare hammers. The game runner is quickly gathering up competitors, aiming for five players, each with three hammers. The wood of the hammers is dyed to distinguish the different competitors so none can confuse who threw which.

“Do you mind, my Lady? I think I have this one,” he tosses the red hammer from his right to left, “well in hand.”

You can’t help the dry look you give him at the word play, “Very well.” While you’d initially consider this too high stakes after horseshoes since there is no target, just pure distance and therefore with nothing to reign him in, you trust he’s learned well from the tug o war game.

He lines up with the others while the game runner tries to fill the final two spots for this round. You linger at the fence, letting others peruse the hammers.

“My Lady?” You turn at the voice to find Steward Bilmont next to you.

“Steward,” you say with a smile before you notice how anxious he seems. “Is everything alright?”

His eyes dart from Dale lining up at the throw line to those nearby. “Yes, yes. Fine. Well, could I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course,” you say and follow him down the fence until you're midway down the throwing lane, able to see but with no one particularly close by. “What’s happened? Something with—” Your eyes dart to your fiance.

Bilmont nods. “As we suspected, Lord Archibald did see something while on the hunt, something that has made him suspicious of Lord Dale—and you.”

Your heart lurches in your chest. “Me?”

“Yes, I overheard him speaking with Lady Breighton,” Bilmont explains in a low but urgent tone, eyes darting around for any who might overhear him now. “He thinks that you have bewitched Lord Dale.”

You stare at him, your thoughts still. You blink. “What?”

Bilmont nods again, more vigorously. “He thinks that Lord Dale either fell ill on his own or that perhaps even that was some manipulation of yours and that you used dark influences to help him recover.”

“What?” you repeat. You want to laugh. You’ve no experiences with dark influences except those that are now happening at Northridge because of Dale himself. “How? To what end?”

“To gain power over him,” Bilmont explains. “Lord Archibald is now suspicious that your… that how you present yourself is some sort of act. That you desired more control over Northridge than you believed Lord Dale would give you and so you’ve now done something to make him more responsive to you, more pliant to your manipulations.”

You inhale sharply at his words. That is… not good. “And he told Lady Breighton this?”

“Yes.” Although at that, Bilmont seems to lose some tension, saying, “The only good thing is that if he was looking for support for this theory, he did not find it.”

“Wait, truly?”

Bilmont nodded.

“But…” You frown in confusion. Breighton truly is as intimidating and intelligent as she had first seemed to you nor does she think particularly well of Dale. You’re surprised she isn’t siding with her father. “I thought given Lady Breighton’s general opinion of Dale and, well, I’m not certain what she thinks of me I suppose, but I was under the impression she found me rather…” Shy? Boring? Uninteresting? “…humble.”

Bilmont looks rather pained at that, almost sheepish, as he admits, “Yes, well, she does. That’s precisely why she doesn’t believe you would or could do something of this nature. She said she had seen no evidence of you having any particular knowledge or skill with demonic influences—and that she had met such individuals before. Additionally, she does not feel lord Dale is acting over all in character and views the discrepancies Lord Archibald noticed as either slight or evidence of maturing while abroad.

“Since she has had barely any interaction with Lord Dale for a number of years, she cannot compare his post abroad personality to his recent, ahem, change. She does claim to have met those possessed before and maintains Dale shows none of the classical signs, especially not given the time that has elapsed since the illness. Demonic influences she has less experience with, but as Lord Archibald has even less than her, she also said that you do not demonstrate the signs of such a practitioner.”

“Likely because I’m not,” you reply.

“She went so far as to say she’d believe Lord Dale had gotten mixed up in such demonics himself before you,” Belmont adds with a touch of incredulity at how close to the truth she is, “perhaps for power—to which Archibald took offense, saying Lord Dale would never be so foolish.

Belmont shrugs helplessly, “In the end, Lady Breighton could not be convinced of your involvement and Lord Archibald could not be convinced of Dale’s.”

“But Grandfather was not swayed by Lady Brighton’s argument either,” you deduce. That would be too easy.

“No, not primarily,” Bilmont replies, disappointment evident in his voice. “While I believe he was disappointed she did not see his side, he seemed more thoughtful than discouraged. He seems determined to prove his theory, or at least test it.”

“Oh good,” you can’t help yourself from saying. “Grandfather is going to try to prove I’m a demonic influencer and likely in doing so expose—” you cut yourself off, unwilling even in your agitation to say it aloud. “How does one even prove such a thing? He’s no demonic scholar or practitioner himself.”

“He did not say.”

“Of course not.”

A flash of red catches your eye and you realize it’s finally Dale’s turn at the hammer throw. You try to sort your thoughts as you watch his hammer land neatly in the middle of the other competitors, demonstrating ability, but nothing out of the ordinary. His next throw is only a few feet beyond that. His third is a good few feet beyond the others, but not remarkably so. There’s one more person still to throw, but you’d not be surprised if Dale won.

You’re glad Dale’s managed to regulate his strength correctly, but Grandfather is far too close to the truth for your comfort and you’ve no idea what to do about him. “Strategies?”

“I will keep you alert to anything else I might overhear and recommend you stay on your guard,” Bilmont replies after a moment’s silence.

“Yes,” you answer readily enough. It's becoming rather tiring though, to always be on your guard, vigilant to exposure. “Perhaps I can find something that might suggest what he’ll try. Nothing else to do but wait.”

A small cheer goes up from by the throwing line. You look over to see Dale is motioning to you and automatically you begin to walk back to the main table, Bilmont trailing behind you.

“My lady, come, see what I’ve won.” He cheerfully holds out a skillfully crafted hammerhead as well as a wreath of some kind. When he sees who’s with you, he raises his eyebrows. He's also not oblivious to the atmosphere surrounding the two of you, no matter how you try to hide it. “Steward Bilmont, is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course my lord,” Bilmont says hurriedly. “Although I should be going. My apologies for distracting you from fun with trivialities, my Lady.”

“Of course, Steward,” you reply. Before Dale can ask, you accept the flower crown he holds out to you, fingers careful with the blossoms. “It’s lovely.” You spot the length of ribbon running through the wreath, likely the real prize.

When you go to hand it back, Dale pushes it back to you. “For you, my lady.”

“Oh. I thank you,” you reply, not sure how to place it. You’ve not worn such a crown since one spring equinox celebration when you were a girl. “Could you place it?”

Dale smiles, accepting it back. He reaches for you, motioning for you to incline your head. He carefully sets the crown on your head, adjusting it. Finally he leans back, eyes kind on you. “There. Perfect.”

Oh, how you wish that was closer to the truth than it is.

[Part Thirteen]

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valeriianz · 2 years

Note

hdjfjdhfs i love your first prompt! here’s another one if you’re up for it: ❝ you’ve got me in the palm of your hands. you could crush me and i would still thank you for touching me at all. ❞

hope you get well soon!!

“You’ve grown old, Hob Gadling.”

Hob tensed at the all too familiar voice. A voice he’d never forget, despite the years that had passed since he’d last heard it. The melodic, rich voice that transfixed many, Hob being no exception. He swallowed as he turned, knowing the voice could hear it, could hear his heartbeat suddenly in his ears.

“Tends to happen to mortals, you know?” Hob regarded him in the darkness. He was a shadow on the wall, peeling away and floating towards him now.

Morpheus glides until he meets Hob at the window he’s stationed at. The night is cold and bitter, snow has begun to gently fall, like ash after a bonfire. After a public execution.

“Have you come back to me, my one?”

Hob’s breath hitches as Morpheus slips into his space, a cold hand, pale as death, presses against his chest, long fingers clawing up and around his throat. Hob swallows again, feeling his Adam’s apple bob along Morpheus’ feather soft grip. His blood races in both fear and excitement. Hob sees the way Morpheus’ eyes darken, his brows narrow, enticed.

“Your blood still behaves for me.” Morpheus leans forward and Hob forces his eyes to remain open, his body going still. “I wonder if your body would, as well.”

His voice soothes like balm on a burn, cool and soft and healing. But they’ve played this game many times, and Hob knows not to give in so easily, even if his very skin screams at him to resign himself. To crumple under Morpheus’ intense stare. To bare his neck.

“I’m here on a job, Morpheus.”

Morpheus’ head tilts curiously, like a cat. His hand remains at the base of Hob’s throat, his fingernails lightly scratching the hairs at the back, sending gooseflesh dancing up Hob’s arms.

“Oh?” A ghost of a smirk pulls his lips up. “Come to finally kill me, then?”

“Not you.” Hob answers too quickly. Never you. Even if the gods demanded it of Hob, even if it meant his own demise, he’d never allow harm to come to this ancient, gorgeous, dangerous creature before him.

“I’ve been called to abet,” Hob presses on, finally coming back into his own skin and stepping away from his old friend. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders.”

Morpheus lets him turn, but his hand remains on his coat, falling onto his shoulder. Hob faces the open window once more, observing the night, watching for activity. He has weapons hidden on his person, a pocket pistol loaded with silver bullets, wooden stakes and a plowshare, holy water given to him by a priest just this morning, and a long necklace tucked under his shirt ornate with a heavy cross.

“Mm,” Morpheus hums, his fingers lightly trace down Hob’s back, he can somehow feel his touch even through the layers of fabric. “Yes. I am privy to them.”

Cold panic seizes Hob. His head swings around to meet Morpheus’ black eyes. “You’re not–”

“It’s not me, Hob.” Morpheus says, almost offended, and leans forward again, his lips at Hob’s ear. “But I know who.”

“Tell me.” Hob’s eyes study Morpheus, taking in his wild hair and sharp features. Somehow, Morpheus is even more handsome than the last time they met. Vampires never age, of course, they are no longer among the mortal realm. And their beauty is effervescent, ethereal, intoxicating. Hob had fallen for that heady tonic more than a decade ago, when he was still young and honing his craft.

Morpheus was cunning and persuasive, almost divine with it. Refusing him felt like a sin and Hob knew it wasn’t with pretty words or a hypnotizing voice that lured him that first time, or the second, or the countless, countless others he’d freely given his body to him. Morpheus was a rare breed. Dangerous and devious of course, but also distinguished and demure. Hob was smitten from their first meeting, before he knew of his true nature.

He’d never taken Hob’s blood. Morpheus had gotten close, so close that he would shake with it, writhe and growl, testing the waters with fangs against Hob’s pulse points. On his wrist, his thighs, his throat. Hob would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thrill of it, the danger.

“You’ve got me in the palm of your hands,” Hob had said once. “You could crush me and I would still thank you for touching me at all.”

Hob had been a fool, of course, lying with a vampire. The consequences of which were innumerable, forcing him to flee. Run away from his mistakes, his heart, screaming and clawing in its retreat.

“No.” Morpheus spoke, flat and final. “He is dangerous. We are handling it ourselves.”

Hob blew a long, harsh breath through his nose, glaring at his friend before finally brushing his hand off him.

“If you won’t help me then I suggest you leave.”

Morpheus’ hands are back on Hob before he can blink, forcefully turning and shoving him against the dusty windowsill.

“I will not have you hunt him, do you understand?” He hissed, fangs long and glinting in the moonlight.

Hob’s eyes blew wide. All his years of training, of killing, never prepared him for this. Facing his own conflictions. Seeing Morpheus again brought out old, buried feelings of want and lust that Hob had tried so hard to bury, to destroy. Putting a distance between them hadn’t helped at all. If anything, with the vampire standing before him now, his hands finally, finally, back on Hob, where they belonged, he realized the separation had only stoked the flame. Made Hob want more.

“You must stay hidden, safe.” Morpheus’ grip turned painful, deathly serious. “Until I rip his throat out myself.”

Hob took a shuddering breath. The cold breeze at his back was biting, but not so much as Morpheus’ breath on his face, his body so close to his own. Tantalizing, teasing him. Everything inside Hob screamed to close the distance between them, to reacquaint their bodies, to touch and mark and bruise.

“Morpheus…” Hob spoke his name slowly, an omen to himself. “Who is he?”

Morpheus doesn’t speak for a while, the silence is thick, punctuated only by Hob’s labored breathing and certainly his heartbeat, which he’s sure Morpheus can hear.

“He was one of ours…” Morpheus starts, hesitating on every word. “A young rogue we couldn’t keep under control.”

Hob remains silent as he listens, watching Morpheus’ expressions for a hint of change, of deceit.

“His name is Corinthian.”

“Corinthian,” Hob repeats, shelving that information away.

Morpheus’ glowers at him. He can read Hob all too well. It’s Hob’s biggest weakness, opening himself up to Morpheus, bending to his whims and desires. Or it had been… though Hob wondered what the point in leaving was, if he knew Morpheus could find him anywhere. Could sense him even in the daylight, as soon as he’d stepped off the train and walked among his territory once more.

Morpheus presses his body flush against Hob’s and Hob nearly comes undone, biting back the pleasure, the sheer ecstasy that radiates off Morpheus, threatening to penetrate him. His lips part without his command, his blood hot and running south. Morpheus dips his head, his breath hitting Hob’s lips, sinister and inviting.

“Do not. Find him.”

“Will you stop me, Morpheus?” Hob taunts, cocking an eyebrow. His breath has gone ragged, almost desperate. He tilts his chin in defiance. “I could put you away once and for all.”

Morpheus grins, deadly. He nudges his nose along Hob’s cheek, making him gasp and then groan, unbidden, as ice cold lips caress up his jaw and down his neck, settling at his jugular and biting gently. So gentle, a promise, a devotion.

“I would love to see you try.”

from this prompt list

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman #vampire au #vampire hunter Hob hell yeah #seriously i had to stop #before this turns into something i cant control #like a wip pfft #anon thank you!#hope you like it #my writing #disclaimer: i know nothing about vampires lol #if someone else wants to pick this up PLEASE do #though i would not be opposed to expanding on this... maybe a little #also Hob isnt 'old' he's like 35 here #unedited cos im RACING TO THE DOC #THANK YOU I HOPE I ALSO GET WELL SOON LOL

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