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knightley--phillip · 2 years

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The Fall of Rome: A Battle of Fire and Family [Part One: The Blood You Owe]

Fool me once, fool me twice Are you death or paradise? Now you'll never see me cry

There's just no time to die

In which Phillip, Rose, and the rest of the defectors rally one last time... [takes place Aug. 11]

@thehuntress-rose @lou-bonfightme

[tw: violence, gore, fire, major character death]

PHILLIP: As a writer, Phillip appreciated the irony.

Here he was, standing in front of his family’s house, sword in his hand — just like he had done as a little boy. Except he wasn’t here to protect his family, to bring them glory or victory. He was here to end them, end their reign of terror, end everything that they stood for.

Once upon a time, Phillip had been a little boy who loved his family and wanted to be a brave prince like the ones in stories.

Now, Phillip was a grown man, who still loved his family — he just knew that they were wrong now, and because he’d turned his back on everything they’d taught him, everything the Knightleys had known for generations and generations, they now hated him.

(Sometimes, at night, he could still hear the crack of Percival’s neck as Howl stood over his dead body; and when that became too much to bear, he remembered Percival raising a sword over his head, ready to kill him without a moment’s hesitation).

Phillip looked at the dark stone walls of Thornwood Hall, at the dark clouds rolling in the distance, and he gripped his sword tighter.

This was it. This was the end. Those who remained loyal to the Order hunkered down in the halls of Phillip’s childhood home. Maybe they used the grand piano as a barricade. Maybe they took the stacks of books Phil had left behind and burned them. Maybe they ransacked the artwork his mother had lovingly collected, claiming dibs on it for when they won this battle.

But they wouldn’t win. They couldn’t win.

“Are you ready?” he said to Rose, who just so happened to be the person next to him. And for that, he was thankful — he didn’t know if his heart could bear it if he faced his brothers or his father with Tom or John at his side.

He waited for the signal, before they were to storm into the house and put an end to this once and for all.

ROSE: The question in Rose’s mind wasn’t if she was ready or not. It was if Phil could handle this, battling in his home, burning it down if it came to that. The people she fought with had all agreed the Order had to be felled like Titans, back to the pits of Tartarus. And they were the ill made gods that had to do it. Much like the pantheon, it all came down to fighting against their family, flesh and blood. Phil and the distance rumble of thunder brought Rose out of her thoughts. Maybe Zeus was on their side.

“Are you?” Rose retorted, almost defensively. She was so used to Order men checking in on her as if she needed their coddling. “Sorry,” she softened, realizing Phil meant no disrespect.

She took a breath and scanned the exterior of the manor. He grew up here. With his brothers and Rosie, a girl he’d only mentioned in passing. He’d said she reminded him of her once. And just like Rose’s grip on her sword, it was delicate.

“Yeah… I’m ready. Just think,” she looked sincerely at Phil now, “it ends here. Whatever the cost, we’re ending it. We’re making a difference.”

PHILLIP: “It ends here,” Phillip repeated.

He did not have time to process the rest of what Rose said — the cost, the loss of his family, of everything he stood for, of everything he had known, the cost of it all. Thankfully, he did not have time to think about that, because John gave the signal and at once, they crept forward.

The Order was down to its last few good men, Phillip’s father among them. That is why they gathered here at Thornwood Hall, barricading themselves in its stone walls. And that was why Phillip and John and Thomas and the rest of their allies had to burn it all down. For it wasn’t just men that the Order hid away, but their titles and deeds and precious relics and weapons. It all needed to go down, every last bit of the Order’s legacy.

Phillip slipped past John, because he knew a way in the house that even his father did not, an old servants’ entrance nestled behind some rose bushes. Phillip used to use it to bring girls home. Now, he was leading a battalion to destroy his childhood home.

If the Order had already spotted them, they were being quiet. Phillip ushered the others forward into the hallway, which led into the kitchens. Once they were in, it was time to split up and do what they came here to do. Everyone filed off — except for Rose.

Phillip nodded at her. The lighter in his pocket — one that Howl had enchanted to burn an even stronger flame — felt like it was red hot. He reached for it and lit it, the flame catching onto nothingness, just as Howl had promised. Phillip couldn’t look at it for too long. The smell already made his throat close up.

Instead, he gestured to Rose and the two of them made their way upstairs. Just as they reached the top step, an arrow whizzed past Phillip’s shoulder.

“Is that the best you've got?” he sneered, raising his sword and standing in front of Rose.

ROSE: The arrow clattered down the stairs behind them and Rose rolled her eyes dramatically, “I knew I should have brought my fucking bow.”

She pulled her sword out of its sheath and held it aloft in front of her, careful not to swipe Phil with it. The white reflection of the clouded daylight against the steel shone across the stone walls. Rose scanned her environment with haste, the assailant was further down the hall, but there were too many rooms to search while being shot at. She counted at least four alcoved doorways. “You take that asshat, I’ll search the rooms?”

Rose moved from behind her partner and made for the closest alcove for cover. Another arrow bounced off the wall mere inches from her face. The blonde ducked and pressed herself against the door, fumbling for the handle while keeping her eyes up towards the enemy and Phil. When her hand found purchase, she turned the knob and nodded at Phil, pushing the door open with her backwards force.

PHILLIP:

Y’know, when Belle and Hades made them sign that whole blood oath not to kill anyway, they really should’ve been more forward thinking when it came to their eventual plans to take down the Order. That was a joke. Phillip was coping. Besides, Phillip didn’t necessarily want to kill whoever it was shooting at him through a hallway — he just wanted to knock the bow out of their hands and then knock them in the head.

Another arrow flew towards him, though this time it bounced off the metal plating of his shoulder with a thud. Phil groaned, but this was good — he could tell where the person was shooting from. It must be from the hallway above, probably that one corner with the marble statue. They probably did not have a great view of Phillip, which worked to his advantage.

He slipped out of their vantage point, and then down the hallway, up the other set of stairs, so that he could creep behind the hooded figure and smash the back of their head with the butt of his sword.

“Don’t take it personally,” he said. “Hopefully the smoke will wake you up.”

And he jogged across the hallway to the other side, the golden-framed portraits of his ancestors glaring at him, before bending down and lighting the next flame.

It was quiet. Much quieter than he’d thought it would be. The Order was thin at this point, many members choosing to flee instead of stand with the last men. For the better, thought Phillip. He made his way back down to the second floor, looking for Rose.

“Rose,” he hissed, not wanting to alert any other lurkers in the shadows. “Where the hell are you?”

ROSE: Rose cleared a few rooms in the time that Phil was gone. When she got to a new and unfamiliar corridor, she stilled. One of the doors was ajar and dust floated through the air in swirls of motion like it had just been rustled for the first time after years of sitting. She made for the door, quietly, keeping her sword drawn.

The door creaked as she pressed it open wider, alerting the man inside. He was older with a neatly trimmed goatee, pristine armor, and a greatsword stuck into the floorboard in front of him. It was like he was waiting for someone while looking out the window onto the moors. He turned to look at her, frozen in the doorway, just a girl.

Perhaps a ghost, as she looked like his daughter though much older than she ever became. It was fitting, the ghost of Rosie coming to haunt him in her childhood room. He supposed sentiment brought him there in the midst of a battle, yearning to see the view she loved so much one last time before the manor burnt to the ground. He raised an eyebrow at Rose, sneering down at her over his shoulder. “Did they send a little girl messenger to surrender in hopes I’d show mercy?”

“Actually, they sent me to kick your ass.”

He blinked in surprise, turning to give her his attention now. “A girl with a mouth and a sword. What kind of barbarians raised you?”

Rose entered the room fully, straightening her stance, spitting back a response, “A bunch of assholes like you, I’m assuming.”

Hubert Knightley plucked his sword from the ground. He towered over her and was corded with muscle under his armor, gilded with a crest of two horses and a rose. Rose recognized it as the Knightley sigil and realized who this man was but she wasn’t afraid. With a swell of courage, she rushed forward and stabbed at him. The Knightley patriarch easily swiped her jab away and laughed in her face. “Is this the best this pathetic rebellion has to offer? Some weak little girl to fight me? What’s your name, child?”

The Huntsgirl hissed, “Rose.” She knew there were psychic wounds reopening with her name. Phil hardly talked about her, if ever, but Tom had told her about the youngest Knightley. A brief thought was spared to Tom and Henry, she hoped they were doing well in their fights. Then, she took advantage of the momentary lapse in Hubert’s attention and lunged. Her sword clanked against his breastplate, leaving a deep scratch across the crest.

He jumped back into action with a grunt, bringing his sword down narrowly missing the more mobile opponent. Her armor was light and minimal, but it protected her much less. Rose had to dance carefully. She brought her sword back up only to be thwarted again, his knocking hers down. “This is why the Order doesn’t bother training women. You say you’re here to fight me, but can barely keep your sword up!”

Rose growled, throwing her weight into another swing. Swords clashed together repeatedly as she retorted, “I’m not a swordsman, you’re right. But you should see me with a bow. I put your son to shame.”

The armored prince’s smirk dropped at the mention of Phillip. The fierceness he was holding back returned to his fighting. He seethed, “He is no son of mine.”

The great sword swung and jabbed with purpose now. Rose was losing ground as Hubert stepped forward with each movement. It was all she could do to block and parry, she had no chance of winning this battle. Her calculating eyes gleamed with an uncharacteristic uncertainty, a fear, as the sword was knocked out of her hands.

In a span of seconds, the sword clattered to the ground and the clink of metal scraping against metal filled the room. A sick, wet slice accompanied it as Hubert pulled the sword out of Rose’s belly. Her chainmail scraped against the blade and dyed red as her own blood spilled forth. She moved her hands to cup the wound, blood pooling in her palms.

“Pathetic.”

Rose looked up at Hubert with all her shock written on her face, still clutching her gut. Keeping one hand on her pouring wound, the huntress stumbled into the hall, dripping heavy trails of blood behind her.

“Phil!” she screamed as loud as her lungs would let her. Rose used her red hand to steady herself as she traipsed through the hall, shrieking for help, for mercy. She didn’t want to die like this. She was so close to freedom, the door of the cage was open… she just had to fly through it. Rose slipped in the slickness of her own blood under her feet. But still, she crawled away from the skulking knight behind her.

“Yes, Phillip, come save this little bird you’ve sent for me!” He called out, pompously challenging his heir.

PHILLIP:

Phillip heard his name and he ran. He ran as fast as he could in his bloody armor, as fast as he could while holding his sword. He heard his father’s booming voice soon after and that only made him grit his teeth and run faster. All that Order training was good for something, apparently.

“Rose!” he cried out the moment he saw her stagger into the hallway and then fall to her knees. He lifted his eyes to find his father in the doorway, looming over Rose. And not just any doorway —

He knew this hallway. He knew the paintings on these walls. He knew the sconces and the drapery. He knew that this was Rosie’s room. His father had been hiding out in Rosie’s room, of all places. His father had stabbed Rose in this room.

Phillip felt his blood broil over and he charged forward at his father.

He had sworn a blood oath not to kill, but as he lifted his sword, he thought that it might be worth it — how poetic, really, if he used his final breath to kill his father. Put an end to this vicious cycle and destroy the Knightley line in one go.

He thought about it, too. He thought about it as his sword clashed against his father’s. As his father bared his teeth and spit in his face.

But Rose was in the hallway. She wouldn’t last long without help. Rose needed him. Tom needed him. John needed him. Levi needed him. His mother needed him. Hell — Henry bloody Charming needed him.

Phillip was more than just his father’s son.

With a newfound passion, Phillip grunted and pushed forward, swinging his sword again. His father easily countered his blow and Phillip staggered backwards. Hubert wielded a two-handed great sword, and that combined with his strong figure and heavy armor meant that he was an impenetrable bastion.

“This is a futile fight,” snarled his father. “You know I outmatch you. I have decades of experience. I know all your pathetic weaknesses.”

“Not all of them,” said Phillip. “I’ve picked up a few new ones.”

They were evenly matched — Phillip’s agility making up for the fact he wasn’t as strong as Hubert. He was quicker and he managed to dodge a few of Hubert’s blows and sneak in a few of his own. But Phillip used this time to think. He couldn’t kill Hubert. He had to disarm him. He had to get away from him, had to neutralize the threat.

He glanced around Rosie’s room. His mother had kept it pristine and nearly shrinelike. Nothing had been touched since her death. Which meant that her tall and heavy bookshelf still stood at the entrance to her little reading nook, a narrower section of the room with a large window. And if Phillip could get his father there…

Well, he’d just need to get the right angle.

With nimble footwork, he managed to get on the other side of his father. He used Hubert’s slowness to his advantage and in the time it took his father to turn around and raise his large, great sword, Phillip smashed his own sword into the side of a shelf. He used the blade to dislodge the books, so that they fell in between the two men, hitting the floor like heavy stones.

Hubert’s face turned from rage to confusion — then rage again.

“What the devil are you doing, boy?” shouted Hubert.

“Something-something the pen is mightier than the sword!” Phillip yelled and as his father stumbled over the books on the floor, Phillip shoved the full force of his body weight to the back of the shelf and it came crashing down.

Hubert didn’t have time to move out of the way.

Now, to be fair, it didn’t hit him. It hit the wall parallel to it, creating a large, oak barricade between Phillip and his father. The shelf was just tall enough and the wall just far away enough from it and Hubert was just large enough that there was no way Hubert could step over it or crawl under it. There was now a large, rather immovable obstacle in front of him. Well, not totally immovable. Phillip knew his father would be able to push it eventually. But that just gave him enough time to dart to the other side of the room and reach for the magic lighter. He didn’t have time to say a prayer, to say sorry to Rosie’s spirit, wherever she was. He just let the flame catch onto the carpet and watched as it spread.

“You would do this?” Hubert cried. He pushed against the shelf, grunting as he began to move it out of the way. “You would do this to your sister?”

Phillip lifted his gaze up to his father.

“She would want me to,” he spat. “If she knew what you really were —”

He didn’t let himself finish the sentence. The fire started to spread. Phillip felt the heat. Once again, he thought about staying behind. Making sure that this all finished. Making sure there were no loose ends.

It would be poetic. Ended in flames, in Rosie’s bedroom.

But no. Rose needed him. Tom needed him. John needed him. There were people who needed him.

“Get out before the flames get you,” said Phillip. “They spread fast.”

And without looking back, he sprinted out of the room.

—

The great Knightley line would not end like this. Hubert swore it. Trapped by a damn bookshelf! Well, he wasn’t a foolish boy — he was a man, a Prince! He was in line to be King, once the Order dealt with this little skirmish. He’d rise up to the top. He was strong enough to push this shelf out of the way.

He began to cough.

He could see the flames on the other side. The smoke started to spread.

He heaved his shoulder into the wood. The shelf didn’t budge. He raised his sword and started to chop at it. Brute force would work. He’d make this blasted slab of oak bend to his will! And he’d find that pathetic girl and kill her and make Phillip watch.

HIs eyes started to water.

The shelf finally gave way, the wood splintering enough so that Hubert could shove through it. But he was met with red hot flames and a torrent of smoke. He coughed. He sputtered.

“Phillip!” he shouted. “BOY!”

Everything was fire and smoke. The wallpaper in his daughter’s room had turned to ash. The curtains an inferno.

“Rosie!” he cried out. “Rosie —”

His throat clogged up. He stumbled in the smoke, trying to feel along the wall and heaving his sword to get to the door. He assumed Phillip had been thorough and had closed the door and that he’d have to smash through it. And when he did, he’d make that boy pay — oh he wouldn’t just kill him. He’d kill all his friends and save his pathetic excuse for a son, last.

His eyes stung from the smoke. But he could see the outline of something in the wall. With a grunt he smashed his heavily armored shoulder into it — glass shattered.

Hubert fell.

You see, Phillip had actually left the door open. There had been no need to swing a sword at everything. But Hubert had done so anyway, because that was the way he’d been taught, the way he’d taught his sons. And because of that, instead of finding a door, he had, instead, fallen through the window.

—

“Rose!” shouted Phillip. He skirted into the hallway and found her on the ground and without hesitation, he sheathed his sword and knelt at her side. “Oh my god —”

His head spun. He tried to remember his first aid — anything, anything at all. Keep pressure on the wound. He knew that. Rose was already doing that, but her grip was weak. Her face was pale. So pale. There was so much blood. So, so much blood.

Phillip pressed his hands over hers.

“You’re going to be alright, Rose, you hear me?” Phillip said. “You’re not fucking dying on me now, okay? You’re tougher than that, yeah?” Tears stung at his eyes, but he shook his head and cleared his throat so that he could yell louder. “John! Tom! Someone help!”

TOULOUSE:

This whole thing was bloody ridiculous, if you asked Toulouse. Which no one had, of course. No one ever did. He wanted the Order destroyed but this was messy and unpredictable. Battle was not the place that Lou should be. He didn’t have the stomach for violence. His vengeance was poison. Slow to take effect, but deadly. By the time one realized they had been poisoned, it was usually too late to reverse it. His was not an anger of fire and blood.

Yet, he had come because San could not turn and Merida was grieving her father. (Why one would grieve such a man was beyond him but he digressed.) They needed magic on their side. They needed the wolf, his teeth and claws.

Lou obliged, though he was not happy about it. He stayed on the sidelines, watching and waiting for if he needed to step in but Thomas seemed to have things handled. Lou did not like the man, if one recalled he had jerked around his sister, tried to kill his partner, and was a general nuisance. But watching him now the bumbling idiot that had broken his sister’s heart had melted into a capable warrior whose movements were so fluid, it looked as if he was dancing. It had been fascinating to watch from behind the wolf’s eyes.

But now, as they rounded the corner and came upon the girl who had been stabbed, he was back to being useless.

The wolf’s ears had twitched, nose full of blood and smoke, when they spotted the girl. He had waited, just a moment, to see if anyone would move to help and when they did not, he sprang into action.

All at once the wolf was a man once more, pushing Phil’s shoulder back from where he was crouched over her so that he could look at the wound.

“Let go of her,” he told Phil. “We need to lie her down.” The fire was crackling in his ears, a nearby threat, but he had to stabilize her before they moved her. His hand touched the inside of her wrist, which was cold and clammy.

“I need cloth. Blankets. Towels. And water if possible,” he commanded calmly, peeling the fabric of her shirt back. The blood was still pooling in the wound. He pressed his hand firmly over it and with his other, he searched along the inside of her thigh until he found the artery, pinching the pressure point.

“Knightley, hold her legs up above her heart. And I need you to hold where I am holding.” Lou took his hand, jerking it forward and showing him the correct spot. By then, Tom had come back with the towels.

“You need to leave. We will be behind you but there is nothing for it. Go. Get the boy out of here,” Lou commanded. “Once you’re outside call 999. I don’t give a fuck about your Order secrecy; she needs a hospital.”

Tom hesitated, but like a good soldier, nodded and moved to grab Henry by the collar, yanking him down the hallway.

Lou folded one of the wet washcloths and pressed it to the wound, another he lay gently over Rose’s face. The last thing he needed was to stop the bleeding only for her to die of smoke inhalation. He fumbled with one of the towels, wrapping it around Rose’s torso and tying it as tightly as he could. It took several more minutes, each second agonizingly slow. Then; he got his arms under her and lifted her up.

“Keep her legs elevated. We have to get her out of here.” Moving her at the moment was not ideal. Without pressure on the wound, she was more likely to bleed out. However, they were all going to burn alive if they stayed.

ROSE: While Phil crossed over her to put his father to rest, Rose kept crawling away. She didn’t know where she was crawling to yet, but somewhere more peaceful to die. She could taste the iron of her blood as she desperately pulled herself across the floor, her strength dwindling. Each shaky hand grab moving her less and less. And then Phil was at her side, and she thought maybe this was as good a place as any. Rose rolled over, and her muscles tensed, tightening around a phantom blade.

“I’m fine,” she didn’t know why she said that as she lay bleeding in the hall. This was a mortal wound and she knew it. Phil knew it. What was the purpose in lying? Whose feelings was she saving in doing so? Who was she comforting by not screaming as the pain licked up her torso? By not complaining about how cold it was in this castle? She was raised as a soldier, and they did not scream or cry in the face of death. So she bit back the urge to kick and scream as men tried to handle her.

She gritted her teeth and hissed in pain when he applied pressure to her gut. And then the wolf came along and started barking orders, assessing her state like it mattered. Wasn’t he with Tom and Henry? Where were they? She hoped they were doing better than her.

Rose blinked out tears slowly, she hadn’t realized she’d been crying as Toulouse and Phil worried over her. She yelped when the towel was yanked tighter around her waist. “Fuck!”

She’d been injured enough to know this was all they could do in the field. Though she’d always escaped with only the need for a few stitches, maybe a concussion or two. Never a sword straight through her. It was getting harder to focus, her blood was oozing slower, her eyes wanted to stay closed. But before she gave into that ghostly call, Rose clutched Phil’s hand weakly. “I’m sorry… about your dad… I don’t think I could have done it. Can you promise me something?”

She swallowed the crimson ichor that nearly leaked from her lips, “Promise me you’ll look after Henry. I know he fucked up, but he’s lost everything too… and if I,” die, “If I’m gone, I don’t know who he’ll have left…”

Within the few minutes after, Rose faded out of consciousness. Her body barely keeping her anchored to this side of existence as it is carried out of the burning castle.

PHILLIP:

He smelled the smoke and his eyes stung. Rose’s face was pale. With her eyes closed, she looked almost like —

No. Phillip would not think of the past. Phillip would not think of the past, because it was burning down around him, quite literally. This was Rose, not Rosie. Rose who was using her last words to tell Phillip to look after Henry, which was a thought so ridiculous, he almost laughed. He instead coughed a little.

“You’ll look after him yourself, Rose,” said Phillip, though he knew that she couldn’t hear him.

Phillip looked at the naked Lou in front of him and nodded. He knew enough first aid to know that they shouldn’t move her, not with this deep wound and the dark red blood spilling to the floor. But the smell of smoke was too strong to ignore and he could already feel the heat. Together, they managed to lift Rose and as best as they could, they made their way out of the hallway and down the stairs.

Phillip kept looking over at Rose. He kept hoping to see her eyelids flutter or her hand twitch or her chest raise — something, anything that would indicate she was alive.

But it was hard to tell with the smoke and the flames and the own erratic beating of his heart.

Finally, they got outside. And just in time, too. The fire started to spread, consuming the walls of Phillip’s family home. He looked frantically around, but saw that Tom and Henry, John and Jane, and the rest of everyone were already out on the lawn, scattering to the winds. For the better, Phillip knew.

It was just him. Well, just him and Rose and Lou. He heard sirens in the distance as he stumbled out of the house. His legs began to tremble in sheer exhaustion, the adrenaline rush wearing off. He took a gasping, shaking breath, his lung stinging from the smoke.

The sirens grew louder.

It passed in a blur. Phillip somehow managed to get Rose to the medics. He wasn’t sure if he said anything about what had happened. He was shaking too much, his chest tight. They sat him in the back of the ambulance and gave him an oxygen mask, draping a heavy blanket over his shoulders.

His eyes stung. From the smoke. From tears.

There were more sirens. More trucks rushing in. The fire raged on. The ambulance started to drive away, Phillip and Rose in the back of it.

It might be poetic, Phillip thought, to look out through the window the flames. To watch his family’s legacy go up in smoke; he, the one who struck the final match.

But Phillip didn’t want to look back. Instead, he looked at Rose. He took her hand in his. He did not look back.

—

The hallowed halls of Thornwood Hall crumbled to the inferno. The firefighters cried out, unable to fight back the flames, but curiously the moment the building fell, the flames pittered out, as if by magic. The carcass of the building remained, charred and black. In the breeze, a tattered and burnt tapestry fluttered, bearing what little remained of the Knightley family crest, the words valiant and true lost to the fire.

#The Fall of Rome: A Battle of Fire and Family [Part One: The Blood You Owe]#the fall of rome #the fall of rome: a battle of fire and family #a battle of fire and family #part one: the blood you owe #a battle of fire and family - part one: the blood you owe #roselips #rose #lou #feat hubert #order stuff #tw: fire #tw: violence #tw: gore #tw: death #skjdalkdjaklsdjaslkdjalskd #thats all i have to say

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mamabear-elinor · 2 years

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After the War -> [Brave Women]

In which Elinor, Merida, Harris, and Hamish deal with the aftermath of the battle at Best Castle...[takes place: July 02]

@heart-of-dunbroch

[tw -- discussion of death/murder(?)]

MERIDA: The battle was over.

It didn’t feel that way though, did it? Not for hours later. Not even when she wiped the blood from her split lip and let her curls down, or stepped into the shower to wash off the dirt and grime. As the water washed over her, she closed her eyes and saw the room she and her family had stood in, moments before the glass had shattered. The story wasn’t supposed to end that way– though Merida couldn’t imagine any other ending. And so she replayed it to keep the battle alive. Merida was always more focused and more herself when she had something to fight.

But there were other things to do. Hubert had disappeared– fleeing, she assumed, with the few knights who escaped into the wood, to regroup and form some plan. But Harris and Hamish had stayed behind. Even after watching the glass shatter– they were here.

She’d taken them to a guest room, recently spruced up by their mam. Gave ‘em towels and showed them the shower and how to get the hot water (the system was so old, it took a lot of fiddling.) And as they cleaned themselves, she’d gone back up to that room where she’d looked Elinor in, bringing with her a massive blanket. She’d opened it and found Elinor sleeping, all curled up like a child. Merida put the blanket over her and sat with her until she woke up.

When she did, it all felt like too much to explain. The words were rocks in her mouth, especially when Elinor asked if it was over– and Merida couldn’t answer one way or the other.

But she’d told her the worst of it, in the most gentle way that Merida could (though more for herself than Elinor, if she were honest.)

Da attacked me. You turned into a bear, she said to her mother. And then he fell.

Elinor could fill in the blanks.

Now it was another hour later and the leftovers of the DunBroch family gathered downstairs. Elinor had made tea rather frantically. Merida scrounged around for leftovers for the boys to eat, and came up with some warmed-up beef stew.

She set down the bowls in front of them and collapsed in her own chair. “Dig in then,” she said, because she wasn’t sure what else she should say.

Hamish picked up his spoon and scooped up some vegetables, then let it plop back into the bowl. He sniffled, face all red from crying.

Harris sniffed it and made a face.

“Oi,” said Merida. “It’s edible, ye oafs. Don’t be like that.”

“I hate rutabaga,” mumbled Hamish.

ELINOR: Elinor hadn’t said anything since Merida had informed her of what had transpired in that cursed tower of the castle.

She hadn’t cried. There had been nothing but cold. All she had done was tell Merida thank you and given her instructions to find the boys rooms and something to wear. Put them together, she’d said, her voice just as it always was when she was doling out instructions, but Elinor felt as if she was very far away from it. Instructions were easy. Elinor could do them in her sleep. Fergus used to joke that she did sometimes, waking him up to tell him that the windows needed to be fixed or there was a piece of fence needing mending in the pastures.

Fergus.

Elinor felt as weak and shaky as she always did when coming down from a transformation, but there was something different about it this time. No matter what, it felt like she couldn’t get warm. She went to her room and turned the shower onto the hottest setting and stood under the stream as her skin went red and angry, but she hardly felt it. Her hands ran through her short hair and she thought about how much Fergus had loved her hair, how he had never wanted her to cut it. How it had been all the way down her back for most of her adult life. Now, it felt too short. There was nothing to grasp.

If she cried in the shower, she didn’t realize it. And when she stepped out, she was still shivering. She dressed in a knit green sweater and a pair of jeans. It wouldn’t do for the boys to see her in a pair of pajamas. They would find that odd and Elinor did not want to make the changes between them all any more glaring.

In the kitchen, alone, Elinor set about making a tea. Merida appeared, silently, and the boys trailing her as they always did like little ducklings. No one said anything. Merida set out bowls for stew. Elinor didn’t know if she could eat it. It was a stew she had made a hundred times. One that she always had on hand. It was a family recipe. A stew for colds. For broken hearts. It could mend anything, her grandmother used to say.

Nothing, Elinor thought, could mend this.

Elinor made the tea. Merida’s black. Harris’ with a dollop of honey and milk. Hamish with a spoonful of sugar. She set the mugs down in front of all of them.

Merida broke the silence first. She said nothing really, but Elinor felt the moment rend through the air anyway, like a clap of thunder. Primly, she sat in her own chair, across from her children.

“Ach, just eat,” she told them both and took a firm bite of her own soup, even if it tasted like ash in her mouth.

Both boys did as they were told. Elinor wondered if this was from years of conditioning, having not forgotten their mother’s command; or if it was because they were afraid of her. Both options made her want to scream.

Elinor knew that she was not a perfect mother by any stretch, but she tried. She wanted to try now, but she had no idea where to start.

“Boys--” Elinor started, then stopped again, glancing at Merida. She didn’t know why. This was not Merida’s responsibility.

“Do you want us to eat or to talk?” Harris grumbled in that sharp way of his.

Elinor cut a look at him. “I just--I wanted--” she fumbled again “--to say I am sorry.” Her own eyes filled with tears for a moment, but Elinor had many years of practice at putting her tears somewhere else. Saving them for later. Or for never at all.

MERIDA: Merida could count on one hand the times that Elinor had apologized. Her mam had the infuriating flaw of always thinking she was right. (Merida had this flaw too; what DunBroch didn’t?) And so there was the time that Merida became a werewolf and Elinor had apologized before sending her running into the hills of the Sneck, away from her warring father.

And then there was this. Now.

Merida sat there, not touching her own stew, as her mother tried to put together the apology. But it was harder than anything, wasn’t it? More fragile than glass, more particular than a piece of embroidery. Elinor was a woman who made things, whether that was a supper or a weapon within the forge. But she faltered here. Apologies were made of more mysterious things than words, weren’t they?

She felt compelled to say she was sorry too. But she had already. She had a million times. Merida had started to suspect that a sorry said by her meant nothin’ more than a ‘good day’ or a ‘good bye.’ And so she sat there, grim-faced. She watched her brothers.

They were quiet too, either waiting for Elinor to say more or…

It was Harris who spoke up after a few long, tense seconds.

“Are you sorry Da’s dead or are you sorry you killed him?” he said grimly.

Merida frowned at once. “Ach, Harry. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” said Harris. “It’s a good question.”

“She can be sorry for both.” Merida tried to defend Elinor. Her eyes darted to her mam. “She didn’t– it’s a curse, it’s not like me. She can’t control it. It isn’t her fault. He would have killed me–”

“I know,” said Harris. He was trying to be tough, but the tears had returned. He sniffled. “I know that.”

“I didn’t know the curse part,” mumbled Hamish. His lip wobbled. When he looked up at their mam, it wasn’t with any of the uncertainty that Harris carried, like Harris was trying to figure out if he wanted to stay or go, if they were the enemy or not– if he had made the wrong or right decision.

Gentle Hamish, instead, was simply scared. “Is it like Mor’du?” he asked. “W-will you turn into a bear one day and never come back?”

ELINOR: Elinor flinched at Harris’ words. Despite the squareness of her shoulders and the straightness of the spine, she felt fragile as glass.

Dead. You killed him.

The women of the Order were no stranger to death. They cleaned the wounds of the dead as the living, before sending them off to their coffins. She had done it for a few DunBroch men, a few Briar ones too. Her hands had touched death before, felt it’s cold but never had it been inside of her. She felt those words now: you killed him, pressed like ice against her heart. She wondered if it would spread. If she would always be cold. Fergus had never talked to her about the burden of killing, even when Elinor used to wash his shoulders in the shower and pretend the tears he cried were just water.

And now—she wished she could ask, for who else was she supposed to? How was one to move forward? Especially when she couldn’t remember it. The last thing she did was Fergus looking at her, his sharp, blue eyes betrayed. And how she had loved him and hated him all at once.

Harris had those same blue eyes. Deep and cold as the lochs.

Hamish’s were softer, a Briar blue like skies. They were wide and wet now as he mentioned the curse.

Again, Elinor did not know what to say. The truth was that yes. She could disappear into the bear and never return. They didn’t know. Howl had warned of it. Elinor felt it, every time she came back: the ache in her bones to return to the bear and never think about all of these complex, human emotions again. She did not remember much of the bear, but she did know that it was simple. It wanted simple things. Oh, how Elinor wished she did as well.

“Donnae fash about that.” Elinor tried to smile but it was thin and thready as her nervous heart.

“Donnae treat us like bairns, Ma,” Harris said again, harsh despite the tears in his eyes. “Tell us straight.”

When Elinor looked at her boys all she saw was the wee bairns that had been laid on her breast. But now she looked at them and they were taller and leaner, some of their baby fat having dropped away, though it still clung stubbornly to their cheeks. Harris especially looked much older as he struggled to hold back his tears.

“It doesn’t matter right now. It—it isn’t going to hurt you,” Elinor fret. “There will be plenty of time to discuss all that. We—we must get you settled first.”

“Ma—“ Hamish protested softly.

“Eat your stew!” Elinor commanded, taking a bite of her own. She did not say it harshly, but with all the force she could muster. Her voice was still thin and frail. “You mustn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.”

MERIDA: Merida’s eyes darted from her mam to her brothers, following the back and forth. This was strange. It was strange because it was not strange at all, but exactly the same as it might’ve been if she was back in Cawdor and all those old stone walls were listening in. Though Merida had been gone years and years– though age had given Hamish and Harris height and dots of acne on their faces– they were still the same. This was her mam. These were her rowdy, too-smart brothers. If Merida let herself, she’d get weepy, as she realized how grateful she was to be sat here at the table again, listenin’ to Elinor nag them both.

But she’d weep for other reasons, if she let herself get started. After all, the table was not complete. There were only four DunBrochs here. Four sets of spoons clatterin’ against bowls. Four glasses on the table. Merida was used to an empty table, for many years it was just herself, but now it felt emptier than it had then when she looked to where her da would have sat, when she heard the places where bold and brash Hubert would have chimed in.

He would have probably said something right now about how he wouldn’t finish his stew until Elinor told ‘em the truth. He was always the first to step out of line and not care about the consequences. That’s what set him apart from Harris, who stepped out of line plenty, but got away with it more.

He should be here now.

Maybe it was out of missing, then, for her last brother, the brother most like herself and like Da, that Merida spoke up. “Mam’s dealin’ with the curse,” she said. “It’s not gone as far as Mor’du and it never will. It’s triggered by anger and– ye know Mam–she’s got it handled.”

“How’d it even happen?” said Hamish glumly.

Merida shrugged. “Dunnae.”

“Probably the Order,” said Harris. He scoffed. “Bunch of hypocritical gits.”

Merida blinked, sitting up straighter at that. Even Hamish glanced at his brother in surprise.

“Well they are, we all know it. Everyone goes along and never says shite, but innit that the reason you left anyway?” said Harris as his sharp eyes landed on Merida.

“Well… sort of,” said Merida. “I think the whole murderin’ innocent people thing was more the reason–”

“Same thing,” said Harris. “Everyone says one thing, and does another. We say we don’t mess with magic, but we get fairy gifts and enchanted weapons and curse people who disagree with us. I thought maybe it was just cuz the king but– he died and it didn’t change. Mam’s curse just proves it.”

Merida sucked her teeth. “Yeesh. You always were too smart for yer own good.”

ELINOR: Merida came to her defense. Elinor blinked, thrown off by this, not sure if she had heard correctly. She was quite used to being the bad guy. It was usually Hubert and Merida on one side. Harris, well, it depended on the argument, and Hamish did not like to take sides, for he did not like arguments. And Fergus—well, he had never been any help when it had come to discipline. He had found Merida’s disregard for ladylike tradition to be funny, until it was too big of a problem and then, he had blamed Elinor for not having controlled her better.

Her and her daughter never agreed. Elinor could not remember a single time that Merida had ever thought that Elinor had something handled.

The funniest part—in the most ironic way possible—was that Elinor did not believe she did. After all, she had just lost control and killed her ex-husband. Part of her didn’t understand why Merida would take her side at all. She wanted to protest. To tell Merida to hate her, because wouldn’t that be easier? Better for all of them?

But she simply stayed silent. That was something else Elinor had learned over the years. How to be silent. For all her ability to corral her children, she also had learned that sometimes, she was simply speaking to several brick walls. It had been useless, so she had just tucked her anger somewhere under her ribcage and stayed silent.

She stayed silent as her son so succinctly summed up what had taken her entire life to realize. The guilt burrowed itself deeper, like a worm inside of her heart. How long had Harris thought this? How long had he been alone? What would have happened if they had not gone to war and torn the Order out by its teeth?

“Yes, it was probably the Order,” Elinor said after a long moment.

Harris’ eyes turned back towards her and behind that sharp expression, he could see that he was still wary.

“I wish—” Elinor paused again, her words twisted on her tongue. “I wish I would’ve taken you with me, when I left.”

“We wouldnae come,” Harris said simply and dipped his head to take a bite of his soup.

“I woulda,” Hamish mumbled but followed suit.

“I dinnae want you to get hurt or—I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to find Merida or that she’d want to see me or…what she was like but—” Elinor reached across the table to touch Harris’ hand, then Hamish’s. “We’re together now.”

“Not Hubert,” Harris reminded them all harshly.

“No.” Elinor’s face crumpled.

“He’s a git,” Harris continued.

“I-I am sure he is just…confused. Hurt.”

“Or he’s a git,” Harris repeated, more angrily.

“Harris.”

Harris shrugged and went back to slurping at his stew.

“Donnae slurp.”

Harris slurped louder.

MERIDA: Merida snorted at Harris. Typical Harris. Couldn’t he be amiable for at least a moment, for Mam’s sake?

But Merida knew the answer to that, because she was the same. She saw parts of herself in all of her brothers. Hubert, she shared the most with. They were both reactive, bold, mouthy and take-charge. He only ever listened to Harris the same way that Merida really only listened to Belle these days– both Merida and Hubert hard-won, but once you did win ‘em, you had ‘em for life. And so she understood why Hubert hadn’t stayed. He had taken the first opportunity, in the madness of battle, to split and run back to the people who he trusted. The people who had raised him. The people he owed his loyalty to. And after watchin’ his Da get murdered by a bear? ‘Course he didn’t want to stay!

If they were going to win him back, it would be Harris who convinced him.

And Harris– Merida was stubborn like Harris. She could be moody and grumpy, though she got over her moods faster than he ever did. Harris treated his moods like an ol favourite bone he carried around to chew on.

And as for Hamish– honestly, Merida struggled to see what she shared with him. She wasn’t a people pleaser. She didn’t cry easily. She wasn’t as fond of music.

But she did love her family. And Hamish did love them all, more than music, more than he’d ever loved the Order.

So yeah, this conversation was goin’ about as well as any. Since when had the DunBrochs ever had a conversation that wasn’t a mess?

“Anyway,” Merida declared (doing her normal take-charge thing; she was the eldest anyway!) “The only thing we can do now is move forward. We’ll eh– we’ll sort out rooms and all that. Get yourselves settled in.”

“Wait,” said Hamish. His spoon clattered into his bowl. “I thought…aren’t we all goin’ back to Cawdor?”

Merida scoffed at that. “Wha? No, we can’t. The Order would come and stab us in our sleep!”

“Well, I thought since we won the battle–”

“Won’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Merida said.

“But,” Hamish said, huffing. “But if Da’s not– then why couldn’t we–”

“It’s just too unstable right now, Hamish,” mumbled Harris next to his brother.

Hamish pouted. “I guess.”

“It’s alright, you’ll like Swynlake,” Merida tried to comfort him. She glanced at Elinor. “Right, Mam? It’s a wee town, but not so bad.”

ELINOR: “No, it isn’t bad,” Elinor allowed, smiling small and grateful at Merida before looking at her sons.

“It’ll be an adventure,” she encouraged them. “And, maybe, one day, we can return home. Just not…just not now. Things are dangerous and I don’t want anything to happen to either of you.”

Just the thought made her feel ill. She was already starting to fret over Hubert. The Order wouldn’t hurt him, of course, but he was a sensitive boy. He was going to be angry about what happened and anger could allow him to be twisted. Elinor just wanted him here too, so that all her children could sleep under the same roof again for the first time in years.

“Now, finish dinner. We will find you your rooms. Would you like to be separate or together?”

Hamish and Harris glanced at each other with expressions that Elinor could only just read.

“Together,” they said.

Elinor smiled. At least, some things had not changed about her sons. They were so much taller. They looked like young men. It was as if in the last year they had lost all of their baby fat. (This was not true, but it certainly felt that way now.)

“Very well. I will look into what it will take to get you enrolled at school.”

“Like--school school?” Harris asked, looking sharply at his mother.

“Yes, proper school.”

Most Order boys were homeschooled until university. They moved around too much as squires to have a proper education in a public or private school. Elinor had been in charge of their lessons until they’d gone off to squire. Then, their squiring families had taken over their education.

Hamish looked like he was going to be ill, but Harris had sat up somewhat.

“Do we have tae?” Hamish whined. “Cannae you just do it?”

“No,” Elinor said, “I--have to work.”

Hamish made another face.

“Come now, finish your dinners. And then it is off to bed with ye. All of ye.” She glanced at Merida too, her expression firm, though her eyes were still tired and watery. She just--needed to know that all her children were alone and safe in their beds tonight. Tomorrow…well, she didn’t know what she needed, but it didn’t matter. She knew what her children needed and she would do that. She would always do that.

#swynmerida #brave women #the dunbrochs #featuring harris #featuring hamish #after the war #the fall of rome #if there is one thing lauryl and i are gonna do #it's create family dynamics that fuck me up!!

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vizrecon · 2 years

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#the fall of rome #the united states

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prince--thomas · 2 years

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The Fall of Rome: A Battle of Metal and Magic || [The Order v Team Magic]

In which the Acherons, the Golden Trio, and their allies hope to finish (begin?) a war...[takes place: June 11]

@knightley--phillip, @trip-downtheriverstyx, @oh-heartlessman, @sanmononoke

[tw -- violence/death/gore/etc.]

SAN: Night fell a few hours ago.

The moon was a waxing crescent, still low in the sky like a lidded eye lazily peering down at them. San never minded the moon too much. As a wolf, it’s pull kept her grounded in her favored form. As a human, it kept her mind from being fully present during those conversations. The conversations that lead her here to a ghost town. Many moons ago she devoted herself to Merida and her pack. This was a simple choice.

Protect the pack. Protect the family. Protect the Magicks.

The Order must fall. San stood at Hades’ side, white fur bristling in the light breeze. She let out a deep, hollow growl, urging him to move forward. She watched with impatient eyes and waited for permission to move into the cellar door they had unearthed.

HADES: Yes, the Order must fall.

The Order would fall. Tonight.

For Hades, it was a simple and clean truth. He had no regrets or reservations, and his conscience was clear. That hadn't always been the case, when going into battle. But he'd once spent months deep within the chambers of the Fates. He had read through countless tapestries that spun out what made up a destiny. He had an intimate understanding of the way dominos could fall. The dominoes had been falling toward the Order's demise for years now. Tonight was just lighting the match.

"You'll want to stay behind me," he said to the party, not looking back. "Watch my back. Whoever I leave, you can have."

He wasn't planning to leave many.

And then without even moving a muscle, he opened the door with his magic. It creaked and groaned. He barely felt the strain. And as the first guard startled, Hades blinked, and his neck snapped. He crumpled to the ground.

"Come."

Hades rushed in, and with every lantern he passed, a blue flame jumped up, wild and hungry, basking the catacombs in hellfire's light.

HOWL: Howl was here for Belle. The Order had never harmed him till it harmed her.

It had been a while since he'd used his magic for something like this.

His specialty was versatile, you see. He could lift cups and spellbooks. He could also whisk away the body of the man whose neck Hades had just snapped and tuck it away. He'd leave most of the killing and murdering to Hades -- though he'd certainly make sure no one got away.

In his satchel, he also had a few offensive spells tucked away, which he could use at a moment's notice. He'd prepared for this, with an arsenal of attack spells all contained in little vials.

The blue light cast eerie shadows over the dark catacombs, and Howl wished for a moment that the Shadow still lurked under his skin. But no, he could do damage as himself, without a demon's aid.

"Intruders!" A voice came calling from somewhere in the distance. "Ready yourselves, men! A demon is upon us!"

"Oh goodie," said Howl. "Now the fun can begin."

SAN: San had no trouble seeing even before the blue flame shed its low glow. She kept her nose low to the ground until her ears swiveled to hear the low yell around the bend.

Without much hesitation, the wolf jumped over the body being moved telekenetically and followed the sounds of the living. Turning the corner revealed three cowering humans. A snarl escaped her lipless mouth, echoing off the metal armor mere inches from her teeth as San launched her first attack. Teeth met jugular, silencing the scream that came from seeing the werewolf up close.

San clamped her jaw down until the thrashing stopped and threw herself back into action as the other targets were armed and ready.

HADES: The deeper they got, the more dangerous the fighting would become. Hades would need to be quick, precise, and not hesitate-- no matter the gruesome cost. He braced himself for each turn of the corner as they marched ever forward toward the throne room.

They had to get there fast, or they'd give the bloody king time to flee.

Sure enough, as they entered another hallway, the Order was more ready for them this time. They brandished weapons and surged forward-- eight, nine men. First, Hades broke up the pack, using his telekinesis to push them all into the walls. They yelped, but didn't drop their weapons.

Hades focused on one that stumbled the most. He stole the sword from his hands and then plunged it through the man's neck, while the other men attacked Hades's own party. @the first battle

HOWL: This was messy. Howl knew it would be and honestly, they were a little disappointed that it was not harder. But no -- the Order was made up of simple-minded Mundus who thought themselves powerful because they could brandish swords. Not even enchanted swords at that.

Howl was almost offended. Almost.

Hades took the lead, which Howl did not mind, for it was Hades' fight to blaze forward.

One of the men scrambled towards Howl, who lifted up a hand lazily and snapped the man's arm backwards. Manipulating a body usually required more effort for Howl than simply moving around cutlery -- but still, it was no more than a lift of their hand. The knight yelped in pain and dropped their sword, but then reached for it with their other arm and staggered forward. Howl sighed.

"Really? You don't think I'll not just snap the other one too? And your legs as well? Leave you an immobile mess for the flames to take you?"

And he held up a hand and the other arm snapped, the sword clattering to the floor again.

"I should be kind and just snap your neck."

PHILLIP: Meanwhile, Phillip, John, and Merida were going about the long way around.

Back in Order training, they'd learned the secret paths and entrances of the various Order strongholds. They had to, in the case of emergency evacuation. Or if the strongholds were ever swarmed by, let's say, some demon out of hell, a werewolf, and a powerful sorcerer.

Phillip would think this was funnier, if he was not sure many people would die tonight.

Oh sure, he and John were sworn not to kill. And oh sure, most of the people who would die would probably have it coming. But still -- he'd grown up with them. It was not something that went away.

They found the cellar door in the back of an old house that led to one of the various tunnels and now they marched, John leading the way and holding up a torchlight. They'd been walking for a bit, when they heard some shouts echoing.

"Ah, seems the landing party has arrived," Philliip whispered. @the first battle

SAN: It wasn’t very fun to have this much help.

Hades and the sorcerer threw the knights around like rag dolls. San was just trying to down as many as possible while not accidentally creating a werewolf army… Bite to kill.

The white wolf tinged pink with the blood of her enemies rounded another corner to meet a familiar face. Still, in the adrenaline of it all, she snarled and bared her teeth.

HADES: Hades whirled around, magic like a whip in his hand, at the sound of approaching footsteps. But that magic went slack as he saw it was simply the Order-- San and the rest-- who had also cleared much of their path.

He paid little attention to the growling wolf, instead meeting eyes with John and then Phil. "Almost at the throne room, yeah?" he said. He had studied the maps before, but the twisting catacombs were confusing to someone with little experience.

But these men knew these tunnels as well as they knew their own mothers. The quicker they could go, the better-- the king was probably trying to make a hasty exit.

"Lead the way."

PHILLIP: Phillip nodded at Hades -- at the wolf with bloodstained fur and at Howl, who was examining one of the bodies on the floor. He glanced briefly back at John, looking for reassurance, and then stepped forward.

Normally it was John who led them, but Phillip knew these tunnels better. He'd spent more time here when John and Tom were in the Navy, doing as the King commanded in order to make his family proud.

The irony was not lost on Phillip.

If anything, it was a beautiful fuel to keep him going through the twisting catacombs. Phillip Knightley: who once bowed down to the King in these very halls, now leading a group of deadly Magicks to kill him. Phillip Knightley: who wanted nothing more than to live up to his family name, now wanting nothing more than to burn it all down.

Poetic.

"The end of the hall," he said, dropping his voice down low. "The door on the left -- if he hasn't escaped yet, that'll lead to the fastest exist tunnel. We can grab him there."

SAN: San could smell the fear penetrating the dank tunnels. Whoever was left, the King, was under a lot of pressure now. They had little time to waste, but the renegades had the upper hand. Finally. The wolf threw her head back and let out a warning howl.

The end was approaching.

Unfortunately, it was that pretty man who gave instruction and not someone she cared for. San still adhered to his plan, she launched herself into a run towards the last door on the left. So far it had been an unbiased massacre. Now it was a hunt.

HADES: When they arrived in the throne room, it had already been emptied, the King having abandoned his throne.

When they headed into the tunnels, the torches had been extinguished as the party had fled, but you could still smell the smoke and the ash. They weren't far behind.

They all pressed forward, a wolf at Hades's flank and Phil and his men right behind. He didn't need to rush because Hades knew they had already won. They'd won the moment the King had left his throne.

Sure enough, there was a glimmer of light ahead: the King and his men.

Hades reached a hand out and then folded his fingers into a fist and pulled back. Instantly, one of the shadowy bodies was yanked into the air and went flying into the tunnels. He yelped-- the men scattered.

"Kill them all-- leave the king to me!" Hades hissed as he ran toward the group.

And then the two parties collided.

PHILLIP: Now, Phillip wasn't gonna argue with Hades that technically by the blood oath that he made them swear, he and John couldn't really kill people. They could certainly raise their swords and flank them, though, herding them towards Howl and San.

It was odd. John and Phillip fighting back-to-back, against the men who'd trained them. Phillip tried not to look at their faces too much.

Someone slashed at his shoulder and he pivoted, countering the blade with his own. He snarled a bit, but then stumbled backwards, shocked to see his own brother.

"Percival --!" he gasped.

Percival's face was stony. He grit his teeth together.

"Don't say my name, you scum," he hissed. He struck again. All Phillip could do was helplessly block blow after blow, staggering backwards as Percival drove him into a corner, then knocked his sword to the ground. He looked to John, but John was fending off his own assailants, and all Phillip could do was look at his brother's face, as Percival raised his sword above him, ready to kill.

"Percival, please. I'm your brother!"

"You are no brother of mine."

And Phillip closed his eyes and he tried to pretend that this was just a game, that they were playing in the yard, and that this final blow would just be the smack of a wooden sword --

There was an uncanny, horrible snapping noise. Then the clatter of a sword dropping to the ground.

Phillip craned an eye open to see Howl standing over Percival's body, Percival's head twisted unnaturally backwards.

"Figured I'd save you the trouble," said Howl. And the sorcerer waved their hand and Phillip's sword glided back up to his hand. "Now go be a good little knight and block off the entrance.”

SAN: She didn't need much more than that. An order to kill. The swordsmen that accompanied her pack got to work. A sword raked across a body, forcing the knight into San's jaws. She took him to the ground as they moved to another.

They worked surprisingly well in tandem. That is, until one of the humans decided to let his resolve waver. A familiar face brought sentiment to the forefront of his mind rather than the mission. Foolish. San leapt past that sappy scene and brought down two more enemies in the time it took for that issue to come to an end. There were too many bodies running about, San couldn't catch them all despite being an apex predator. Her teeth clamped shut around air as she missed the calf of a knight retreating. She let out a frustrated snarl, urging her companions forward.

HADES: The men fell around them, one by one. Blood splattered the dungeon, almost black in the low light. Blood spilled by sword, by fang, or by magic. In the dark, you could not tell one from the other. And in death, all men were the same.

This was the single thought in Hades's mind as he cut through the crowd and separated the king from his followers.

"Stay back!" The king barked and he drew a sword all his own. He leered, but his eyes glinted more with fear than hate. It was clear to see that he'd once been a tall, strong, and skilled fighter. But he'd been on the throne for years and he had let his sons take up the helm for him. He kept taking steps back, back, back-- retreating like a coward. Hades flicked his fingers to twist his head from his shoulders, but nothing happened.

Ah. Fucking amulets, right. Figured.

Still, Hades advanced.

"I'll kill you!" hissed the King. "I'll send my men to kill your whore next! Your children! We'll kill them all like cattle!"

Hades kept walking. The king's hands were shaking.

"I mean it! I-- "

"Oh shut up already," sneered Hades and this time, he aimed his telepathy toward the king's sword, which didn't wear any amulet.

The sword yanked around in his grip. "No!" the man gasped and tried to get a hold of it. But he was fighting with a force much greater than himself. Hades could feel it-- Death lurking around the corner, Death here for its victim.

Hades yanked the sword one more time.

The king stumbled. And then he fell onto his own sword and it pierced him through.

#the fall of rome #a battle of metal and magic #aw yiiiis #so it begins #this para is so sexy

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