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mommyofkittens · 1 year

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A Court of Fallen Heroes - Chapter 4: The Countess

When the first sign that the sun peeked through the mountain ridges appeared, I had already been awake for almost half and hour, fully aware that I had visited someone else's dream.

It wasn't my purpose, on the first place. I lacked the skills and the determination necessary for such an... abnormality. Not to mention that I had no idea something like this was possible.

Sleep found me immediately after I put my head on the cold pillow and, for a long time, I dreamed nothing but rhythmic undulation of darkness. Behind my eyelids, there was nothing but a black void with colored fireworks, from time to time. I think my sleep ' adventure ' took place much earlier in the morning.

I knew a little about the REM cycle and how most dreams happen in the last part of it. I could swear it wasn't just a figment of my imagination: the fragrances, my steps, the house, the burn. It had to be real.

Nothing surprised me at this point. You could tell me you were a little elf in disguise and I would believe you, no second thoughts.

However, I was not entirely sure of the things I had seen. Sequences after sequences were chained together, but in an order that seemed to be constantly changing. I was aware only about the suffocating atmosphere and the feeling that time was passing so slowly, that even my actions were letargic.

In my head, there is a clear image of a large room, with tall ceilings and mint green painted walls. Were they actually green? It was nothing like the ones I saw in my old world. I could sense various perfumes, mixing and becoming one: fresh roses, jasmine and something more... strong, metallic, something that reminded me of iron. I remember how simple the furniture was arranged: fluffy armchairs, the recently extinguished fireplace, the polished floor that didn't make any squeaking sounds, even the few remaining cups left on the table, as if the residents had just gotten up and left.

Through my eyes, everything was dressed in black and blue, like I had a thin veil over my face, preventing me from seeing the truth. I studied a few paintings that were hanging above the stairs. In one of them, a young lady was wearing a delicate crown made of stars over her complicated braided hair.

Could that be?.... Maybe, I can't recall exactly her description but... She was so different from how I imagined her.

Was I actually in their home? Would they know someone was in here?

My attention is captured by a sudden glow near the fireplace: a letter-opening knife, wrapped in black leather. I grab it, without thinking much further, and I jolt back, caught off guard by the burning sensation that stained my right hand.

The dream shifts again, before I am able to make any sounds of protest, and I end up in another part of the house: a long, black hall, filled on both sides with unwelcoming, closed doors. I desperately examine my palms, still feeling the dreadful sensation of my skin being ignited by the blazing blade, but nothing was there anymore.

Raising my head, I search the harsh atmosphere of this place. Even the glamorous black wood of the furniture seemed unfriendly. A sweet aroma hits my nose and I almost grunt, indulging myself in that masculine scent. It was like stepping outside, in the pouring rain, and taking the first breath of the freshly watered environment.

I had no clue if it was the barely breathable air that was bringing to the surface all these fragrances or if it was only in my mind. My own skin starts to tingle when I touch the cold handle of the door placed right in front of me. Closing my eyes, I exhale, ready for the things waiting for me on the other side.

To my disapointment, I wake up before I am able to discover what was hiding behind the door. The only detail I left with was the aching memory of a firm and sweaty body, trapped under my fingertips.

Contrary to all these senses that brought me to a stage of ecstasy, there was the salty taste of seaweed, covering my tongue and dragging me outside my head.

The little room was the same as I left it when I drifted off to sleep. Me falling through several circles and ending in a weird dimension was no nightmare. So was the fact that I was an orphan.

As pleasing as it was pungent, the smell of hay and grass was still a dull reminder of the place I was captive. The doused fire no longer prevented the coolness from creeping through the cracked door. Giving him free will, his teeth sank into my thigh, causing it to hurt even more.

Standing up, I look at Nivy, still deeply asleep, turned with her back towards me. Her pale skin shone almost transparently in the dim light of sunrise, contrasting with her brunette curls. Strands of her hair came loose from the braids she made before falling asleep and were stuck to her neck.

She resembled Snow White so much, radiating innocence and kindness even when she was unconscious.

A strangely familiar pain makes my heart drop in my stomach. I contract my right hand a few times, letting the shock to diminish and the truth to sink in.

The universe was crossing a line here.

Pulling my arm from under the cover, I evaluate the satisfying weight of the object: a marvelous knife, still icy against my fingers.

The silver handle was wrapped in smooth, dark leather, and in the middle laid a petite blue stone. A sapphire? The freshly sharpened blade glimed blindingly even in the obscure rays of sunrise. It was of an harmless simplicity, but it held in its vibration a violent beauty, as if the former owner had imprinted his own personality in it.

To make my suspicions come true, I search the palm of my right hand. The tip of the knife stained my skin with a furious red, as if it was accusing me of stealing it on purpose. Abscess bubbles stained from place to place my wound, giving me a hard time closing my fist without eventually bursting them.

Was it going to stress me out the whole day? Surely. Was there anything else that could surprise me? Most probably.

This was the kind of world where everything was possible if you had enough ambition and if you were able to manifestate. It was a world of magic and supernatural. It would be a great thing to stay alive until I find a way back home.

If I can manage to do that too.

Now, a phone would have been amazing, even a laptop or a computer. I would be able to do a quick research about Thaibar and their ways of living.

These guys didn't even had a car that I could borrow.

On the outside window's sill, the shadow of a thin cat makes my heart race inside my chest. I exhale, full of hope and muster up the courage to remove my feet from under the warm sheets. I firmly stick them to the wooden floor, trying my best to not be defeated by the cold morning chill. I hide the knife between the clothes Niven gave me yesterday, constantly checking on her.

" Icarus? " I whisper, somewhat affected by my own delusional conviction and gently pull the muslin curtains.

On the other side of the fogged glass, a gray shadow studies me, its chest and upped lip stained with a white patch. He doesn't recognize me and sniffs the window in disbelief, trying to expose my intentions.

Disappointment is a much easier word to say than to feel, because more often it affects your lungs, drowning them in breaths that are insufficient in oxygen, making you unable to fully live in the present.

Icarus was not on the other side of the barrier, obviously. He was lost somewhere down the line of time, in another world, waiting for me to come back home. This was my greatest fear and it came true: losing the animal that had truly loved me from the beginning.

For a second, I press my forehead on the cold glass, remembering the black fur and the way it felt when I ran my cheeks over it. Even his distinctive smell was present in my memory, the only thing that made me feel like I was home.

Carefully, I open the window, finding myself nose to nose with an unwelcoming stare. My skin tightens under the action of the bleak morning wind and my teeth chatter on command. The cat sniffs me again, surprised by the unfamiliar gesture.

" I am... Cyan... " I hesitate, still unable to recall my name, and dare to caress his pink ears with a finger. " Do you have a name? Maybe I can call you Misty, as the weather we met in. What do you say? "

She doesn't reject me, the only sign that she agrees with my presence are the slight ups and down of her nostrils.

" I have.. " I stop, aware of the mistake I was about to make and reconsider my words, " Had... I had a cat as well, Icarus... "

The cat considers me with her wide orange eyes, blinking slowly. She tilts her head to the side and starts purring, looking at me with the same curious expression.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Niven's mother carrying two buckets to the chicken yard, then she disappears completely, drowned by the fog.

I offer another warm smile to the cat and close the window, quietly starting to get dressed so I could go out. I put on my clothes the way I had seen Niven do it, taking the piece of wool on top, for an extra amount of warmth to my back. When it comes to my hair, I'm barely able to tie the red ribbon as easily as Nivy.

Undecided, I ponder the elegant knife left on the chair. I couldn't leave it here and risk raising more suspicions. I wouldn't know where to hide it, to begin with. It was enough that Shum had the impression that I was going to murder them all in their sleep. He didn't need any evidence too.

Without another word, I raise the hem of my skirt, wrap a handkerchief around the blade and tuck it into my tights.

If I was lucky enough, it would go unnoticed.

I take one last look at the girl's still and even breathing body and gently close the door. Crossing the dimly lit hall, I take a quick glance towards Shum's room. He was the one who was going to kill me if he found out what I had in my pants.

Once outside, I take a deep breath of the humid atmosphere, feeling the faint scent of amber tickling my nostrils. Niven's mother raises her forehead from the buckets of water and signals me to come to her. With another red kerchief clutched between my fingers, I awkwardly step forward, covering as much as possible the faint limp.

I loved the mountain air even when I was at home, but here it was different. It seemed fresher, richer. Even the thick fog covering the mountain peaks in the distance was perfect, as if I was watching a bitter painting about the end of winter.

The majority of animals had woken up and Cynthia had already started her morning routine. The woman was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, with her skirt tucked into the waistband of her pants and a brown woolen vest to cover her torso.

A hoarse ' meow ' prickles my ears and I notice the small skinny creature following me closely. I get on my knees and try to grab her, so I can warm her inside my clothes, but she avoids me, contenting herself to just follow me from a distance.

" Good morning, Cyan! " Cynthia greets me with a big smile and a pair of rosy cheeks due to the morning chill, "I hope you slept well. Do you need my help with the kerchief? "

" Good morning to you too, ma'am! I..." I'm at a loss for words, forgetting about the soft scarf in my fist. I nod my head, not really knowing what was I doing with it or why I hadn't arranged it myself.

" Come, give it to me. Was it warm enough last night? Did Nivy push you out of the bed? I noticed that there was no smoke coming out of the chimney for quite some time and I thought that it must have gotten terribly cold inside. "

" Honestly, I didn't even realize when the fire ran out. And no, Niven slept on her side of the bed all night. " I admit, enjoying the soft touch of her fingers on my scalp, " It was warm under the sheets, the problem appeared when I got up. "

I giggle carefree and turn to face her when she finishes arranging my kerchief. Her icy fingers run down my face, then to my shoulders, caressing me. She adjusts my woolen scarf around my waist and takes my hands in hers.

I barely contain a grimace of pain when Cynthia squeezes my right palm, digging her short nails in my burned skin. A tortured sound comes out of my mouth and I try to mask it, by clearing my throat.

" Done. This will help you with the cold. " She smiles again, rubbing our palms together to warm them up. " How did you wake up so early? With Nivy, I have to fight wars to get her up at seven, at least. "

Biting my tongue, I happily endure the stinging sensation, if it meant seeing Cynthia joyful. I loved making small talk with her. Her voice resembled my mother's, and I ached to hear it again, even if it was another woman in front of me.

" I'm a morning person, in general. I used to help my mother with chores around the yard. " I admit, thinking about how every morning, Icarus woke me up at 5 am by laying on my chest and purring quietly. He used to lick my face and wait for me to get up so I could change his water and give him food.

Not even the mother part wasn't a lie. When I was at home, every Saturday, we cleaned together and after we finished, we went into the kitchen to cook. It was one of the things that united us and helped us forget about certain problems. My father was one of them, and we both used to suffered because of it.

" Your mother is lucky to have you. " Cynthia lifts one of the buckets and empties it into one of the pig's water bowls.

" Let me help you. " Rushing to another bucket, I pick it up and do the same thing as her.

" Oh, ha, there's no need. " She chuckles, looking at me in a motherly way, " I do this every morning, I can handle it, it calms me. It's my only moment of peace. "

" I believe you. My mother used to say the same thing. "

" Alright, then come help me with the grains, then we have to feed some hay to the horses. I will teach you. "

I agree, feeling a ghostly joy settle in my chest. God, at least I was a little useful.

" When you have time, maybe you'll show me how you make the bread. It was one of the best things eaten. "

Cynthia turn towards me, pure shock written on her face, then bursts out laughing, " Gods! Of course! I'd love to teach you! "

For the next two hours, I learned to be Cynthia's shadow. I carried buckets, raked leaves, I fed horses and I found the courage to touch them.

I've never had the privilege of being so close to such a majestic and imposing creature. They smelled like hay and spring water and their hair was shiny and healthy. I knew from articles online that they were one of the most intelligent animals.

There were four horses here: two stallions, a white mare and another one, a smaller one, the one I assumed Shum saved from being killed.

The mare had matted black fur and was so weak that she could not stand up. Her left eye was constantly watering and seemed slightly infected. Shum had taken care of her as best as he could: her stable was freshly cleaned and she had more food than the others. But it was in vain if she didn't eat at all.

" Hey... " I greet her in a whisper tone and reach out my hand, pressing it to her dry muzzle. " You're not feeling very well, are you? "

Her breaths were shallow and heavy and she could barely keep her head straight. However, the horse didn't seem to have a problem with me touching her, so I pluck up the courage to brush her and try to remove some of the dead hair.

Shum was sure to be angry at what I was about to do. I grit my teeth and ask Cynthia for some instructions.

According to her, I find the chamomile on top of a shelf in the kitchen, alongside some apples and carrots. I put some of the leaves in an already boiling water and leave it for a couple of minutes. Then, I go up to the attic and get some torn and unused clothes and a small block of salt, that I break into tinier pieces.

After I gathered everything I needed, I got down to business.

I made a bed for the mare, with hay at the bottom, to make it softer, and all the old clothes on top, to keep her warm. She didn't seem eager to sit on it, but I wasn't discouraged and gave her space. After all, she was still too weak to move.

While the tea was still warm, I wiped the mess from her eyes, disinfecting the area. She didn't have any strength in her to resist me and she didn't even try to. She left her heavy head in my lap, allowing me to take care of her as best as I knew. With what was left from my tea, I brushed her hair again, giving it a glossy shade of black.

Using one of the knives I had stolen from the kitchen, I cut the apples and carrots in tiny pieces, so she wouldn't have to make too much effort to chew on them.

The mare sniffed the food and refused them vehemently. I set them aside and reach for the salt. A thrill of happiness revived my souls and tears gathered at the corners of my eyes when she ate all of it, getting the necessary minerals for her muscles.

She'll be strong when she recovers.

" Be brave and trust yourself, we will get you to feel better. "

After I said my goodbye to the mare I went outside again.

Misty followed me around all day, so from time to time, I stole a piece of raw meat or bread and sneaked it to her.

Around eight in the morning, Niven made her presence felt in the yard, walking out of the house with Shum. He was wearing a minimal outfit: a white shirt, a vest on top, a pair of loose trousers and worn boots.

" Oho! Good morning, ray of sunshine! " Nivy chirps, hugging me as if she's known me all her life, " Mother! Where's papa? "

" To the parish. He'll come back to get you to the medic and then see if he can find Cyan some work to do. "

Shum walks past me scowling and grumbling under his breath, avoiding my gaze.

" Who fed the dogs?! " He shouted, staring frantically at the empty bowls in front of the cages.

" I did. " I admit, feeling somewhat guilty for something I still don't know if I should be or not.

Shum turns his obsidian locks towards me, his face contorted by hatred. With his fists clenched, he rushes towards me like an uncontrollable whirlwind.

" Witch! Disguised witch! You want to poison my dogs! " He screamed, throwing his arms in the air, " Their diet is special! They don't need to eat fats, we don't want lazy dogs around the farm! They must hunt and protect us! "

I take a few steps back, raising my hand protectively. My mouth drops open and I frown, still stunned by the reason he was angry with me.

" Shum, what has gotten into you? " Niven steps between us, blocking him with her own body. " Even I feed the damned dogs sometimes. They are not always meant to hunt! "

" You think you're smarter than me?! " Drips of drool fly into the air as the two brothers push each other wildly. " Step aside, Nivena. You're as blind as our mother and I have a feeling you'll end up just as crazy as her. "

" Right now, you are the crazy one, brother. Do you even hear yourself? " The girl fiercely knocks him against the wooden fence that separated the horse stalls from the rest of the yard. " You are wasting your brain cells among all the scumbags you consider friends and you forget why we came here in the first place. Do you really think it would have been better for us to go back to where we came from? "

" Yes! Yes! We would have been home! " He yelled back coming closer to her face and grabs Niven's vest in his fist.

" Shum, I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea... " I start, keeping my hands in the air, feeling all the joy their mother gave me evaporating from my system.

" Don't say a word to him, Cyan. One who doesn't believe in what he sees doesn't deserve your apology. " Niven slaps his hand and moves away from him. Shum doesn't stop and grabs her forearm violently, " Let me go, you bastard! Don't forget that at our old home we were only servants, not people. "

" Are you all blind? She's trying to get under our skin. She's a fucking witch, an energy sucker! She's got you all in a daze! "

" I only tried to help Cynthia, to make her work easier, to make myself useful... "

" You are a pitiful orphan! " He spat in my face, pointing with a finger in my direction, " A thief, a face carved in blood, a pagan! "

" A face carved in blood? " Niven asks, astonished by her brother's words and moves closer to me, holding my hand. " What the fuck are you saying? " Her unexpected rage throws me off-guard, witnessing another side of her.

The girl's once soft features shift into sharp ones: her deer eyes take on an agile glow, much like a hunter's, her eyebrows arch high on her forehead and her body suddenly tenses up, seeming to explode through her own clothes.

A sense of danger creeps inside my head and I feel unsure of how to react.

" That is enough, son! " Their father's raucous voice makes us all startle, taken by surprise by his sudden apparition. " Go to you sheep and don't come back till sunset... ".

The priest grabs Shum by the elbow and throws him a few steps away from his sister. It was an odd situation to witness. An old man, with an appearance shaped by life's hard challenges, fully clothed in his parish attire and barely holding into his tears. The green in his eyes diminishes, as if his own strength abandoned him by cursing his son.

The boy seemed so much younger now that he was being stripped of his selfishness by his own father. The madness that took over him suddenly leaving his expression hollow. The air around him changes, heartbreak being written all over him now.

Kallus takes off his black hat, clenching it tightly in his fists as he watches Shum drift off into the distance. A golden ring shines on his pinky finger, revealing the circular spirals of a snake.

How odd to see such a cunning creature on a man who preaches god's doings.

I raise my eyebrows and bite my inner cheeks, feeling like an intruder even more. I had to get out. I had to find a way home. But how the fuck will I do that without raising any suspicions? I need to get my hands on a map at least. Would that be of any use, actually? I read these books a long, long time ago. I only remember some of the major plots and... that's it.

Entranced, I squeeze Nivy's arm tighter. My presence here was breaking apart a family and I couldn't be the one responsible for it.

I promise myself that I will stay here only a couple more days, then I will leave, with or without the map. Maybe if I died I will be transferred back to my old world, even though I doubt it will be that easy.

Cynthia's rosy cheeks wither away, revealing a handful of translucent veins under the skin of her eyelids. Her fragile neck looked like it was going to snap at the first gust of wind. Puzzled, I realize she's been here all along, listening to her own son's insults.

With her lips trembling, she swallows hard, hiding her delicate hands behind her brown skirt. A ghost. Cynthia was a ghost. A relic of something that used to love life not long ago, who trampled among the ethereal curtains of time, losing herself among worlds and without purpose.

My body feels heavy as I contemplate her existence. She turns on her heels, gloomily entering the farm, like someone had just crushed her last remaining hope. She doesn't turn to watch us anymore, keeping her head bowed and her shoulders slumped. Her soul was a great abyss of sadness and I was afraid she could drown in any minute.

" Cynthia, my love... " Kallus mutters her name, a bitter pain etched in his posture.

I grit my teeth and close my eyes, trying as hard as possible to not cry as well. I felt tied to a barbell and thrown somewhere in a deep sea. Unable to swim, I sink and suffocate and suffer and enjoy the feeling of letting go.

I feel my skirt pulled down by a corner, and notice the little gray cat sitting still next to my leg. She stares deeply into my eyes, as if distracting me from the pit that was slowly swallowing my positivity. I count the vapors that form in the air due to my breathing and raise a silent prayer along with them: may everything end quickly and well for everyone.

I give Misty my most sincere smile and thank her for the piece of serenity she tried to bring me.

The priest takes a deep breath and gently touches Niven on her back, " Come on, girls, we have a hard day ahead of us. "

He awkwardly tries to lift our morals, smiling slightly in the corners of his mouth, a smile that doesn't meet his cheerless eyes. Niven quicly wipes a tear from her cheek, reviving the same gentle and naive face. Even the pets had remained silent in the courtyard during the fight between them.

The air around us changes, being filled with lies and bitterness. The impression that something wrong was going to happen never letting my thoughts rest. This time, I didn't know what to predict and how to prepare. Everything was filled with chaos here and the situations seemed to get out of control quickly.

A clear proof was the very knife that I felt hanging heavily from my hip.

God forgive me, but in this position, I didn't look like a saint either if they ever find what I was hiding.

We don't make any conversation as we wait for Kallus to collect some things from the house before heading to Thaibar. Niven hugs her father before we leave, a silent promise that she will always be by his side.

I smile and wrap my arms around myself, trying to offer me the same kind of relief.

The girl detaches herself from her father's body and wraps one arm around me, rubbing my back in a warm gesture, " Don't worry, my brother... He's always been like this, with aspirations greater than what he can carry. " She whispers in my ear as we move forward, leaving Kallus lost in his thoughts, a few steps behind us.

" I have a friend, in Thaibar. She works at the flower stand opposite the potion store where you're going to be. " Nivy informs me, somehow trying to erase from our memory the last twenty minutes, " Her names is Aoife. We met when we were a little younger, at one of the village's spring rituals. "

I remember this. The Spring Court had something... similar, if not the same ritual. I just couldn't remember what it was called and what his purpose was.

" Ao-.., what a complicated name. A-o-i-... "

" No, no. It's pronounced Ee, that is, repeat after me. Ee-fa, Eee-faa. Did you catch it? "

" Eee-faa. " I chatter my lips a few times, guided by Niven until she agrees that I won't make a fool out of myself in front of a stranger.

" She's one of the main claims of the Resurgence. "

" Resurgence? What's it about? "

" It's exactly what the name means: a spring ritual, a celebration of the world being revived after the cold winter, The Resurgence... " Niven dramatically gestures the word, using her long limbs to draw a circle in the air. " Young girls are put in the river that springs from the mountain ridge to wash away their sins accumulated over the year. They get ' cleansed ' for marriage. In their hands they hold a bouquet of corals and the one that attracts the golden fish, the symbol of the ritual... " She says, adding the word ' cleansed ' between two mimed quotation marks, " She's chosen the most beautiful woman in the village. Aoife has been the winner for several years now, but she doesn't seem thrilled by the thought of getting married. "

I frown, swallowing any retort related to the misogyny of the stereotype of virginity and the nonsense of ' washing away your sins '. Apparently, nothing was different from my own world, so far.

" A very big bullshit, if you ask me. " Niven huffed, arranging some curls that had come loose from her braids. " Each woman in the village has her own assets, and they may or may not be beauty. Everyone is special and everyone is good at something. Beauty is relative and ephemeral and it is always in the eyes of the watcher. "

I agree with her, proud by the way she was thinking. I didn't know if it was just her naivety speaking or her experience with life, but I was thrilled by the fact that not every girl here wished to be a servant for men.

We were far enough from the farm and now, the first forms of Thaibar could be seen: a few houses of varying sizes, all in the same dreary shades of gray and brown, with little wisps of smoke coming of the chimneys. Some small figures walked outside the wooden walls of the village, getting in and out of the unguarded doors.

I was expecting to see soldiers with swords and armors, like I used to see in those ancient movies with princes and princesses. But, apparently, it was not the case here. Maybe the village was too unimportant to be protected.

Thaibar was actually small, according to the dimensions that we could comprehend from the high point we were on, and was surrounded by two hills, large enough to hide it from the strangers.

" So... " I begin, noticing the smoky clouds that were blocking the sun's rays from shining above the settlement.

It seemed as if whatever divinity they were worshipping here, punished them, depriving them of the astral body, cursed to never feel the warmth and beauty of the green and fruitful meadows.

Maybe that's why they were all so pale.

" So, what, Cyan? What where you going to say? " Nivy reminds me, searching my face with her sweet eyes. She raises her hand and covers my ears with the kerchief, " So you don't get a cold... ", she adds, running her finger through my eyebrows, arranging them.

" So, um, you also have rituals here... " I start again, passing the low gates, with the same height as me.

I could already notice the shops lining up ahead of us. With my ears, I catch the noisy bustle of the town.

" Oh, of course! Who doesn't? Tell me one of yours. "

I stare at her with wide eyes, feeling like I was caught again in my own lie. Pecking my lips, I smooth my dark blue skirt and pick some invisible dust from my shoulders.

Someone yells from afar that he's selling mudstones, benefic for bone disease, which I quickly interpret as some kind of rheumatism. We used to suffer from that too, in my world. Feathers begin to fly around us when a handful of children chase a brown chicken before us.

" The Dead's Saturday. " I remember, smiling pleasantly when Kallus greets some acquaintances from the village.

The crown of people seemed to swallow me and Nivy, throwing unpleasant faces into our direction. I watch them back, trying to understand their behaviour towards us. Was it something I did? Or the problem was Kallus and his daughter?

Poverty is a soft way of describing these people. They walked barefoot, through puddles of rainwater and horse shit, through piles of mud and garbage left behind by the vegetable stalls. They were miserable.

When I caught them talking or smiling, more than one tooth was missing from their mouths and the ones that remained, were decayed and purulent, infections spreading to their gums. Some of these people had swollen face, distorting their features.

It wasn't getting any better when it came to their clothes, either. A clear sign of their way of living was the lack of bodily hygiene. They spread a harsh smell of sweat and filth that made you dizzy. The mud was the least of their problems. Patches of clothing were moth-eaten, skirts were torn and holed and so were the men's trousers.

There wasn't a wider palette of colors in this world, just brown, black and a washed out red.

" The Dead's Saturday... " Niven humms thoughtfully, grasping in her long fingers what appeared to be a soft grapefruit.

Please don't eat that... I pray inside my head. My stomach flutters uncontrollably and a lump forms in my throat, threatening to come out in any minute.

" Ten habgis, miss Aldo. "

Nivy raises her soft eyes to the thin and scantily dressed salesman. He was not dressed accordingly for the cold weather, either. She hands him the requested money and we move on, gifting the fruit to an old woman who sat in the mud, begging for coins. She thanks Niven, returning a toothless smile.

" What do you do on this holiday? Besides celebrating the dead, obviously. "

The village was disturbingly similar to those depicted in movies like Outlander and The Witcher. I swallow hard, overwhelmed by all the surrounding information and let myself be guided by Niven's bony elbow.

Some of the taller, and probably more important, buildings, were made out of stone, while the rest of the houses were built from creaking wood. On both sides of the narrow street were shops with colored dresses displayed in their windows. A symbol was printed on some of the constructions: a spiral leading to two entwined swords.

Kallus signals us to follow him, while he manages to slip amond the elderly women who were chatting and exchanging duck eggs. I raise my woolen scarf to my nose, trying to dissipate as much as possible the smell of dry sweat.

" We make a cake out of barley in their honor. We enchant it with incense and after that, we go to the cemetery where we surround the grave three times and give the food to them, in the afterlife. "

Niven turns to me in awe, as if she was capable of reading my thoughts and drops her innocent feline mask for a few seconds. " It sound like a pagan ritual. ", she whispers, motioning with a finger to be silent. " These things are forbidden in these lands. Only the old deities are glorified here in a futile attempt to awaken them. "

I bite my lips, hypnotized by her black eyes with golden iridescence, and I nod my head, obedient.

Insecurity settles in my soul and red flags pop up in my head. I must be more careful with these people. What the hell am I thinking? Ancient deities, paganism, rituals with virgins, obscure stories about redheads, nothing I should get involved in. The problem was that the possibility of a connection between my departure from home and myths like this was something that was implying me too.

" The immortals! The immortals have come to town! I curse you! " A grumpy old man pounces on me and Niven. He manages to clamp his fist around my wrist, smearing me with soot. A horrifying tremor grips my body as a bloody scene unfolds before my eyes: A burning Thaibar.

" In the name of the Mother... " Niven whispers as I rip my hand from his hand.

" You brought famine upon Thaibar! " He screams again, bubbles of foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. His white locks were soiled and covered with a hat eaten by moths.

Several men, dressed in black armor, surround him and force him on the ground, kicking him in the ribs with their iron shoes. Their faces were covered by a black helmet, not even their eyes could be seen. The same symbol crowned their shoulders and chests, marking them as part of the royal house.

" Shut up, you disgusting waste of breath! Find a way to pay your debt to the palace. ", bursts out one of the three men, slamming the poor men's head on the mud.

" Niven, they're going to murder him! " I push against her, trying to look over her tall shoulder at the old man's body, now lying inert on a putrid puddle.

" He's mad, Cyan... " She snarls at me, managing to get me out of the circle of people gathered to see the slaughter.

" It's a fucking human being! " I shout against the loud crowd, watching her reach for her father.

" You'll always see these kind of... atrocities here. Get use to it! " Niven lectures me.

Kallus stops in front of a cramped house, with a barely legible sign that said ' Potions '. " He's not sane, Cyan. He's always causing trouble for the parish and to village people. "

I stare at them, bewildered by their reaction and for a second, I realize how alienated I am from this world. A priest without resentment towards and old man, no matter how crazy he was and his innocent daughter, ignoring him completely, telling me these was common practice.

I was going to faint.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I close and open my fists a few times, trying to focus on the jerky throb in my leg, only to suppress the emotion that had gripped me. The knife's blade had moved imperceptibly during the time I had been shaken by the old man, and now, it was stabbing my thigh.

I rearrange it as imperceptibly as I can, then straighten my back.

When we enter the small shop, the heavy smell of freshly burnt bay leaves makes my head spin and I stumble on my own feet. Kallus quickly supports me with both arms and grabs a wooden chair.

" Oh my... Cyan, you look so pale... " Nivy pressed her palms against my forehead, checking my temperature.

Of course I was. I just saw a man beaten to death while everyone was starring and last night, I was in someone else's house without even trying to do that. I am more than dizzy and pale. I am utterly lost and the risk of me losing my fucking mind has reached alarming levels.

The easiest way out was killing myself, but I was too afraid some smartass was going to bring me back to life, not even leaving me to enjoy my time in the afterlife.

The vomit rose high in my throat. The ringing in my ears was terribly annoying and in front of my eyes were only smoke of bay leaves.

" Nimue! Nimue, quick! "

Several silhouettes come to life in front of me and I inhale the vapors, feeling them burn my neck on the inside. Frightened by the winged figure that flied towards my face, I hit them with my hands, making them burst into hot steam.

A chocking sensation overwhelms me and I stick my tongue out in a desperate desire to throw up what I've swallowed. It felt like my pharynx had swollen and my lungs had collapsed, inert, leaving me completely breathless.

Was I having an anaphylactic shock?!

" She's chocking on the smoke. " The priest announces, alarmed, blowing the clouds away from my face. " Nimue! "

" Let her throw up if she feels the need to. " Niven says in panic, rubbing my palms into hers, then massaging my chest.

I stumble forward and catch Nivy's skirt with my nails. My head feels like it's on fire and my scalp itches terribly.

An angular face emerges from the bay smoke I exhale and considers me for a few moments. Or rather he looks through me. The man's elegant features float in the air, waking something inside me, clawing at my rib cage to get out and answer the call.

" May the sky give me strength, Kallus! You cast all the devils of the earth upon my head! " A hoarse female voice scratches my eardrums, descending like an angry purple cloud above me, " This girls has the evil spirit inside her! "

The wave of air dissipates the saturnine face, caused by the austere woman who now sat in front of me, analyzing my mouth, nose and eyes.

I mumble, watching with wide eyes how the smoke splits one last time, changing and unfolding a whole scenario of two people that seemed to be making love.

" The Mother of all we feel... "

" Please... " I gasp, hearing the same song that woke me up inside the oasis, pass my ears briefly.

My skin tingles and the burn in my palm sends violent electric waves through my arm. A bony hand grabs my face, digging it's uncut nails in my already wounded cheek. " Open your mouth! "

When a sweet drop touches the roof of my oral cavity and trickles down my throat, the song and the smoke stop their torment. My vision clears right away and I finally catch the form of a lady about thirty-five years old, who beholds me warily. " What's this thing doing here? ", she asks, turning my head to inspect the pair of claws I had acquired before I fell through the worlds.

I swallow all my ideas, feeling myself seized by her dark violet eyes that seemed to eat you up from the inside out. She licks her thin lips, contoured with a burgundy pencil on the outside, and smiles broadly, " I feel sorry for you soul, little girl. "

I blink often, watching her leave me and go behind her work table, covered by mountains of notebooks and bottles, knives and herbs. The berry scent turns my stomach upside down and I can't hold the disgusted expression that slips on my face.

I hated berries.

" She's the girl I told you about this morning. She says she's trained in the art of medicine. " Kallus begins, getting up from his kneeling position he'd taken when he sat me on the chair and places a protective hand on my shoulder.

I still can't find the courage to look at the soul eating woman so I focus on the knife on my hip, it's weight giving me a sense of peace.

" I don't need weak disciples, especially not like this one. She's the first branch to break at the slightest breeze. " Nimue responds strictly, dipping one of her small fingers, the one without a nail, in a clear liquor, then smells it. " Do you recall what happened with the last one and the one before him, and so on? No one lasts long enough here. "

Kallus takes off his black hat and steps towards her silently, blocking her image with his own body, " I swear, Cyan is not like the others. Not even close. "

Dizzy enough, every fast rotation of my head made my balance stagger, even while sitting on a chair. Passively, I scan the gloomy corners of the store.

The peeling walls were full of pictures with pentagrams and lists of names of plants and animals. On a far wall, behind the slender woman, there were three pictures hanging, all of them related to the anatomy of a raven, a snake and another that explained how the light protrudes through the eyes.

" Ugh, spare me the pleads. ' Chosen ' this, ' Chosen ' that, and yet, the only purpose for which they are ' chosen ' is to die, over and over again. When are you going to learn your lesson, old man? When will you end this mad circus? "

The woman props herself on her hands on the table, coming closer to Kallus's face. The hems of her purple velvet dress swept the dirty floor, turning black. The edge of the sleeves were embroidered with a thin layer of golden thread, knotted like thorns up to the elbows. On her left wrist, Nimue wears an elegant golden bracelet, with numerous precious stones attached.

" It's the last time, Nimue, we don't even have the energy anymore to keep it like this. " The priest acknowledges her, putting his hat back on top of his black tail.

They both turn to me and Niven. The soul eater studies me for a good few moments, then back to Kallus, holding up her imperial posture.

" This is the last time. I can't hide the things we do anymore, I don't want to put myself in danger anymore. I want what's left of my life to go down in peace. "

" You know why she's here... The silent prayers, even you raise them sometimes. We don't have another purpose here, Nimue. We have been partners for so long, served each other. You, me... Cynthia... "

" Haven't I done enough for you and my-... your wife? " Nimue swallows half of her word, causing a bitter taste inside her mouth. " Get up, girl! Let me check you. "

Shit. The knife.

My back straightens and I let myself be inspected by the weird woman. She held a strange charm in her sharp features. I wouldn't call her beautiful either, she had something special buzzing in her aura. It was the mean behavior that made me dislike her.

She unties my scarf from my head with violent movements, pulling a few strands of hair from the back of my neck in the process. She looks inside of my mouth, eyes and ears, then moves to my hands and sternum. Kallus excuses himself and goes outside, seeing that Nimue was about to undress me.

Begging anyone willing to listen to help me hide the knife, I start to take off my clothes. I still had no plausible explanation for him. It doesn't even look like a kitchen knife...

Left only in my nightgown and a pair of socks, now surely dirty from the floor, she inspects the bruises from my ribs and legs, palpating the violet patches of skin from time to time. Her actions were much more gentle than I imagined them to be and her skin soft enough to barely be felt against my limbs.

" You stink of amber... " Nimue mentions, her words full of venom, and she looks at me through her thin eyelashes. " The concussion might affect your memory. I can't tell if it's for a short or long period of time because of the inflammation. I can give you some medicine that you must take at night, before bed. Maybe it will help you dream your memories and discover something about your past. Also, where did you say you fell? The wounds on the thigh and the scalp are swollen and wet, most likely infected too. I'll give you some Echinacea ointment. "

" I think somewhere on the meadow. " Shamelessly, I lie, and pull my nightgown back over my legs.

We all know I didn't fall in the field. Besides, no one knows how exactly I got out of the oasis and didn't drown.

Nimue's eyes sparkle with interest, dissecting my words in her head. Her face twitches as if she's digesting the information. She grins, knowingly, then leaves me get dressed up and signals to Kallus come inside when I am done.

" For your happiness, the girl can stay. She'll work with me every morning from 8 to 5 o'clock in the evening and if it's necessary, she'll follow me to the palace and stay past her schedule. I don't want you to talk without being asked and I want you to get rid of that amber perfume. It gives me headaches. At this point, you are not my apprentice, but my servant, until I figure out if you can reach my standards. "

Hoe.

My perplexed looks turns into a repulsed one. I was used to this kind of humiliation from my former doctors in university. But here, reached another dimension of insensitivity.

" Are you dumb or deaf? "

" Neither. " I answer, putting my hands behind my back like an obedient little soldier, " Thank you, for your... " Kindness? Reception? Help? Humiliation? " For you help... "

" On my life, you're so tiring. Kallus, she's quite fine, just a few bruises and a nasty scratch that'll leave a mark. I hope you don't mind, you're not much of a bless for the eyes. "

Niven opens her mouth to object, but I frown at her, not giving her the chance to screw this up.

" I give you my gratitude, Nimue. If there's nothing more to add, I'll take the girls and leave you to your duties. "

" Aha, no, no. " The soul eater interrupts, raising her head to stop us from leaving. " Let the girl stay, I want to test her before I send her back to you. "

The priest nods approvingly and squeezes his fist to his chest in my direction, showing me to have courage.

Confused by the situation, I don't even perceive Nivy's light touch on my wrist until is too late.

" What can you do? " Nimue asks while tying an apron around her wasp like waist, then starts rummaging around the room, replacing the old books from the table with new ones.

Nothing, right now, I knew nothing. I'd rather be a doormat or wash the floors.

" I, a... I know a little about everything. " My answer comes out much more skeptical than I intended, feeling my hands shake behind my back.

My memory was way behind the things that were happening now. It was still stuck in the trauma I suffered when my parents found out I had a relationship with a girl. So, to try and force her to help me right now, was in vain. I felt exactly like I used to in my old university, when someone asked me a specific thing that I had learned about and I would have a delay.

" This is not an answer, redhead. You see, you either pull yourself together and start taking advantage from this service or you realize, early enough I hope, that you're incapable and leave me alone. It is not possible to work with me and have no idea about things like: speaking elegantly and managing situation to come out as you like. Especially, if it's the palace. Come, firstly, clean the place: the tables, the floors, the shelves. After you finish, there are plenty of bottles and jars waiting to be washed and filed in order. "

Before she could finish her sentence, I rush to take an apron and tie it around me so I can begin with my chores.

" Arrange the potion books according to the level of effectiveness and also, depending on the difficulty of obtaining them. " She stops and makes a revolted face, " Oh, and take that scarf off your head. We're not in the damned yard here. Don't make me look bad. "

I felt like I was back in my pharmacology class. Only if she knew I failed the exam on the first semester. But, I doubt she'll have any idea about what pharmacology was.

" Of course, ma'am. " I accept, removing the red kerchief I tied back after i was undressed, and stuff it inside my shirt.

" Miss. " Nimue corrects me, without turning to face me, and continues her quiet work. " When you're done, come back here and I'll teach you how to make your own potion and ointment. "

" Excuse me... " I stop in my tracks, weighting the idea I was about to expose, " If you don't mind, how can I treat an eye infection? One of Kallus's mares has a problem and she's tearing up- "

" Do you think I look like a caretaker at the farm? " She questions me, sarcastically, and puts a hand on her hip, " We're treating humans here, not animals. Now stop humiliating me like that. " She finishes the conversation and turns her back to me. " And besides, you should already know what's the treatment for infection. "

Yeah, I should. Unconsciously, I squeeze a book between my fingers until I feel the covers break in my palm.

Fine. Don't give me the information. I'll find it in your books, witch.

And so, the most horrible hours of my life began to unfold. Initially, I cleaned all of Nimue's work tables that covered the walls, collecting her written recipes that were scattered around, and placing them in stacks. I even tried to move the furniture so I could sweep the floor, but it was in vain. They were built from massive wood and were incredibly heavy. This action only lead to a mocking smile from her.

After washing her floor from mud and other interesting fluids, I go to my next task: shelves.

" No, you fool. Don't touch the potions on that shelf. " She scolds me and takes the wet cloth from my hand, starting to clean herself that portion of cabinet.

I leave her be and start sorting the potion bottles. I manage to place them alphabetically and in such a way so that the label is visible. My heart trembled the whole time. What if my finger slipped and I dropped them. Nimue would have had my head on a plate, probably.

When I moved the bigger jars, although I was used with aborted fetuses and bits of human organs from my anatomy laboratories back in my old world, I was still unprepared to see animal parts floating in green juice. In other vials, she kept bats in formalin or eyes and teeth. The most shocking part was a small uterus, that was labeled as ' monkey '. She even kept kept nails, human nails in a dry jar.

I need a break. This woman was a sadist. Is this what doctors did in this society? Collecting human and animal parts and making medicine out of them?

Somehow, it didn't shock me that much. I read a book, actually, with a very suggestive name ' The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers '. I learned about how the Chinese population used placenta and mummies as ointments and pills. So, it wasn't something new, we just become more moral over time and chose not to exhume the dead for supposed healing recipes.

Going down to the basement level of her house to collect the last jars, I discovered much more terrible things than a monkey's uterus. She had macerated pig hearts, next to which sat quietly a braided tail, made of a real woman's hair. Among the black strands you could see little reddish cockroaches that hat matted the hair and created a nest. Then, in another silver box, were frog legs, stripped of their skin.

Placing my hand on my forehead, I feel my temperature begin to rise and the slice of bread I munched on this morning come in my throat alongside my bile.

" Poor thing... You're going to let some frog ruin your dream of becoming an apprentice? " Nimue giggles behind me, grabbing a jar with yellow eyes in it, as if it was no big deal.

" Are those real? "

" Do you like them? " She asks happily, bringing the transparent vessel closer to my face, " I collected them myself from the community corpses. "

Fuck me. Why am I still in this shit hole?

" That's what I wonder too. " Nimue answers, wiping a speck of dust from a blue iris.

" Excuse me?... " My eyes widen, thrown off guard by her repsone.

Did I really said that out loud or?...

She shrugs, smiling and sprints up the stairs to the store above.

I purse my lips and clench my fists. The impression that she tries to get rid of me is not a supposition anymore, it was a certainty.

" I haven't even started. " I reply, taking the register from the floor and starting to clean and organize the witch's materials.

She doesn't say anything back, but I can hear her laughter above the floor.

By the end of my shift my eyes were dropping in my mouth and some of my bones cracked at the slightest move. I couldn't even smell anything rather than formalin, mold and fetid elements. I wasn't expecting to be paid, I didn't do anything other than act as a maid here and there, without showing my limited knowledge related to the medical field: injections, a few incisions, sutures.

This job didn't correspond at all to my training and, to my dislike, tested the limits of my understanding. But it wasn't only about the job, but about this universe in general.

Even if my working hours were officially over, I still had plenty to do.

Tomorrow is another day. I say in my head, slapping the wet cloth against the bucket.

As I walk past the stacks of books I had to arrange in the library, I notice something that really sparked up my interest: ' Guide to treating infections in cattle and sheep. '

Damned reptile. Of course she also had manuals about animals, considering the fact she collected parts of them. I borrow, borrow not steal, the book and hide it behind my woolen clothes, then I make my way to Nimue.

" Rayna, come here. " She hoarsely calls for me, making room at her table so I can join her, " Let's prepare you medicine. "

" Cyan, miss. " I correct her, rolling up my wet sleeves.

" Whatever you say, Shyna. Look, you've got two paragraphs here: the echinacea ointment for wounds and lavender potion for sleep. "

I sigh and begin to follow her instructions, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she leans her hip on the table and folds her arms against her chest. Nimue's hair was tied at the nape of her neck in a simple bun, making her features sharp.

Even this witch was a fairy-tale beauty and I didn't like to say it out loud.

I begin my job by crushing the plants in a ceramic bowl. Of course I was criticized for the fact that I pressed too much on the dry leaves and that my movements were lacking finesse. She pushes me aside for a few moments and shows me how to do it.

I couldn't deny it, her actions were more fluid, hypnotic. She had the hands of a pianist: long and slender, feminine, with clean and short nails. Nimue knew what she had to do and how the end result should be like and, apparently, it worked.

Even her face held a serious mine, a slight satisfaction written on it. Everything seemed like a sacred ritual that Nimue loved to perform.

" Here, your turn now. " She invites me to the table and places her palms over mine, guiding me, " Gentle, smoothly, press firmly and take your time. Think of the leaf as a piece of ash, running from the fire. Imagine it crumble under your touch. "

Nodding, I envision all the properties of the herb coming together in my bowl. A childlike joy blooms in my soul when the plant cuts itself into pieces easily, like it was satisfied of the way I was using it.

" Making potions is not that simple. You must use all three elements that create a man: the body for strength, the mind for the necessary information about the ingredients and the soul, for a touch of magic. "

While turning the mortar, Nimue adds a few teaspoons of fat and a few drops of some kind of essential oil.

" This is shea butter. Very, very rare and very, but very expensive in these places. I would give you pork fat instead, it is much more nutritious, but not very useful when dealing with infections. It could actually worsen the condition. Is full of glucose, too sweet, and you know how germs love the taste of carbohydrates. " She explains as she wipes her hands with a towel and studies me with the same pair of cold lilac eyes. " The essential oil is castor oil. Considering that your wound is on you scalp, it will help you hair grow in that place and stay healthy. "

Damn, she really was smart. I knew everything she said was true because I learned it in university too.

" Also, never put lotions on fire, you destroy all their properties. Only teas and certain potions, the ones that contain green plants, not colored. " Nimue informs me, testing the texture of the medicine. " Colored plants contain spirits that enjoy the heat and sabotage your cure. Better to drown them in water for a couple of hours or freeze them if possible and only after that, let them dry. "

With an almost invisible appreciative gesture, she pours the cream unto an iron box.

" Good. Now, let's prepare the night potion. "

My conclusion after this day was that, as much as I despised Nimue, she loved her work enough to teach it good.

" Are you coming back tomorrow? " She questions me from the doorway, her rough voice being carried away by the wind.

" Unfortunately. " I joke, turning my face to her.

" What? " She laughs, showing me a pair of impeccable teeth. " Well, if you're so determined to show up, then I expect you to explain me all the information from the book you've stolen from me. "

I freeze in the doorframe, with a hand on the hip the heavy manual was hidden.

" Oh and, I know you didn't fall in the meadow, as you lied, and you should find a scabbard for that dagger you keep. " She smiles crookedly and approaches me, " What I don't know is how you got your hands on it. "

" As long as I don't use it, there's nothing you have to worry about. Miss. " I reply, taking a few steps back.

" Do you even have any idea of how to wield a dagger? You barely even managed to properly crush a handful of dead leaves. But twist a knife into someone's heart? Never in a million years, my sweet little star. "

" We all have secrets, Nimue. Do you want me to make my own suppositions about how you got your hands on this pretty dress or that shining bracelet? "

Her eyes become alert and her upper lip twitches.

" I respect yours. " She resumes and twirls a finger through a wine colored piece of my hair. " For your mare it is enough to wash her eyes with chamomile and linden tea, feed her salt so she can rebuilt her muscles and some grains mixed with red apples. After she begins to eat well and can hold her weight on her own, give her hay sprinkled with basil. It'll keep curses away. The mare will be fine by the time you're gone. "

" How do you know when I'll leave? Will I get home? " I step forward, hearing the floor groan under my shoes.

" The future is not for us to see. " Nimue chants, slamming a fistful o metal keys in my palm and making a brief contact between our skin.

She's stunned for a moment, as if she sees for the first time who lays in front of her.

" You can use the lotion for the burn in your palm, as well. And be careful what path you take by night. You have green eyes and red hair, the traits which the old gods relished most in mortal females. "

Nimue leaves me in front of the store, waving her ass from side to side, sweeping with her purple skirt the dirty streets.

I don't get to say goodbye. I'm left on the sidewalk, with my mouth open and barely able to understand the last five minutes of our conversation. Redheads and old gods. The same thing Nivy mentioned the other day. If that was true as well, I might use the knife earlier than I imagined...

This night was going to be a well-deserved break between the two of us.

Moving slowly, I take my time to try and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. The sky had taken on a rosy hue, a sign that it was already beginning to lose its power and the air smelled of crushed nuts and dust.

Was I watching the same sky as my loved ones back home?

I lower my head. I couldn't watch it anymore and not feel empty. This silence, this lack of people, of Niven, was draining me, squishing my heart. I stop, trying to banish all my dark thoughts and make room for some rational ideas.

If by the end of this month, I was not going to find a way home, I knew what had to be done with my life: throw it away. I couldn't live between strangers, run from house to house. God knows what I have to endure if I even stay on the streets for too long.

Someone grabs my waist, waking me up. Unprepared and with my nerves stretched to their full capacity, I swing, ready to fight whoever dared to touch me.

" Whoa, whoa, calm down, Cy. It's me, don't break my nose if you don't know how to fix it. "

Niven comes out from the shadows, with a huge smile on her pretty face.

" You scared the soul out of me. " I breath, putting my palm on my chest to feel my heartbeat, " I'm sorry, my head feels so big after today. "

" Does the Countess approves you? " The blond girl that was by Niven's side asks, running her hands through her beautifully braided hair.

" Countess? If you mean Nimue, I have no idea. She's expecting me tomorrow. " I explain, analyzing the feminine and voluptuous features belonging to the stranger. " It's only temporary anyway, I can manage. "

" You haven't changed you mind. You still want to leave me. " Nivy says with an accusing look on her face and takes us both by the hands, leading us slowly down another path with broken stones.

We make way among the few people still left on the narrow streets, noticing that we are heading in a different direction than the one we came from.

" You can't adopt me, Nivy. I would like to go home after I remember where I come from. " I look at the stalls with empty baskets and the few stone buildings that rose behind them. " This is not the way home. "

" It's a surprise. If you want leave, at least let me show you how we secretly have fun. " The brunette chuckles, jumping from one feet to another.

" I'm Aoife. " The beautiful stranger with the face of an angel introduces herself, showing off her big blue eyes. " Nivy told me that you have and unforgettable face and that's right. I've never seen features like yours before, I swear. "

My cheeks start to burn and I can swear I'm blushing. I was not a beauty. I wasn't even a natural redhead. I was using a cherry box dye, so that my roots could go unnoticed when they grew too much. Not even my oval face or my prominent cheekbones were not helping much. I looked childish and way younger that twenty-three.

Here, the standard seemed to be a heart-shaped head, thin lips and way, way more skinnier than I was. My tighs were full of flesh, due to my short height and I had some hip dips as well. My stomach was soft and hid a little belly below. It was the reason I hated wearing tight dresses. I didn't even have boobs in this shirt without the help of a push-up bra. I was pear-shaped and the only thing I really liked about my body was my quite alright behind.

" Thank you. She told me you are the spring's favorite, as they say. "

My attempts at making conversation were as poor as I was. A trace of regret saddens her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but puts on a joyless smile.

" How was your first day? " Niven asks, like a mother who questions her child about the first day of school.

" Do you want me to exclude the grotesque elements? " I sigh, aggressively massaging my forehead.

" How dare you? Those are the best! "

The black smoke from the chimneys were intoxicating the already precarious atmosphere, filling it with the smell of wood and coal. While listing the types of stuffed animals that the ' Countess' seemed to collect, the emotion of not belonging oppresses my soul again.

The dull pain in my whole body somehow anchored me in this reality and made me much more aware of the situation I was in. I felt the need to drown my sorrow in a drink. More than ever, actually. This was something that happened to me lately, due to stress and unhappiness. It was a fact that scared me terribly: I could become and alcoholic. Just like my father.

But he was now in another world and my weak heart, unable to hate him, made me think of him. He threw at me so many calumnious words that I can't even remember them all. Does he know that I am no longer among them and that my soul aches?

Yes, even now, after he beat me and threw me out of the house, after he cursed me and told me he regretted the day he conceived me. Does he know that I can't breathe being so far away from them? It's not even a cliché anymore: we were worlds apart, but I still carried the scars in my chest, buried deep enough to last for a lifetime.

I sigh deeply, hoping that I can release some of the weight that was making me move slower than usual.

" Something wrong, Cyan? " Nivy asks me quietly, raising her delicate eyebrows, " You're upset, all of a sudden. "

Aoife smiles like in those movies I used to watch, the ones with Marilyn Monroe in which she was so delicate, elegant and beautiful. They even looked alike: blonde, small face, a dimple in the chin, small and pouty lips and a pair of eyes as blue as spring water, sharp as those of foxes and overflowing with vitality.

" Aoife, I'm sorry to interrupt, Nivy, but I can't help it: you have a beauty that I've only heard existed. I've never... um, I've never seen anything like you. "

I swear I wasn't hitting on her. I wasn't into girls that looked like girls. It was hard to explain even to my parents. I felt attracted to the girls that looked like boys, and that is because I was into men. Even if I despised the majority of them.

So complicated.

A blush creeps on Aoife's neck, getting in harmony with her already rosy undertone. She brushes some loose strands of hair away from her face acknowledging my admiration towards her. " You have such a way with your words... But, you should know I am lectured, too. In maths and geography. "

Niven laughs lightly, tenderly grabbing her shoulders and positioning herself behind her. " Yes, Cyan, she is among the few people who can do arithmetic and read in two ancient languages. "

As I applaud, I lift the hem of my skirt to avoid an area full of brown water. We turn on some narrow streets, until we get far enough from the view of Thaibar. From this point, up on a side of the hill, we could see the black towers of the castle, rising high on the air and puncturing the grey clouds.

" What's there? " Squinting my eyes through the darkness that was beginning to fall over Thaibar, I make my own presumption.

" The kingdom of Hybern, the metropolis of the region. " Niven informs me, cursing them under her breath.

" I work there. As a maid. " Aoife speaks, not looking in our direction and kicking rocks with her feet, " My shift starts in a few days. "

" I can't understand your ambition to work between those... worms. "

" I have a family to feed, Niv. My mother suffers from madness and goes on the road at night thinking she's a prostitute and my brother has school. The palace is the only place where I make enough money. "

Her nose wrinkles, as she finally lifts her head towards the horizon. Narrowing her eyes, she looks like she is about to go and spit on everyone on the palace.

It was the same expression as the one that appeared when I brought up the Resurgence. Visible disgust and wrath. I wonder what made her react like that, besides the people. Was she forced to do something? Maybe participating to that competitions was nothing more that an attempt to put herself out there. Gain a husband, steal his money...

Empathy was deeply rotted in my character. It's always been like this and, sometimes, it was a curse upon my existence. Being able to read the room or the person in front of you, not like an expert would do it, but like a human being that's been through the same, was consuming.

Aoife was as readable as an open books. Her shoulders were pulled back in an effort to prepare herself to return to those monsters and her eyebrows were dropped, the hope of escaping being lost long time ago.

We cross a small field of plain, barren field, with scattered earth dunes that scratched my feet through the slim shoes. Rays of light emerge from the forest in front and a dull sound of music tickles my ears.

" We might not have enough time to speak tonight, Cy. " Aoife catches my hand and leads me through the tall rows of trees, " But I wanted to say that you should prove the Countess what we already know about redheads - they are the fiery women that even the dark is afraid of. "

She throws me a toothy smile and waves a kiss towards me and Niven before she throws herself into a chaotic pirouette around the campfire. The flames burn high, almost reaching the naked branches, and sparks jump between the dancing bodies, amplified by their energy. Even the crackle of fire seemed to intertwine with the music, setting the rhythm.

Children and young people screamed and threw themselves into the crowd, others played at the drums and whistles. The more experienced ones sang, not with words, but with sounds and interesting notes. The girls squealed and danced barefoot, twirling flower crowns on their forearms, and the boys accompanied them, circling them with specific dance moves.

It reminded me of a Georgian dance. The kind where the females were gracious and their moves were delicate and refined.

Some others played cards on a trunk tree, betting their money on luck, not interested in dancing or admiring the silhouettes and others, kissed, passionately as the fire, hidden between the trees.

A heady atmosphere of fairy tale and goodwill rejuvenates me, and I find myself laugh and spin my eyes around, trying to eat all of the picture so that I can feel full again.

Nivy watches me, just as happy, and gestures me to take my shoes off. Gladly following her instructions, the sharp grass stings my heels. It was an atypically pleasant sensation. It eased the tension between my shoulder blades, absorbing all the stress collected from the day.

Several tables were lined up one after the other, filled with platters of bread, ham and cheese and a few seasonal vegetables like green onions and tomatoes. Nearby, several barrels were arranged, some already emptied by the amateur drinkers of white and red wine.

" Follow me, let me give you a taste of the best wines from the continent. The wine of Thaibar, made from grapes ripened in the forest, watered by the river that flows from the ridge of the mountains and lulled by the song of nightingales. "

" They should put you in charge of sales after this commercial. " I joke, and confidently bring the red liquor to my lips.

A smell of licorice and sour fruits makes my nose tinge. Honey like sweetness overpowers my tongue, and my mouth waters instantly.

I was about to get really fucking drunk.

" Foreigners say it's actually fairy wine, forbidden to humans. " Another girl smiles at us, bringing the carafe to her mouth and sipping thirsty.

Her kerchief was tied around her neck and her skirt was pulled up and tucked into the trousers underneath, a style that all the workers here adopted.

" I heard about it. They say it holds you hostage in their realm and makes you their servant. " I recall, savoring the mixture of flavors on my taste buds.

Maybe there were drugs in this. I doubted they didn't have cannabis or marijuana. Maybe they didn't knew their properties but, this wine, the aroma, it warmed you from the inside, from the first sip and boosted your morale instantly.

Another girl, leaded by Aoife, joins the discussion, speaking somewhat outraged about the world beyond the ocean, " Our wine is served in great palaces among the world, by those sharp-eared shitheads, clashed above their war tables and bathed in at those parties. But no one gives credit to the real people who know the recipe of the wine. "

" Don't start, Zuleyha. " The other female pleads, rolling her eyes as she unties her kerchief, revealing her long neck and voluminous chest, speckled with hickies. " Thaibar is on the map thanks to us. No one can steal this wine from us. "

" Shut up, Minodora. You know I'm right. Those damned rich creatures drink our sweat and then brag that the people in the palace made the wine, not us, the peasants. This wine - " Zuleyha says and hits the glass with her purple stained fingers, " It's been made by my father since he was seven. Fucking seven. Honey and grapefruit peels, a very rare ingredient, and the vines must not be planted or moved, they must be left to give birth alone, in the forest, near the river. They have to be gathered by birds and protected by the leaves of oaks. Nothing is by chance, everything is a gift from above. That is why our wine is divine. "

" That's why Thaibar is divine. " Minodora corrects her.

" Sounds like a ritual. " I add, already intoxicated by the richness of the alcohol.

" It really is. "

" Cyan, finish you drink, let me teach you how to dance. "

I grab Niven's outstretched hands after I finish the last drop of wine in one gulp and let myself be carried by her to the burning fire.

Although Nivy was an amazing instructor, holding my waist and moving me to the drums, this dance was something more about learning to feel it, not the steps. It required more than a glass of wine and a little more debauchery and revelry. I took the opportunity to teach myself to move slightly gracious, to raise my hands while twirling them and move my hips soft enough to not make it look vulgar.

It was like learning a small part of belly dance too.

You had to lose yourself in jumps and cross steps, pirouettes and undulations. Everything came together: from the sweat provided by heat and the small gusts of wind that made you fly through movements, from the ground that anchored you when you landed. It was a dance of nature, elements and people.

Shum also makes his presence felt in one of the dancing circles. While we exchange partners, he comes face to face to me, to his horror.

But I am the one taken by surprise.

" I'm sorry for my behavior today. " He admits, making me raise my eyebrows high enough to reach the stars.

I frown, and refuse to let him lead the dance. One of my biggest problems when having a pair was this, not letting the man guide me through the steps.

He mimics me, and raises his thick eyebrows too, pulling me closer to him. Shum holds my palm and my waist, with a soft, boyish grip. His green irises were flooded by alcohol.

" Don't worry about it, Shum. I hope we can get along. I'm sorry for feeding your dogs. "

The boy hesitates for a minute, then looks at me, " I didn't think to say this but I am drunk and... Thank you, for taking care of the mare this morning. "

I step on his foot, stunned by his words, and murmur a clumsy apology with my lips. I anchor my hand on his shoulder and try my best to not break his confession.

" She managed to crawl onto the bed you improvised and even ate the fruits you cut... My mother told me. "

" You gave your mother an apologize? "

" Yes. It was unfair of me and I felt... terrible. Let's start over again. What do you say? "

Nodding, I accept his proposal.

This was a nice ending to a tiring day. I could see a shy light at the end of this tunnel, but there was something holding me back, preventing me from feeling free: something was wrong, something atrocious was going to happen and I couldn't shake the sensation of my shoulders.

-----------

Notes:

Hello! This chapter has only one point of view and is unedited. I tried to post it as fast as possible. The next one is already written, but I have to translate it and it can take a few days.

Also, the next chapter is only about the Inner Circle.

Kisses and hugs! :*

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blue-kyber · 2 years

Text

Jeina explaining what a flare is to Will.

She beckoned him to stand beside her at the open edge of the solid white cement patio, “Look out there. What do you see?”

He scanned the area.

The small valley stretched out before them in the waning daylight as clouds drifted overhead, disappearing behind the low mountains. Puddles speckled the dirt from a fresh rain. Water droplets glittered in the blades of grass.

The scene pulled every detail out of his dream. He knew this valley, including the bleached white chunks of masonry spotted all over it. At first he wondered why, then recalled that he had seen it when he’d sat on top of the ship. But he was far away on the ridge then. How could he know the up close details?

“I see…yarf, nathreep, a lake, clouds, rocks that don't look like they belong…It’s just a valley.”

“Anything else?”

“The…ring? And three floating islands - those are still really cool.”

“And?”

He bit his lip. That wasn’t all he saw. What he’d first noticed was blatantly obvious. But if he mentioned it, she might mimic Siffon and think he was nuts. Or she could mimic Yune, and further prove that he and his twin weren’t hallucinating.

Might as well take the risk. He could always pretend he made it up if she didn’t believe him, “There’s a blue light hovering above that rock over there,” he pointed to the nearest large rock.

“Good. That one just showed up. I was going to bring it into the house, but you saved me a trip,” she smiled at his expression of awe.

“You can see them? Do you know what they are?”

“They’re called flares. They’re localized high concentrations of Source Field energy that appear anywhere at random,” she tucked her hands into her pockets.

“What’s a Source Field?”

“The Source Field is an energy field that appears as a blue light to those who can see it. It exists everywhere. It’s the life force of the galaxy itself.”

He tried to fathom how the galaxy could have a life force, but failed.

She left him with that new information to retrieve the light from its place, scooped her left hand under it, and carried it back.

He backpedaled away as if she held a bomb.

“There’s no need to be afraid of it.”

“Says you. They bite.”

“...Did you absorb a flare, Will?”

He suddenly felt the spur that he’d done something wrong and got defensive. “Not on purpose.” He kept his eyes glued to the shifting blue ball of light. A small tail of illumination streamed upward from it.

She realized at that moment why this young boy had fallen into a lighrey even after absorbing all the energy of his companion; he had used the stolen energy to fight against the invading force of a flare. He either absorbed it by accident trying too hard to interact with it, or lost so much of his own energy that he involuntarily took it out of desperation - like a starving person will eat grass just to find food. She’d put her money on the latter, considering their circumstances.

He shuddered at the memory of that feeling, “It hurt.”

“Well, of course it did. Field energy and Living Source energy aren’t compatible. You can’t use it to replace what you lost.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not ‘alive’ in the sense that you are.”

He recalled the brief -yet-vague lesson from the cave. “Light poisoning. That’s what Yune called it.”

That one statement told her more about that other young man than she’d learned since they’d arrived.

She let the flare go to hover in the air between them. Its fluctuating light cast a soft cerulean glow on its immediate surroundings, including them.

Curiosity overrode his trepidation. He stepped closer, but avoided touching it, “What makes them?”

“Have you ever seen a whirlpool?”

“Like when you flush a toilet?”

She blinked. Of course a ten year old would come up with that analogy, “Um...ok, that works, I suppose,” she cleared her throat, trying to get that image out of her head, “Sometimes the flow of Field energy entwines to create eddies, gathering more and more energy until it ‘flares up.’ Some only exist for a few seconds, some can last for hundreds of years. There’s no way to know how long a flare will last. The stronger the Field energy is in a location, the more flares you’ll see.”

He reached out for it, though a shot of warning made him back up, “Ok, but I’m still never touching a toilet tornado ever again.”

“Please don’t call it that. That’s disgusting,” she moved it off to the side.

“Keep that thing away from me and we have a deal.”

This boy was stubborn, like the other one on the couch. He would eventually learn to manipulate flares, but not today.

It evaporated at her touch into a mist that dissipated into the evening light. “You needed to know about the Source Field to begin to understand the nature of the lighrey, and yourself.”

Tag list: @muddshadow @cedar-west @athenixrose @penspiration-writing @runningoutofbooks @tobiornottobithatisthequestion @roll-top-writing @subject-2-change @dreaming-in-seams @mismatchingart @midnights-melodiverse @thewriteflame @writingventriloquist @ren-c-leyn @asher-orion-writes @aninkwellofnectar

#writing #writeblr #my writing #some humor in a lesson #source flares #pretty palm size balls of light #source energy #sci-fi fantasy #out there #ott1k #Photo purchased from istock #Worldbuilding

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pettyelves · 2 years

Text

we fall

His kisses spread like wild fire and push back the storm that rages around the ship back to Stormwind. Her hands hold to his back, he is an anchor-- and she breaths in the scent of salt and storm. It is late into the evening when they arrive, giggles erupting as they pass by their ignorant fellow travelers-- all the way back up the mountain. To their perch. The storm follows and they arrive soaked to the bone. But tonight they are soaring. Tonight they have joy. Sleep finds her easily. And so do the dreams.

A cold fog seeps under his front door and spreads across the floor. The arctic presence of Her freezes the air and grips Eilithe’s whole body. Not the thickest blanket, nor the loveliest moment could shake it. Not tonight. She does not want this, but the Harbinger’s voice does not quiet for the wants of her charges. Eilithe is ridge in the bed beside him, staring wide-eyed at the open, yawning abyssal maw that shrieks so loudly that it shatters her world entirely. The room is black. Her eyes fail to adjust. But she can hear that melodic, sweet voice. The voice of a fool, a fool who is dead. “You ever stayed around to watch a storm end? That exact second when you can see the dark clouds parting?“ Eilithe’s eyes well up, she can feel her heart kicking against her chest. “Ulir?” “Hoy! I’m waxing poetic. About fire. The Storm. Or the sea.” Conversations fold in on themselves, voices lay over one another. She hears her own voice. “I hate the sea.” She loves the sea. “Because it is vast, because it is unending. Because it is calm. Because it is volatile. Because it is dangerous. Because it cannot love me back.” “Hardest place to look is the sea,” Ulir adds and light breaks dim in the hull of a stagnant ship. Ulir is laid on the floor-- he is laughing. But something is behind him, something in the shadows with two white eyes that pierce into Eilithe’s skin. “Because you can’t stand on it.” The laughing stops and he smacks a hand against the wood so hard that Eilithe fears the ship will break. He drags across the floor. The sound is wet. “I sang about the bodies crawling through dirt,” he drags closer, and that is when she sees it. The trail of maroon that stains the deck he slides across. “...About those who tore their bellies against rock and gravel and soil until their blood mixed with mud and they were pulling the weight of their own guts with them.”

Eilithe is frozen again. She cannot force her body any further away from him. He is dying. No, he is dead and she knows this. He crawls to her until she can feels the slick of those dragged guts, until she can feel the heat of his breathing beside her ear. “Because I want them to fly, damnit!” He laughs loud in her ear. “..If I can sing their life into the air, then they'll grow wings.” They’ll fly. It all breaks then. They are wingless as they fall from the stars. Eilithe is heavy, she is plummeting so much faster than he is. Her hand reaches for him and Ulir merely smiles. “He thought fate devoured his rainbow. But there's still sky above the clouds... Just gotta reach it.” He bursts. Thousands of beautiful blue butterflies abandon her to freefall. There is lightening. There is thunder. The wind cuts through her on all sides. She wants to fly. She wants to grow wings. But she falls... and falls... and falls... And CRUNCH.

Eilithe is awake, fallen from the heavens and straight back into her body. Her body is shaking and her fists are tight. Paralyzed, she watches the shadows looming on the ceiling until she can move again. [ U’s dialogue written by @bad-rper]

#we fall

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hotdamnhunnam · 3 years

Note

Will Miller / 🌙🥺🧸

Thank you 🖤💖

Thanks for your request for my Emoji Fic Fest! 💗

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Poke the Bear

Pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, angsty love + cuddly fluff + smutty stuff up on a mountaintop Word Count: ~1.6k Emoji Prompt: 🌙🥺🧸 (key words are in bold)

“Hey there.”

Will glances up as you approach him where he’s leaning back against bags full of cash here on the mountainside, beneath the black sky stretching out so wide. He’s glad to see you just as ever but he steels himself to act as if he doesn’t really care. He answers playfully though he’s too pure to be a player. Too full of feelings that he can’t place anywhere. “Thought you’d know better than to come and poke the bear.”

Crack a slight smile while you grit your teeth against the bitter cold of the night air. Sit down beside him and as ever in his presence you can’t help but fucking stare. The low light of a crescent moon threads silver through the soft crop of his hair. The stars shine twice as bright when mirrored in those big puppy-dog eyes of crystal blue. “I didn’t poke you,” you point out but then poke your forefinger into his gloved hand so now it’s true. That hand that could as soon caress you as choke you. Will is just so dangerously hot yet also such a fluffy precious little baby and it really isn’t fair. “But hey, I gotta say you do look like a military teddy bear.”

He blinks, unsure just what to think. You’re close enough that he can breathe you and he’s grateful that the dim of night can hide the way his cheeks are flushing pink. You smell like home even though you live worlds apart—even when all you have are days spent fighting wars and running missions that are all doomed from the start—even when you’re part of the team toward whom he’s meant to hold just brotherly love in his iron heart. The scent of you isn’t supposed to be a comfort and a kink. The captain holds himself afloat above shit that he can’t emote but around you he fucking sinks.

You can’t begin to process all his thoughts. But you can tell he’s fighting something in his soul. Will is the sum of all the wars he’s fought, and so much more that makes him fucking whole.

Speaking again since there’s apparently nothing he wants to say, you nod over toward the spot several yards away, where the three other guys are sleeping off the day. “I guess you got tired of sleeping in a huddle?”

He replies as if that’d really been the problem when it hadn’t been at all. “Shit got a little weird for me when Frankie tried to cuddle.”

And at that you softly laugh, which is a problem ‘cause the softness of the sound hardens his shaft. Through his thick pants you haven’t noticed yet. “So over Catfish you’d prefer to cuddle with your gun instead?”

He bobs his head. “Yeah, pretty much.”

And then—did you just inch a little closer to the captain? When the fucking hell did that happen? You’re close enough that he could just reach out and touch…

That is when you notice the stirring in his crotch. It’s almost hidden under all his clothes and gear but it’s so clear to you, and for some reason he’s not shifting gear to hide it from your view… your pussy clenches deep inside and eyes go wide as you just watch…

Your eyes then lift to meet the blue of his. In just one look there is such lust—yet also loyalty and trust—a lifetime’s worth and it’s the closest that you’ve ever come to knowing what love is.

You’re both so new to this.

What happens if we do this?

Will the world end if I just give you a kiss?

Can we save it if it does—can we go back to what this is? To what it was…?

There are no answers to the questions left unspoken in the air. It’s so damn cold, upon the broken edges of this mountain where his heart has made its stronghold. But you meet him there. You’ve come to poke the bear. And where your lips meet, there is heat, down to the core where your hearts beat and so much more that if the world ends you don’t even fucking care.

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

We shouldn’t.

Even if I tried to stop I couldn’t.

Don’t.

I won’t.

I always knew you wouldn’t.

You always know everything. You just never show anything.

But now he’s showing more than he can even stand, and now it’s growing as you kiss him slow and deep, holding him like he’s yours to keep, and cup his scruffy cheek in your soft loving hand. He could just weep. With you his tears would finally have a place to land.

Your hands are bare—one of them lifts to comb your fingers through his gorgeous head of hair—just when the kiss began you’d taken off your heavy-duty gloves, so you can feel him as you shower him with heavy-duty love.

Will wants to do the same yet on some level he’s too scared to think of what his hands could do. That he might ruin you. He’d never mean to do you any harm, but if he just so much as holds you part of him worries you’d crumble into dust in these life-crushing arms.

A thousand times over, he’s suffered through the price of being such a fucking warrior. And you’re a warrior in your own right of course. But in some ways that makes it worse. Compared to you he’s not as well-equipped to handle—as far as he can tell—the scars of all these wars, and Will just doesn’t want his weaknesses and failures to poke holes into the fortress of your strength and become yours.

Most nights he feels he’s more fucked up than the whole force.

You’re here to show him that’s not true. As your right hand slides down his torso suddenly it dawns on him what you’re about to do. Will can’t have you do that for him if he’s not pleasuring you too. He’s pressuring himself now as he fumbles to remove his gloves though he’s not quite prepared to. Fucking scared to. Dying, trying, failing to believe that it’s okay for once to give in to how bad he fucking wants you.

But then your hands are on his gloves, as you keep kissing him so soft. Every kiss urging him in silence not to take them off. He’ll follow any order from that lovely mouth on you.

Murmurs against your lips, obeying yet still feeling like he needs to fucking touch you as your fingers work the belt strapped at his hips. “But I want to…”

Your left hand is still pressed against his cheek, cradling him till he feels strength in being weak. “I know. It’s okay, though. I got you.”

You know everything. And you show everything, too. Love this man more than anything, and just as bright as the stars above you, it’s so clear to you how much he loves you.

There’s no need to rush him. You just need to touch him. Can tell that he has fears and doubts, and you hope that you’ll have a whole lifetime to sort that shit out. As your hand finally reaches the meat in his crotch you pull back from the heat of his mouth, for a moment to watch him.

The face that he makes… it’s so pretty it aches—beauty far beneath his flawless surface—and knowing that he doesn’t think he deserves this, your heart fucking breaks.

Kiss the ridge of his jaw, kisses telling him he’s the most perfect thing you ever saw. Finally having the iron-hard pillar of Will Fucking Miller in your loving hand makes this love feel so real and so raw.

He’s so big it’s insane and your fist can’t encompass the whole massive girth. But you pump him for all that he’s worth, pulling slowly yet powerfully all the way down from the weeping wet tip to the soft patch of curls at the base back and forth.

It’s just your fucking hand, and already he’s never felt anything like this in all of his life and is sure that his heart will forever be yours to command. This is not what he’d planned. He’s the captain—he had tasked himself with ensuring that this never happened…

But so it has now, and he has to surrender somehow. And he does. He surrenders because… he stops seeking the reason as you kiss him harder and fist his dick faster till his iron head feels the buzz.

Has one hand firmly framing your waist and the other hand tangling up in your hair—both still wearing those gloves—that you’d told him to wear, until he felt prepared, to be bare—and it’s perfect this way because even through thousands of layers you’d still feel the love.

And the lust as it fucking erupts in your palm. His full sack tightly clenches then drenches your hand in his thick creamy cum. You moan into his lips, feeling his essence sticky and warm on your fingertips, milking out every last drop in your worshipful grip, so damn desperate to taste all of it as it splatters and drips.

Surely someday you will. But for now you stay still. Catch your breath. You’re both blissed out to death. Love gives life as it kills.

Now the bear has been poked, and deliciously stroked. You’re both thoroughly soaked. And you can’t fucking wait till he takes off these gloves and pokes you with the true love of Will.

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buck-buck-boose · 3 years

Text

I'll Love You 'Til I Die

Masterlist | Playlist

Summary: A Brooklyn schoolgirl fell in love with James Buchanan Barnes at the tender age of nine. With this love she made a vow, promising to love him until her very last breath.

Pairing: Bucky x OFC

Warnings: Language, pining

Word Count: 2.1k

Author's Note: Thank you for all the patience and support! I love love love seeing replies and reblogs :,)

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Journey to Azzano

October 24, 1943

Yet another sleepless night. A night spent away from the nurse’s tent, handkerchief in hand, with eyes cast towards the heavens. The stars stared back, silent watchers from above; the petrified audience to a grotesque display of gore, violence, and inhumanity. Lottie knew that they were nothing but balls of gas, great masses of fire that drifted in that infinite chasm of space millions of lightyears away. Somehow, her heart still broke for them.

How painful it must be to be a star, she thought, To see the Earth, to see its people, to see the love and hope. To be forced to watch its destruction, its pain. Oh, how the stars must weep, gazing down at the broken bodies of men and boys, women and children, all victims of such a cruel war.

Still, the pain of a star could never come close to the pain of a nurse. The stars would never hold those bodies in their arms, they would never fumble for a tourniquet as blood spilled from a fresh wound, the stars would never have to slide a man’s eyelids shut, his skin cold to the touch.

Lottie was becoming quickly acclimated to the smell and feel of death. It never seemed to leave her skin, no matter how thoroughly she washed her hands. Though they were constantly rubbed raw, she could not rid them of death’s stench or its thick grime that seemed to coat every inch of her skin.

After they’d left Pantelleria, the SSR had scrambled to stay afloat, constantly caught in the crossfire of other Italian campaigns. The Germans had weaseled their way into northern and central Italy, with carnage in their wake, the nurses of the SSR were left to care for their victims. Lottie had come to know death as intimately as one knows the curves of their lover’s body, all the dimples, ridges, and edges.

“No number of bandages would’ve saved him, Lottie,” Gladys would whisper, “We’re nurses, not miracle-workers.”

“If I remember correctly, folks at the SSR sure love to rant about that ‘miraculous’ serum we developed.” “Betty, you know what I mean.”

Lottie wished she could be a miracle worker. The men that she managed to save definitely thought she was, but who wouldn’t think so highly of the woman who saved them from certain death? It would have been a comfort to visit them in the recovery ward, but the SSR would whisk them away, further north and closer to Hydra before she had the chance.

The SSR found themselves in Siano, a village an afternoon’s trek away from Salerno. At another time, it would be quite lovely. The quiet little community was nestled between small mountains, far too grand and looming to be called hills. The greenery was lush and the air was crisp, mingled with the saltiness from the nearby sea. A cool, sweet breeze kissed Lottie’s cheeks and became entangled in her curls that had finally been loosed from her strict bun. With every graze of the breeze against her cheeks and every rustle of the grasses beside her, it seemed that the very earth was breathing beneath her. Every movement was a great inhale or exhale that emanated around her; the only calming element to an otherwise restless night.

Their camp was just outside the town, stationed in an expansive field which was quite likely an abandoned pasture. Camp had been sloppily thrown together, after a horrifically bloody day in Salerno, morale was low and they knew their stay would be short-lived. Agent Carter had mentioned that they were urgently needed in Azzano; there was a POW situation up there that involved Hydra. Their stop in Siano, as Colonel Phillips had explained, was merely for recuperation. With a day of bloodshed behind them and several days’ worth of traveling ahead of them, rest was needed by all.

But she couldn’t really rest, could she? Lottie would always be on edge, on high alert, until she had her boys by her side once more. At every camp, in every campaign, she searched for the 107th. For any sign of a USO show. So far, she had come up with nothing. Nothing but disappointment.

All that she could do was gaze up at the stars and wonder if a pair of clear blue eyes were doing the same.

Somewhere in Azzano

Liquid fire in his veins. Muttered words in German. Leather straps that dug into his skin; they kept him from writhing in pain. Days bled together and he could barely find the willpower to stay conscious, blurring the lines between his dreams and reality.

Bucky didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what was going on, either. All he knew was agony, frustration, and a girl. His best girl, Little Lottie. The first time he’d seen her, he was sure that she was real. He had just undergone the first round of… whatever this was, and all of a sudden, she’d appeared before him, dressed just as she’d been when he last saw her— white uniform, thick stockings, and a heavy coat that seemed to swallow her whole.

He’d tried to yell at her, warn her about how dangerous this place was, but he could only muster a choked groan which had earned him a blow to the head. After that, she kept appearing— every time he was poked or prodded at, she stood in the corner of the room and watched over him with a smile on her lips. His head would loll to the side with exhaustion and their gazes would connect; it was the only glimmer of hope in the midst of his torture.

His Little Lottie would only speak to him in his dreams, but she wouldn’t speak, really. No, she’d do this thing he’d seen her do to Stevie hundreds of times when he was sick in bed. With gentle hands, she would smooth his hair away from his forehead, freeing the sweaty, bloodied strands that clung to his skin. She quieted his groans of pain with soft sounds and breathy hums of her favorite songs— mostly from the musicals they had gone to see in the thirties. Little Lottie was fondest of numbers by the Gershwin brothers, he’d noticed, as she was always humming one of their tunes in his dreams.

Any anger toward her was forgotten, but the fear remained. Fear for her safety devoured him from the inside out; if Hydra ever got their hands on her, there would be hell to pay.

Siano, the next day

“Y’know if you’re gonna make a habit of this, I might as well take your pillow for myself.”

Lottie blinked her eyes blearily, taking in the figure of Betty before her. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep outside. Again. The first time it had happened, they’d been camped out in Salerno and while her companions had gone to bed earlier, she’d attempted to calm her nerves with a midnight cigarette. Suffice to say, the cigarette had done its job, though she’d woken up with a terrible pain in her neck.

This time, the pain was located in Lottie’s lower back, probably due to the uneven ground she’d fallen asleep on.

“Believe me, Betty, I don’t intend to make this a habit,” Lottie gritted her teeth in pain as she attempted to maneuver herself off of the ground.

Betty sighed and grabbed her hands, heaving her up, “C’mon, we don’t have all day. Colonel Phillips wants the tents down as soon as possible.” She jerked her head in the direction of the other three nurses a few yards away, they were evidently having a difficult time with the canvas and poles of their tent.

The two of them rejoined their group and Gladys tossed a pack to her with a smile, “Your stuff’s all good to go. Figured you needed the extra sleep.” Lottie squeezed her shoulder in thanks and observed Nancy and Mary as they argued over the correct way to pack up their tent.

“First we need to disassemble the poles, then we wrap up the canvas and—”

“No, we need to take care of the canvas before we can—”

Agent Carter stalked toward them with a rather agitated look on her face; only she could look powerful crossing an uneven field in heels. Lottie bundled up some poles in her arms, trying to stow them away in a pack before they could be berated for being the last ones to finish.

“Ladies,” Agent Carter began, voice firm, “You did not go through a year of training just to be the last ones done packing up your tent. We need more speed from you five to reach the one hundred and seventh in time.”

Lottie nearly dropped the metal poles in her arms and choked out a gasp, “The one hundred and seventh?” That was the regiment with the POWs? The POWs that had fallen victim to Hydra? Her heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute, her stomach was all in knots.

Agent Carter furrowed her brow, likely confused by her reaction, “Yes, they were vastly overpowered in a recent battle. We’ve been summoned to provide medical care to the survivors as well as to assist in a reconnaissance mission for information regarding the whereabouts of the POWs.”

She was tempted to ask about Bucky, to see if she’d heard anything about their survivors, but she ultimately decided against it. It was unlikely that they already had extensive knowledge regarding those who had been saved or lost.

“We’ll be done in a jiffy, Agent Carter,” Nancy nodded, removing the poles from Lottie’s grasp.

After another minute or two, their tent was packed away, and each nurse was outfitted with a hefty pack that carried their belongings. Together, the nurses and the rest of the SSR agents began their trek through the Italian countryside, keeping close in their groupings. It would have been far easier to be transported by plane, but the agents had to take as much caution as possible with Hydra's threat level. If traveling by foot kept the lowest profile, then that was what needed to be done.

Lottie’s four companions broke out into quiet conversation to pass the time while fearful thoughts weaseled their way into her mind. What if Bucky really had been taken by Hydra? What would they do to him? Would they kill him? She’d heard of their horrors from Erskine, and she’d even seen their ruthlessness at his assassination. The dark thoughts that began to swim around in her head made her want to be sick. Lottie wanted to double over and retch, to alleviate the sick feeling that crept into her at the thought of Bucky in Hydra’s clutches.

“You alright there, Lottie? You’ve been awfully quiet,” Gladys sidled over to where she was walking, only a foot or two away from the rest.

“I don’t think so,” Lottie began, her voice strained, “I mean, with the one hundred and seventh and everything, I just, I don’t know how to—”

Gladys nodded, a sad look on her face, “I know, it’s a dreadful situation, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how those survivors must feel. Having your comrades stolen away from you in a bloody battle.”

“It’s not just that, it’s also—”

“Oh yes, definitely more than that. Not only the mental anguish but the physical, too. I mean, we’re here for a reason, we’ve got to be prepared for the worst when we get there. I’ve heard they’re in absolute shambles.”

Lottie fisted her hands in frustration, “Gladys. Bucky’s a member of the one hundred and seventh. That’s his damn regiment. And I haven’t a clue of whether he’s dead, alive, or barely holding on in some dingy cell, so I would really appreciate it if you would spare me the monologue about how terrible their situation is.”

Gladys stared at her, a look of shock painted on her face, “Lottie, I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I— gosh, I feel absolutely awful now, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lottie grabbed Gladys’ hand to squeeze it, their arms knocked together as they walked side by side, “I just need to think optimistically right now. If I start thinking about all the atrocities, I might go crazy.”

Gladys squeezed back, a faint smile growing on her lips, “You’re right. Think optimistically. I bet he got out of it just fine, with a few scratches though. But he’ll be waiting for us real patiently, waiting for the fine nurses of the SSR to patch him right up.”

She found comfort in Gladys’ words. It was much nicer to picture him that way, sitting in a medic tent cot, wounds scabbed over in blood, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Maybe he'd be cracking jokes with the other poor souls stuck in that tent, his eyes alight with humor and that lopsided grin threatening to send that cigarette straight to the ground. He would be a bit battered and bruised, but he’d be there waiting. Waiting for her.

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absynthe--minded · 3 years

Note

Could I beg something about your “Aragorn’s Upsetting Haircut” headcanon? No pressure of course!!

(this is going to be presented in more than one installment, but I couldn’t resist sharing! a few things: this fic is consistent with the rest of my personal canon, and it draws upon the headcanon that Aragorn and Arwen married by elvish standards upon Cerin Amroth but still consider themselves betrothed by Mannish standards.)

When Arwen came down into the Valley again, the Sun was low in the sky, hovering just above the tops of the Chithaeglir and casting long shadows across the trees and the river below. She could tell, immediately, when she crossed their borders, passing through the wards easily. There was Song here, bound into the rock and the roots of the mountains, curling about her and pulling the weariness from her body. Celeg seemed easier too, slowing from a trot to a walk; she knew he could feel the change just as surely as she did. Come home, the Song whispered, threads of melody pulling her along the path toward the gleaming lights of her home. Come home, and be healed of your pains.

It would be easy - too easy - to slip the bounds of her body and bone, to cast herself upon the shadows and ride the winds down to her own bedroom window. The thought was tempting, and even more tempting when she considered the ache in her hip that hadn’t ceased since the skirmishes three weeks past had left her with a deep and ugly wound.

Her lord father had sent her out in search of four hobbits and - perhaps - her betrothed, her secret husband, all wandering in the wilds while ulaer pursued them. She was not alone, though she had departed first, weeks before the others. It was foresight that had driven her father to speak with her, and foresight that pushed her to saddle Celeg and leave Imladris under cover of darkness. Glorfindel had been the next to leave, far later, keeping close to the Road, traveling westward and anticipating that the servants of Sauron would not have left it far behind. Last were her brothers, abandoning their errantry, making for what Men called the Angle where Mitheithel and Bruinen met and merged. It had been her lot to travel north, and north she had gone, albeit in a disjointed, somewhat defiant fashion, moving from the Ettenmoors to the North Downs and then at last down to Sarn Ford and the Dúnedain she knew would be there.

Her guess had been that her betrothed, if he was with the hobbits, had met them at that border of the Shire, and had accompanied them up the Greenway to Bree before striking out into the wilderness. None of her travels had given any sign of him, and so it was in frustration and defeat that she had come to the encampment, seeking some tidings that might guide her, and found it in disarray.

Aragorn had been there - days past, departing after a disastrous attack by the ulaer that had left three men dead and four wounded, with Halbarad trying valiantly to maintain order and hold the border. He had left in a great haste, as if fleeing from their enemies, saying only that he was making for Bree. He was followed shortly after by Mithrandir, who had come and gone from the Shire like a grey cloud blown back and forth by a storm. It had been her aim to seek them out, and offer her strength in song and sword against the darkness.

Fate had not been so kind.

Sarn Ford had been attacked a second time while she was there, the enemies assailing it now flesh and blood. There were still evil Men who dwelt in the North and recalled the name of Angmar, and their blades were as formidable now as they had been in centuries past. Her voice had been needed, the night and the river turning upon the would-be intruders and her ancestress’s blood sparking in her veins to claim the borders, but she was no true soldier for all her skill with a blade, and her body was ruled by the limits of the Incarnates. The fighting had reached her, while she stood thigh-deep in rushing water and twined her words through its echoes of long-ago music, and someone now-dead had plunged a dagger into her hip. The wound would have been fatal if not for Halbarad, who had pulled her back from the thick of the battle and seared it closed with the flat of a pan from the smoldering cooking-fire before she could bleed out. She had not ceased her singing, and her assailant found himself dragged beneath the surface of the Baranduin and drowned.

Two days were all she could spare, one to recover what strength she might and another to force her legs to obey her will. Halbarad had begged her to stay - what wrath their Chieftain might bring down upon them, he’d said, if his Lady died in the wilds when they might have saved her! But she was Lúthien’s heir, and would not be kept from his side, and no words would hold her in obligation. Celeg, for his part, was uninjured, having been kept from the fighting by his own good sense, and he gladly bore her northward a second time.

That had been twenty-one days ago, and each day had been fruitless and empty. She searched through the North Downs again, and the Weather Hills, and the Coldfells, growing more and more desperate with each setting Sun. She could feel the ulaer on the move, dreaming of their horses’ hooves thundering over the hard-packed ground of the Road even as she slept, and she could not ignore the fear rising in her like a spike that sought to pierce her heart. Her betrothed was a valiant man, and canny, and careful, but there were terrors that sought him out unlike any he had faced before, and the hobbits were almost certainly inexperienced travelers.

At last, she had been forced to admit defeat. The year was truly turning cold, and her food had been exhausted, and it had been nigh on two mortal months since her departure. She had hoped that whatever tenuous thread bound her to Aragorn would have led her to him, but the world was dark now, shielded by evil mists that clouded her thought and her heart, and the closed wound on her hip had begun to fester beneath its scar. So it was to home she had turned, leaving the fells behind her, coming back down into Imladris from the north. She had not slept in three days, blind almost to all beyond her body.

A fine daughter I am, she thought as Celeg made his way down the ridge, careful and steady. A fine wife, for that matter. But daughters of Lúthien did not pout, and they certainly did not cry from exhaustion.

The Valley was unusually quiet this afternoon. As always, the Bruinen sang, and the birds welcomed her, but her own folk were strangely absent on the pathways and in the trees. The wards still stood, so she knew there had not been some calamity, and there was no whisper of a siege on the air - it felt almost as if Tarnin Austa had arrived a second time in the same year, and all who dwelt within their borders had come into the house proper to celebrate.

Or to mourn, she thought, and made a face and refused to dwell on that fear.

The stables were just as quiet as the rest of Imladris, and she was able to dismount and lead Celeg back to his stall in peace. The great black gelding had borne her without complaint through the long weeks, and yet she could see in his ears and the swish of his tail that he was glad to be home.

“I know,” she murmured, opening the door and stepping inside, watching him look at her expectantly. “You’ll get a full grooming, I promise.” And then it’s a long bath for me, and a visit to my father regarding my hip.

“Allow me, my lady,” a second voice said, cutting through the silence. She flinched, shrinking back against her horse for half a heartbeat - it had been days on end since she’d heard another’s voice, and she was suddenly acutely aware of how detached from herself she had become. But she knew that voice, and shock and surprise were quick to take the place of fear.

“Glorfindel?” she asked, peering over the door to see her father’s captain leaning against a post. He was standing in another stall directly across from her, alongside Asfaloth, who was contentedly making short work of some hay. “You - !” Dismay stopped her, silencing her joy. There was only one reason he would have returned after so short a time away - he, too, had failed.

“I?” the ellon asked, raising an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“You didn’t find them,” she said. “You’ve the same tale to tell as I.”

His face grew serious and yet lost none of its joy, and he opened the door to Asfaloth’s stall and stepped out of it, closing the latch behind him.

“No, my lady,” he told her, eyes shining as he spoke. “I’ve a different tale.”

“What?” she asked, motionless, unable to look away from him. She could see now that he was dressed for merrymaking and revelry, clad in bright scarlet and deep blue, his tunic gleaming with passing thread and his hair braided through with well-placed gems. “But - I found nothing, and surely I would have known if - !” If he were slain, if he lay dead, if the ulaer claimed him for their number…

“My lady,” Glorfindel said, one hand reaching out and taking her gloved one carefully. “I found him in the hills, and I have brought him home.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she sat down hard, sinking to the floor of the stable as her hip protested and relief flooded every inch of her body.

#absynthe's fanfiction #lord of the rings #tolkien #aragorn #arwen #nikosheba

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annaphoenix1994 · 2 years

Text

Masterlist Here:

Colter - Outlaws from the West

𝓑𝔂 1899, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓵𝓪𝔀𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓾𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓽 𝓪𝓷 𝓮𝓷𝓭.

𝓐𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓪 𝔀𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓪𝔀𝓼...

𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓶𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓭.

𝓐 𝓯𝓮𝔀 𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓸𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓱𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝔂𝓮𝓭.

"Gimme that!" Minnie Barlow snarled as she pointed a revolver to a younger man's chest. He was about thirty, with a green scarf and a matching vest on his torso. He hated to admit that she was scaring him, but he failed to have any choice as she was aiming his own revolver at him after their brief brawl.

"Miss, I-" He struggled. "You don't wanna do this! I'm an O'Driscoll and word will get back to Colm!" He pleaded as he clutched a manuscript close to his torso, which held crucial information about a train clearing through Granite Pass, a train in which the O'Driscoll's were going to rob, a train that held many railroad bonds, some gold, and government payroll.

"I don't give a damn who you are!" She hissed. "Gimme that paper and we won't have no problems, ya hear me?"

He nodded his head, but still refused to give her the manuscript. Young Kieran Duffy never wanted harm to come to anybody as he never really wanted to fall in with a band of outlaws in the first place, but after losing his mother and father to Cholera, his dreams of running a large farm in California were demolished. His lip quivered, "Please! I- Please, you don't wanna do this." He begged.

He gulped as he watched her grip on the revolver tighten, her knuckles turning white, wondering why she hadn't pulled the trigger on him yet. Maybe it was the fear in his brown eyes or the quivering of his lip as she had wrestled him in the snow as they were in a region called the Grizzlies. His eyes darted to the small ridge behind the two, seeing his scouting partner taking a perch to get a good shot at her. He knew he was in trouble, but he could not see another person get killed. "Run!" He shouted at her, preparing himself to feel a bullet penetrate his torso, but flinched when the sound of gunpowder did not come from her, but from his partner.

He missed.

Minnie shuttered as she pursed her lips, "You're one lucky bastard." She seethed as she quickly unloaded his revolver before throwing it back onto his lap, selfishly taking his bullets for her own. His breath hitched as he fell back in the snow, trying to relax his breathing as Colm himself couldn't have come close to being as terrifying as Minnie Barlow. He rose his head at the sound of heavy boots thrusting through the snow, seeing his partner lunging at him, pinning him deeper into the snow. "You goddamn idiot! Why'd you tell her to run?! Huh? Why?!" He questioned, his palms gripping tightly around his throat.

"I-I don't know Phil!" He pleaded.

Phil huffed and let Kieran's torso thud back into the snow onto his back, not wanting to demand answers from him. "We're wanted men, Mister Duffy. Do you not know who that woman was?" He scoffed.

"N-No..."

"I'll tell you when we get back. C'mon, some of our boys found a cabin up in the mountains a couple of days ago. It's warm and dry - better than that piece of shit camp we're at now. And with that storm comin', we need to get movin'." He warned as he gestured at the sky, seeing the winter clouds brewing a dark blue, a screeching wind yearning with a haunting gentle hush sweeping the landscape.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"Abigail says he's dyin', Dutch!" Orville Swanson said as his arms were crossed over his torso, trudging through the snow to keep in sync with the wagon as the new storm had swept over the caravan. "We'll have to stop some place!" He pleaded as his old mind continued to worry about young Davey Callander, who had been shot.

"Okay. Arthur's out looking. I sent him up ahead!" Dutch van der Linde assured the old man. Orville nodded as he trudged back towards the back of the wagon, quickly jumping on to tend the wounded with Abigail.

"If we don't stop soon, we'll all be dying," Hosea Matthews added. "This weather, it's May... I'm just hopin' the law got as lost as we did." He sighed, looking ahead, his eyes squinting to protect themselves from the darting snow.

"There!" Dutch pointed at the silhouette appearing yards ahead of the caravan. "Arthur! Any luck?"

Arthur Morgan looked up from atop an appaloosa mare, the brim of his hat shielding him from the snow and wind, "I found a place where we can get some shelter!" He croaked. "Let Davey rest while he... you know." He sighed as he remembered the almost fatal gunshot Davey had received during the robbery in Blackwater, a city a couple of states away in which led the gang to flee into the mountains of Ambarino. "An old mining town, abandoned, it ain't far."

Desperate, cold, and surviving souls huddled together as they entered the old cabin, Davey's stiff and cold body being displayed on a table as Abigail examined him for the final time. "Davey's dead." Abigail frowned as her son, Jack, reached for her skirt, clutching it tightly as he too was looking for warmth.

"There was nothing more you could've done," Orville assured her as her frown glowed in the dim light provided by the lantern.

"What're we gonna do? We need supplies." Hosea whispered to Dutch while Arthur stood stoutly behind the old man, shaking his hands before putting them up to his mouth in an attempt to generate heat.

"Well, first of all, you're gonna stay here and you're gonna get yourself warm. Now, I sent John and Micah scouting out ahead. Arthur and I, we're gonna ride out and see if we can find one of 'em."

"In this?" Arthur asked, desperately not wanting to return to the piercing wind.

"Just for a short bit. I don't see what other choice we have," Dutch replied before turning his attention to the peering souls gathered together, looking to him as their leader for guidance in this time of need. "Listen, listen to me all of you, for a moment. Now we've had a bad couple of days. I loved Davey, Jenny, Sean, Mac - they may be okay. We don't know. But we lost some folks. Now, if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead, I'd do it. Gladly, but, we are gonna ride out and we are gonna find some food. Everybody, we're safe now. There ain't nobody followin' us through a storm like this one and by the time they get here, well we're gonna be -we're gonna be long gone. We've been through worse than this before. Mister Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days. Now all of you, all of you, get yourselves warm. Stay strong. Stay with me! We ain't done yet! C'mon, Arthur."

"I thought you said this was an abandoned cabin, Phil?" Kieran asked hesitantly over the obnoxiously loud violin tunes being played by one of the other gang members, Billy, if he had remembered correctly. In fact, all that he could remember of Billy was that he was about as dumb as a billy goat, although almost all of the O'Driscoll boys fit the description.

"It is," One of the gang members replied, propping his feet on the table and clutching a whiskey bottle in his hand. "After we killed the bastard who lived here. We're savin' his wife in the cellar for later." He snickered.

Kieran curled his lip in disgust, "I wasn't askin' you, Billy," Kieran had been wondering to himself as to why he decided to fall in with the O'Driscolls in the first place, knowing that maybe, just maybe, all gangs didn't find pleasure in killing a woman's husband just for the hell of it and storing her in the cellar, robbing elderly folks, doctors, and teachers. He bowed his head in shame, whispering a prayer to himself for his sins to be forgiven. "Who was that woman you were supposed to tell me about?" He asked hesitantly.

"Minnie Barlow is her name. She's wanted in five states that we know of. She ran her own gang a few years back but has been runnin' alone for quite a while by what we know. Colm has a likin' towards her after she threatened his life back in Valentine." Phil explained.

"Why would Colm like that?"

"I'm not sure. I guess he likes women to have a fightin' side to 'em," Phil chuckled. "He tells us to keep an eye out for her when we're not workin'. He wants her bad. I could've gotten her if you didn't tell her to run!" Phil hissed.

"When are we gettin' out of here?" Kieran asked, desperately wanting to avoid the subject of Minnie Barlow.

"You sure do got a lot of questions!" Another gang member hissed in annoyance. "Will you shut up?"

"We're still wonderin' why Colm picked you up-" Phil replied with haste. "Maybe it's because you're the only bastard who takes care of our horses so we don't have to do it."

Kieran gulped and bowed his head, wishing that he was around horses at that moment rather than taking rude remarks from fellow gang members. 'I wonder what'll happen if I just ran away?' He thought to himself.

"Be easy on him, Phil, I'll go tend to the horses out in the barn."

"Hurry up! It's about time to get the girl!" Phil reminded before glaring over at Kieran. "You won't get a turn."

"Didn't want one." He replied.

Just as the thought Phil was having by going to waste the whiskey by bashing the bottle on Kieran's head, all of their heads shot up after hearing an unfamiliar voice outside begging for help. "D-do people just get lost out here?" Kieran asked hesitantly, praying it wasn't another gunfight brewing.

"Hello?" Dutch asked, clutching his coat as he held up a lantern, standing stationary in the knee-high snow.

"Shut up, Billy! Shh, shh, shh!" One of the gang members hushed as he pushed Billy, stopping his playing hastily.

"Excuse me? Hello!" Dutch continued. "Oh well, hello friend."

"What you want?"

"I am very sorry to disturb you. Uh, my friends and I, well we got into some... trouble up the way. Lost in the storm. Ah, gentleman!" Dutch said as Phil and Billy were now descending the three steps of the porch, Billy holding a lantern up to see Dutch's face.

"We can't help you, Mister," Billy warned.

"I got folks dyin' on the trail, I-" Dutch pleaded.

"Aw, folks!" Phil mocked with a chuckle.

"I-I just need cans of food or somethin', please!"

"I think you should go now, buddy!" Phil suggested.

"Now, friend, I ain't asking for much. Please, I am kinda desperate."

"Wait a minute!" Phil interjected, taking Billy's lantern to hold the light for himself to confirm his suspicion. "You're Dutch van-"

Gunsmoke filled the winter air, bullets lodging into the softwood of the cabin. Kieran ducked from any nearby windows as he gathered a can of corn and a tin of biscuits before making his way out of the cabin from the rear. "I ain't gettin' myself shot over some disagreement!" He hissed to himself as he made his way to the cellar to offer freedom to the woman they were holding hostage. "Ma'am, you wanna come with me? Someone is shootin' up the place and we need to leave!" Kieran explained.

"No!" She seethed, backing away from him. "I'm not leaving him!"

"Leaving who?"

"My husband! They killed my husband!" She cried.

"Miss, I-I'm sorry about your husband, but they were gonna do bad things to you. You need to get out of here." Kieran warned, slowly inching towards her.

"Nothing they can do to me will ever amount to the hurt they caused by killing my Jake. Go! Leave me alone, O'Driscoll!" She hissed before lunging at him, smacking him relentlessly as he backed away from her. She reminded him of a rattler, coiling up and lunging as she did, but he tried to understand her situation as her love for her husband was far stronger than what the O'Driscoll gang was going to do to her. Kieran simply nodded before making an exit through the back of the cabin, thrusting his legs through the knee-high snow, clutching the small sack of food he packed in fear of losing it, remembering the way to the main camp was just over the ridge.

"We've got a runner! You see him, Arthur?" He heard a man shout from a few yards away.

Kieran's breath hitched as he heard another shot go off, hearing the whistle of a bullet past him, hitting a rock nearby.

"Can't ya get 'em, Morgan? Losin' your eyesight?" A man who had been pairing with them mocked.

"Shut your goddamn mouth. He got too far!"

Kieran continued to run, forcing his legs to carry him farther, his heart thudding against his chest. "I need to get back to camp!" He encouraged himself. As much as he hated to think it, he needed to get back to Colm. At least his camp was safer than being out in the exposing elements with only a can of corn and a tin of biscuits.

"Goddamn O'Driscoll boys here? Why?" Dutch questioned as he and Arthur regrouped, followed by his newest gang member, Micah Bell.

"I don't know, maybe the same reason as us," Micah replied.

"Micah, go bring the horses closer to the house!" Dutch commanded as he and Arthur made their way up onto the porch of the cabin, searching the corpses for any valuables. "Arthur, let's go search the cabin."

"Smells like a party in here," Arthur said as he sighed in relief to get out of the piercing cold.

"Turn the place upside down. Grab as many supplies as you can. We need the essentials: food, medicine... whiskey!" Dutch chuckled.

"Looks like the poor bastard was married too, at some point," Arthur sighed as he looked at the photo on the hearth, flipping it over to see the names of the couple: JAKE AND SADIE

"If we can't eat it or drink it, put it down," Dutch replied.

Arthur continued to search the cabin, looking in every drawer and opening every cabinet, taking every canned good he could fit into his satchel, eating a biscuit out of a tin that was on the main table as he read a newspaper clipping of a fellow outlaw: Minnie Barlow.

"Looks like Miss Barlow is a ghost. Rumors of her bein' seen robbin' trains around here!" Arthur chuckled as he read the article, detailing a robbery performed a few days prior to their own robbery in Blackwater.

"What did this said Miss Barlow do this time?" Dutch asked as he searched the medicine cabinet before grabbing a blanket.

"Robbed a train out towards Rhodes with government payroll. Looks like it was heading towards Annesburg for the Army." Arthur explained.

Dutch chuckled, "You know, I've never even met the woman and she did robberies by herself and we're over here gettin' a band of fools to rob one!" He teased.

"Well, why don't you just find the woman and replace all of us then?" Arthur retorted, amused, and also offended.

"I would never do such a thing, son," Dutch assured. "Besides, I heard she was killed anyway."

"Whatchu mean?"

"By what I've read, she used to be a government official about a few years ago. She tried going after Leviticus Cornwall a while back trying to make her way in as an attorney, but they wouldn't hire women, so she just went in guns blazing and stole a couple of bonds."

"Damn! When was this?" Arthur asked.

"A couple of years ago I guess before she got killed. Apparently, that's when she went downhill the same time she went after Cornwall. She ran away and made her own gang. A woman like that is scary - workin' for the government like that - knowin' all of their little tricks and then turnin' against it as an outlaw. Nobody can touch her," Dutch explained. "I'll have to get Hosea to tell you all about it. He's obsessed with crime conspiracies."

"Sounds like a plan, then," Arthur replied as he finished his biscuit before continuing to loot the home. His mind kept thinking back to Minnie Barlow, wondering how old she was, what she looked like, and her story. He wanted to sit down and talk to her about her ways and what she's experienced. He was sure she had plenty of experience when it came to gunfights.

"Big ole pool of blood here!" Arthur said as he had accidentally stepped in it.

"I saw," Dutch replied.

"Must've been the poor bastard who lived here. Micah found a dead body in the wagon outside."

"Keep searchin' while I go pack these on the horses," Dutch said as he walked out the front door.

"Sure," Arthur replied as he searched the chest at the foot of the bed before grabbing the newspaper clipping he had been reading to take with him, hoping there was more to the story than what he had already read. He put the clipping in his pocket before walking back into the piercing cold, clutching the collar of his coat closer to his face to block the wind.

"Arthur, go see if there's anything in that barn!" Dutch commanded as he was strapping down a blanket that had wrapped some provisions on the back of Arthur's horse. "Micah, you search the cabin, see what we missed."

"Sure," Arthur croaked as he thrust his way through the snow and to the barn, only to be distracted by the distressed whinnies of a horse before being ambushed from behind by one of the men who was holding up the cabin.

"You bastards shot my cousin!" The man hissed as Arthur had easily thrown the man off of him.

"Well, he started it!" Arthur argued as he scrambled to his feet.

"I'm gonna break your neck!" He threatened.

"Whatever you say!" Arthur replied as he balled his fists before impact. The man tried desperately to hit Arthur, but Arthur was far too experienced in fighting compared to him. Within a minute, Arthur had the man pinned to the ground with his throat clutched by Arthur's strong grip while his other fist was balled.

"What's goin' on?" Dutch asked as he rushed to the scene after hearing the commotion.

"This guy just jumped me!" Arthur grunted.

"Oh, did he now?"

"Sneaky little bastard! Should I kill him?" Arthur asked.

"No, not yet. Find out what they're doing here and where Colm is." Dutch commanded.

"Oh, this son of a bitch'll talk!" Arthur grunted as he threw a punch to the man's temple. "Where's Colm O'Driscoll?" Arthur interrogated.

"With the others at an old mining camp southwest of here, near the lake." He choked.

"What're you bastards doin'?" Arthur continued. "Why are you up here?"

"We're fixing to rob some train, gonna blow the tracks. I don't know more than that, I swear!"

The silent tension between the two was broken by Dutch's sinister chuckle, "Well, it looks like you have this, Arthur. Do what you want with him, I don't care. But bring that horse when you're done!" Dutch said as he walked away. Arthur smirked as he continued to beat the man, knocking him out cold. "You bastard, you got blood on my knuckles!" He chuckled as he shook the numbness from his fist as he made his way over to the horse, who had been spooked by the commotion. As he made his way into the stall, he took note of the patches of white on the horse's coat. "Mahogany Bay," He whispered to himself as he patted the horse's thick neck. "Good boy, it's okay." He assured the animal as he pulled out an oatcake from his satchel, feeding it to the stallion before flipping the reins over the horse's ears to lead him.

"Is that bastard still in there?" Dutch asked through the whistling snow.

"He's dealt with," Arthur replied.

"Good! That looks like a decent horse! You should keep him! Tie him up over there so he doesn't spook."

"Get away from me!" A feminine shout echoed from the cabin.

"What was that?" Arthur asked as he and Dutch looked at the cabin where the noises were coming from.

"Micah! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dutch intervened.

"Oh, look what I found in the cellar!" Micah teased as he tried to touch the young woman, seeing that it fumed Dutch and Arthur as they never would do such a thing.

"Wild thing ain't you?" Micah mocked as she was now throwing things at the man as he continued to mock and poke at her.

"Leave her alone!" Dutch protested.

"I wasn't doin' nothin'!" Micah argued as he ducked from a thrown object. "She's one of those O'Driscoll's!"

"No she ain't, Micah look at her!" Dutch protested. "Miss, Miss, are you-" He explained, but was soon interrupted by Micah lunging at the woman, flipping the table over and sending the lit lantern to the dry wood floor. "Oh, you fool, Micah!" Dutch scolded as he and Arthur shoved him out of the way.

"Miss, now it's gonna be okay. We mean you no harm," He soothed as he approached her slowly, taking note of the large knife she gripped in her hand. She hitched her breath before weakly lunging at Dutch, but not aiming the knife at him. His gentle touch to her upper arm stopped her, bringing her back to reality. A gentle touch that she hadn't felt in so long. She had almost craved more after being so roughly handled. "Miss, Miss! C'mon, it'll be okay. We need to get outta here and quick!" Dutch said as he gently led her to the front door of the cabin, Arthur following closely behind. "Come on, now." He whispered.

"You okay, Miss?" Dutch asked as they were now outside, draping a spare blanket over her pale shoulders.

"They came three days ago and my husband they, they..." She sobbed, clutching the blanket tighter.

"Okay, Miss. You are safe now and you can't stay here. You come with us. Arthur," He said as he handed the lantern to him.

"Miss, it's okay, alright? We're bad men, but we ain't them, so... It's okay," He soothed her as he led her to the other side of Dutch's horse, effortlessly lifting her up onto the horse's hindquarters. "We'll keep you safe until you figure out what you wanna do." He said as he trudged his way to his new horse.

"What's your name, Miss?" Dutch asked as he, Arthur, and Micah rode away from the engulfing inferno of her former home. "Miss?" He reminded.

"Adler," She replied.

"Adler?" Dutch said.

"Sadie Adler. Missus...I...He... He was my husband!" She croaked, still in shock that he was now deceased. She clutched onto Dutch's coat, looking back to see the top of her husband's head peering out from the sheet he was under on the old wagon, whispering a last 'I love you' to him before the image of him faded away by the density of her tears.

───※ ·❆· ※───

"How'd you get on?" Hosea asked as he met Dutch, Arthur, and Micah as they rode up to the new camp.

"Micah found a homestead, but he weren't the first. Colm O'Driscoll and his scum, they beat us to it. We found some of them there, but there is more about apparently scouting a train." Dutch explained as he dismounted his horse. "Thank you." He nodded to Charles Smith as he held the reins of Dutch's horse to keep the stallion steady.

"That's the last thing we need right now, Dutch," Hosea warned.

"Well, it is what it is, but we found some supplies, some blankets, a little bit of food, and this poor soul, Missus Adler," Dutch said as almost every member of the camp was swarmed around them. Sadie clutched her blanket draped over her shoulders, her teeth chattering. She was scared, but she felt safer in this band of strangers than the ones who had intruded on her home. "Miss Tilly, Miss Karen, would you warm her up? Give her a drink of something? And Missus Adler, it's gonna be okay! You're safe now! " Dutch reminded as Karen and Tilly led her to the cabin where the women slept. "They turned her into a widow... animals!" He said as his lover, Molly O'Shea, clung to him as she held the lantern. "I need some rest. I haven't slept in three days." He sighed.

"You're over here," Susan Grimshaw said, pointing towards the cabin she had prepared for him, Hosea, and Arthur. "Miss O'Shea will show you the way. Mr. Morgan, we put you in a room over here." She explained.

"Thank you, Miss Grimshaw!" Arthur groaned as he forced himself to walk through the snow, the harsh wind hitting him directly in the face.

"Mister Bell, you're with the fellers over there."

"How come Arthur gets a room and I get a bunk bed next to Bill Williamson and a bunch of darkies?" Micah protested, his racism sitting at the hilt of his tongue like venom.

"Get yourself to bed!" Hosea demanded, not putting up with any tension in the camp between members.

#arthurmorgan #minniebarlow #reddeadredemption2 #rdr2fanfiction #rdr2

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haphazardlyparked · 3 years

Text

the war AU

@gingerly-writing originally i started this as a response to your captured solider/person-enemy general thing but then it just turned into a whole bunch of self-indulgence sooooo

(i'm a softie at heart??)

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"Masara," a voice hissed in her ear, and Masara came back to her senses, only to swallow back a groan. Her whole body was an ache that burned at the edges, part magical exhaustion and part old-fashioned beating.

"Arlis," Masara murmured back, trying not to move. Trying to catalogue her hurts before she tested them, trying to remember what had happened. She did not say, You young fool.

Masara's heart––already burning her chest with grief and war––had leapt into her throat and turned to fear when she'd seen Arlis emerge from the tunnel pass, adept enough with the spells that she could open the hidden routes on her own. Masara's young, foolish squire, who had followed her because she thought her knight-mistress had gone off to do something brave, when all Masara was was reckless, desperate––and desperately hopeful.

Panam as heir was safe, the king was on his way to the Yina stronghold, and Fathmir, who had been at the holy mountain's summit since the new moon, could be made High Priest soon. The heart of Amir would be preserved, even though Amirasa had fallen. Even though things might had been different, before the assassination and the war.

Masara knew her part now. She was the most experienced knight traveling with her uncle––fleeing, navigating the twisting paths and hidden tunnels that wound through the foothills of the Endless Ridge. The king had to make it to the safety of Mount Yina, and that was worth Masara's life.

In some small measure, Amir would survive, watchful and isolated while her southern lands became a battlefield between two imperial powers. Ancient Lapur to the southwest, hemmed in by the Blasted Plains, and Kas to the northeast, a young and eager threat.

Masara had dreamed of her kingdom’s waning. She had felt the shadow of death hanging over her head since Panam had brought news of the High Priest's assassination.

When she had volunteered to lead the pursuers away from the king's trail as he and a fragment of his court ran for holy Yina, the king had faced her as her father wold have––grieved, yet proud. But he had faced her as her king, too, grimly resigned to her sacrifice.

"You might have been one of our greatest queens, if my sister and I chose differently," he had whispered.

Masara could scarcely meet her uncle's eyes.

"I dreamed a fire would burn away my future, during my rites,” she confessed. One did not usually speak of the visions, if there were any, but Masara thought she could ease her uncle’s conscience. “When Panam came with word of my father's death... I already knew how this could end. This is my decision, Uncle."

"May the Lady Sascrin guard your path, Masara," the king said.

The knight knelt, and kissed her uncle's hand, and when she rose––when the king drew her to her feet to hug her one last time, the farewell embrace she never had from her father––she smiled.

"It will be your job to look after Arlis now,” she said when they pulled away from each other. She stepped back.

Arlis was a jealous squire, and would likely be furious when she realized Masara had ridden to battle without her. Later, she would come to understand that she was too young for this.

And then the little fool had burst from one of the rocky passages, into the pitched skirmish while Masara charged a company with a twilit illusion, riding alongside moonbeams, and dropped the bridge to cut off pursuit of the king’s path.

She thought the destroyed bridge would been a good place to die, right up until she saw Arlis and realized with a ringing clarity, Not now. Her squire needed her.

Masara's vision filled with molten silver, magic in her hands and spitting down the length of her blade, and Arlis flickered across the field in her mind's eye, a star to be guarded. When they reached each other—the knight a blur of spell and steel, her squire a smaller whirlwind no less fierce for her youth, and Kassan footmen with their blue-rimmed shields and clumsy swords—Arlis screamed, and Masara's world exploded.

In the tent, when she opened her eyes, the physical ache seemed to coalesce in her chest as she put everything back together again.

There was her beloved, fool squire whom Masara would protect with her last breath; and beyond that, all the things that threatened her.

Masara and Arlis were tied side by side to foldable campaign chairs, which was quite civilized, all things considered. She could see spells crawling on the walls of the tent, and smelled the distinctive sting of burning a sharp, distinctive incense. Natural inhibitors of magic.

"Do you know where we are?" Masara spoke. Her voice was cracked and barely audible; her throat dry as dust. Unlike Arlis, she was tied to her chair by only one arm, because the other was broken. She woke with it cradled against her chest in a sling.

"I'm sorry, sir, I––” Arlis began urgently, quick and breathless, all the words she'd been thinking while Masara was unconscious now tumbling out. Masara let her relieve herself. "I shouldn't have followed, and then I ruined your plan and you went down––and I panicked. I surrendered. I thought they were going to kill you!”

“You did as you should have done, Arlis," Masara assured her squire when she fell silent. “I am grateful to be alive."

It was true. Masara had made her peace with her sacrifice, but she hadn't wanted to die. If she could live––and she had somehow, for Arlis or thanks to her––she would. (She wondered if this meant her vision was wrong; or if there was another fire threatening her horizons.)

"But Masara," Arlis mumbled. “You weren’t about to surrender.”

“That only means you have proven yourself wiser than me.”

“But... I told them who you are.”

Masara considered her broken arm––splinted and bandaged, carefully tended to like the rest of her battered body, and found Arlis's confession did not surprise her.

"And yourself, too?" Masara asked.

"Yes."

"Good," Masara said firmly. "We are alive now, and I will not see you die, Arlis."

Her squire knew enough to hear the grim promise.

"Sir," she acknowledged. "I don't think they'll hurt me. They think I'm a child––a poor, misguided girl-child who accidentally maimed some soldiers..." Arlis indulged in a little complaining, and when Masara recalled her visit to the Kassan court years ago, she decided Arlis was probably justified. And yet, they still burned the incense; they still spelled the tent. They were cautious.

"They were horrified when they realized you were a woman, and that was before I explained you are a high lady," Arlis continued. "After that, they bundled us up and had a surgeon come; you were stabbed through the shoulder, by the way. I tried to do what I could, on the road yesterday. They put us in a wagon and set a guard. They don't think very highly of me, and didn’t notice I what I was doing."

Masara considered that, and realized that was why that whole upper side of her hurt, not just the broken arm.

"Thank you, Arlis," she sighed. "It's called battlefield healing for a reason, and you've always been one of the best. I am fortunate." It really wasn't much more than cleansing wounds and dulling pain, but it was more than nothing.

Arlis grinned. "Am I better than Guira?"

Masara ignored the question, as she always did. She smiled, and then her lip split. Grimacing––carefully––she asked, “How long was I out?”

“The rest of the evening and all of yesterday. We stopped last night, and I slept, so it may be morning again,” Arlis reported. “You destroyed the footbridge we used, and that was the only easy path for a large party, so they've had to retreat back out of the foothills. They didn't stop until they were out, which was late last night."

Masara was shocked to hear she had been unconscious for so long--but something in the back of her head disagreed, remembered a dream, perhaps. Later. She said instead, "These are Sascrin's foothills; outlanders think they are cursed. Even I only turned back to make very, very certain they would too."

Some things were too important to leave to should and probably; the king had understood that when Masara proposed remaining behind to guard their rear.

Arlis didn't ask her what the plan was now. She didn't ask what it had been, either.

Trust, or insight? Masara thought it was the former, and she tried to turn her worry into resolve. Her uncle had depended on her before; now Arlis did.

"Has anyone spoken to you?"

"Only a captain," Arlis reported. “He said their general could decide what to do with nobility."

"And have you seen a mage?"

"No. But I do think there's one around. The tent could've been prepared, but the incense smells... intent."

Masara tilted her head––carefully, to avoid tugging at any other injuries she wasn't fully aware of––and smiled lopsided at Arlis, trying to avoid the split. "Very good," she said, winced, and licked at the cut. "I thought you might notice that; that's the scent of the mage's spell. Now, what other kinds of magic inhibitors are they using?”

"Sir," Arlis protested, half-indignant, but she was looking at the canvas around them. She knew better than to try and fuss more over Masara's wounds; she'd already done what she could. It was nothing she would not recover from, she decided––given a chance to recover, of course.

"We're currently bound to chairs in a spelled tent, Arlis," Masara said. "We might as well have a brief lesson."

Masara heard rather than saw Arlis's roll of the eyes. She could never keep from that airy, "As you say, sir."

But Masara saw how she relaxed a little, easing back into her seat and straining less at her bonds.

"Let's begin with the standard suppression spells," Masara went on. "One of the nice thing about them is that they're always visible, as it's active magic, and look––these weavers didn't even try for subtlety. Tell me which ones you know already."

Arlis and Masara discussing the fire protection spell woven into the seams of the tent, where the different cuts of fabric had been sewn together, and how they served to isolate each separate piece of fabric, when they were interrupted.

"It looks newly done," Masara murmured. "And it looks northern too, not like a spell that's been fully assimilated." That was the thing about magic. There were always spells and brews you could learn, but they worked best when you had truly made it yours, or if it was yours.

Masara often wished the fireless explosions Arlis was so fond of hadn't been her obvious calling.

"How can you––" Arlis began, but then the tent flap opened and a man stuck his head in.

He came all the way in when he saw Masara was awake, daylight flashing through the opening, and stood before them.

"Good," he observed after an assessing gaze. "Surgeon said if you were out the whole two days, we might have problems."

He wasn't a very tall man, but he was broad-shouldered and confident, a soldier in a blue cloak. He had the olive skin and dark hair of some of the Kassan, though with clearer, lighter eyes that spoke of some northern heritage. Or magic and vanity.

The soldier crossed his arms and frowned when Masara said nothing. It took Masara a moment to realize he had been expecting her to speak––he had asked no question. She instead had been looking to Arlis, to see if her squire recognized the soldier, but a twitch of Arlis's fingers said, he's new, and Masara wondered again where they were. The tent also kept them from hearing just what kind of camp lay outside. Masara would bet it was far larger than the one company that braved the foothills and her attack, if the general was said to be coming.

"Are you injured?" the soldier demanded, eyes narrowing.

Masara smiled––carefully, lopsided.

"I believe so," she answered.

The soldier's frown didn't change. "Well enough to speak the general now, I see."

"Lead on!" Arlis challenged boldly, unwilling to be overlooked and left behind. Masara didn't bother to check her.

"Oh no," the soldier corrected with a grim smile. "Do you think we're letting you out of this nice tent? The general's on his way here. You should be honored. Him coming to you." The soldier sounded disgruntled enough by the necessary breach of etiquette that not even Arlis commented.

They didn't have to wait long. The soldier left the tent after another moment of silence––did he think either Masara or Aris would say something, unprompted?––and then the flap opened again, and he returned. This time, he was followed by a younger man, another soldier, alert and brisk. He'd become very tan under the Amirran sun, his hair burnished to a golden blond currently bare of a crown, but Masara was surprised to recognize the general.

Arlis shifted by her side, suspicious. The general regarded the both of them in silence, his pale brown eyes almost dark in the tent's dim light.

"Leave it open, Kinlo," the general––if that was how he chose to style himself––said, and Kinlo, the first soldier, went to pull back the opening. Clear morning light spilled inside, silhouetting the general, and from his slight smirk, he knew its effect. "They won't run."

Masara quite honestly didn't feel up to a break for freedom, so he was right, which was mildly irritating. The smoke of the incense kept her weak, as though she hadn't slept or rested in days.

"We're in the middle of my camp. Surrounded by thousands of men," the general explained reasonably. One couldn't hope to escape or be rescued against such odds. Amir's people really would be penned into the foothills, with Yina as her only stronghold. "Of course," the general said, "we will treat a high lady of the land and..." he trailed off, and frowned at Arlis. What stories had his men had told of Masara and Arlis's capture?

Arlis's fingers twitched. Treat us with honor, I bet, she signed. Masara affected not to notice, and did not smile.

"Well?" the general prompted.

Masara lifted her gaze and fixed on the shadows by the door. "I didn't realize you wanted an answer," she excused herself. "The young Lady Arlis is my squire, if that is what you were looking for."

The general nodded, as if all was now confirmed for him, and he stepped to the side, away from the tent opening. It was strange to think of such a man––young, open-faced, eager for action and the field itself––ordering the High Priest's death. This general had plenty of battlefields to choose from, without provoking a new series of them. But he had advisers, and they were apparently in the capital, directing the empire while the general was here.

"And it was the two of you who blocked the advance company?"

Masara inclined her head as far as she could.

"You wouldn't have gotten far anyway." Arlis raised her voice in a taunt. "The foothills can be quite haunted, you know."'

The general snorted. "I don't doubt it. I don't think 'foothills' is fair name for them, either. It's like calling the Henori river a little creek. I'm ready to forget the whole campaign." He sounded matter-of-fact.

"By all means, do," Masara suggested.

"But there's Lapur to worry about. And your mages."

"Our mages," Masara repeated, turning it into a question with an arched brow. The movement pulled at a scrape on her cheek by her hairline.

The general looked at her, slow and considering.

"Yes. Mine are worried. My advisers tell me it's unnatural that you don't use spells. Materials, incantations - the common instruments." He paused, then added: "Is it?"

Masara spoke before Arlis could. "Your imperial majesty," she said blandly, deciding now was as good a moment as any to dispense with all pretense, "why should any Amirran spill our secrets to you?"

Arlis frowned, backing down. She hadn't known who the general was, and Masara could tell she was swiftly reconsidering their situation.

"I have found some who were very talkative, actually," the emperor-general retorted. Arlis hissed at the implication of torture––but Masara frowned at the general’s honest, untroubled irritation, and heard her quiet oft-ignored fear confirmed.

There was a traitor.

How else could Amirasa have fallen? And their escape to the foothills had been too close, too harried. Masara signed another hold to Arlis, one that called for caution, and said nothing.

"Unfortunately, they do not know much about your magics."

"You have captured Amirasa," Masara replied mildly, though the admission was ash on her tongue. She didn't dare ask for the general's chatty Amirran, not yet. "If your mages cannot see the spells of our city, that does not mean anything."

"They see those spells," the emperor-general clarified. "The battle magic, on the other hand..."

He trailed off expectantly, but neither Arlis nor Masara rose to fill the silence. When it stretched on, the emperor straightened, chin lifting as though he suddenly felt the weight of his crown, and said, "Even if you don't talk, you will be useful bargaining tools. Perhaps now your king will be tempted to meet me at a crossroads. What do you think, High Lady Masara?"

Masara offered the lopsided smile she could, but without warmth. "If negotiation is what you wish, I will write to my king myself."

"You doubt me?" the general demanded.

"Your army holds our ancient capital. You have done nothing but kill our people and claim our land."

"I sent an ambassador, and your king gave him back and declared war."

"Ambassador?" Arlis snapped. "Is that a new word for assassin?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The High Priest," Masara answered succinctly. It came out flat, an accusation torn free of the sudden hollow chasm that threatened her. It appeared suddenly, as usual, and nearly all-encompassing. She breathed through it slowly, counting in her head to ten.

"He was the head of a militant religious order," the general replied carefully, sensing the delicacy of the topic. "The greatest obstacle to diplomacy. He would never accept surrender."

Arlis scowled, but Masara called for her silence again––she was never very obedient for long, but she held her tongue for the moment.

"And did your sources also believe Amir would be amenable to surrender after an assassination?" Masara asked, with pointed equanimity.

The emperor-general frowned, and crossed his arms, and then changed the subject.

"I think the most important thing to remember is Lapur. They cannot be allowed to grow past the Blighted lands."

"How gratifying, that our kingdom can be a foothold in your imperial wars."

It wasn't exactly a fair assessment; Lapur worried Amir, too, with its constant, probing incursions north of the desert, into the no man's land usually left to Amir.

But it was Kas, young and full of its own power who had invaded, not Lapur.

The emperor-general's eyes narrowed, glinting nearly like gold as he coolly declared, "Say what you will, High Lady. But we cannot afford an Amirran succession crisis, not with Lapur so close and so restless."

Masara gestured minutely, freeing Arlis while she considered the general's words.

"That was your reasoning for your conquest of Seriona," Arlis burst out, after holding her tongue for what surely felt like ages to her. "We are not Seriona. In Amir, we know our king and our prince!"

The general frowned at Arlis, but replied to her as seriously as he had to Masara. "And if your king should prefer his niece over his son?" he challenged.

Arlis strained briefly, forgetting she was tied up as she tried to point at Masara. "We are here," she settled for instead, spitting the words out furiously. "A lone knight sacrificed to hold off your whole company, the high lady, the king's supposed favorite––doesn't that tell you anything?"

A new uneasiness settled in Masara's chest as she realized how badly she had underestimated her young squire. Arlis understood Masara's decision... and she was still a fool for endangering herself. In the past half year of border skirmishes, the outbreak of war, and their flight from Amirasa, Arlis had grown up a great deal.

Masara felt she herself had aged decades.

The general's expression didn't change, yet Masara still felt a shift in his attitude.

"It tells me more than you know," he said, and then waved his hand, dismissing the matter. "My ladies, I've been distracted from my purpose. I simply wished to inform you that you will be hostages until a suitable agreement can be come to with your king, which I hope will come swiftly. Until then, you will be kept with the camp quite safely, and we will do our best to see you treated with honor. If you need anything within reason, you need only shout to the guards." He glanced at Arlis, and added, "I don't think you'll have an issue with that."

Arlis regarded the general balefully. He ignored the young squire's glares, and asked Masara directly, "Should I send the surgeon to you again, my lady?"

Arlis fumed under her breath about it being his fault anyway; Masara's mind spun.

"That would be appreciated, your imperial majesty," she said quietly, focused more on the realizations that were slowly coming together for her, overcoming her unwillingness to see them.

"In the field, I prefer the title Imperial General. Hokiraj," said the emperor, magnanimous in his role as captor, familiarity offered as a flattering courtesy.

"Well then, Imperial General. It appears we are in your hands," Masara returned in kind, though distracted.

The imperial general coughed, made a vague noise of agreement, and then made his departure with, "I will send that surgeon along. Later, we will discuss that letter and what terms your king may agree to.”

As soon as he was gone, Kinlo followed him out and shut the tent. The haste of his exit went on unremarked, and it was Arlis who finally broke the silence.

“I think there’s a traitor, sir,” she whispered, reluctant to speak her fear too loudly.

Her squire was so old at fourteen, yet Masara wanted to protect her still. "I think I know who it is,” she prevaricated.

The king had broached the idea of changing the succession only once that Masara knew of, and only idly. Masara knew he would never act without his son’s complete agreement; it was how rule had been decided between himself and his older sister, Masara’s mother. He had thought he might have Panam’s approval.

Only Panam and Masara were not siblings, and it had been a while since they had been close as such.

Oh, cousin, she thought, unease dripping through her memories of Panam like oil. Could you really?

But Masara could not let despair overcome her. She had Arlis to protect... and Amir, too. However she could.

#i love aus #maybe too much #masara #hikaj #gingerly writing #prompt response #self indulgent 2021 #the war au

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sessrinsfanclub · 3 years

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Dear Followers of SessRin's Fan Club

This morning like every morning I get up at 5:30am to have mommy time. I make myself a cup of coffee and check out my channel and other social media networks, and of course see whats going on in the Yashahime and SessRin world! When I woke up this morning, I was shocked to see I have successfully gained 101 subscribers!! Not only that, but my Yashahime Vlogs! Both Videos have almost reached 1,000 views!! My reaction to the trailer has received so far 892 views and the latest yashahime vlog has received 980 views and counting!! That’s INSANE!!

I’m just a small-town southern girl in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia! I’m a full time Hairdresser, wife, and mother of a wild 2-year-old little girl named Maria. When I started SessRin’s Fan Club 3 months ago, I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was there were amazing sessrin fan fiction stories that people needed to know and talk about! I had so many thoughts and theories when it came to sesshomaru character arc, his wife Rin, and Yashahime! I was a big fan of Inuyasha when I was in middle school. I would constantly sneak out of my room in the middle of the night, just to catch the beauty of the feudal fairytale. Dragon Ball Z and Sailor Moon also played a major part of my childhood. I was going through tough times when I was kid, having my parents divorce and move into a new town, and new school was very overwhelming. But not only did God get me thru it but those Anime shows including my all time favorite Inuyasha kept me happy and sane. Like the others Inuyasha helped me escape that world of darkness and made me forget my hardships and life changes. I escaped to world of hot demons, badass battles, core and blood, hardships and a beautiful but complicated love story of INUKAG! My love for the show and most of all Sesshomaru and Rin has always been in my heart and soul as my most favorite characters! With Sesshomaru I learned to be tough and have confidence in myself, and of course he’s so sexy duh!!! Rin taught me to love and respect. Kindness and loyalty in friendships and relationships. I have always believed they were meant to be together forever!

So, when I heard the annoucment of Yashahime Princess Half Demon season 2. I was thrilled and excited! Looking at the twins I knew right then and there our dreams as fans had finally granted our wish! And was officially annoucment on Jan 16th, 2021, they were CANON! My world like yours was forever changed and for the better. My love for fan fiction grew even more and I was so in love with some. I just wanted to climb up these mountains and shout for all to hear! There are writers who are so gifted and so talented. They really should have consider having their works published! Their stories and plots were better than some book on the New York Times Best Seller. So, 3 months ago I decided then and said “Screw It!! I’m goanna do it!” and so here I am!

Now I know I’m not the best of the best on YouTube’s Platform or anywhere as a matter of fact and that’s ok! I know it takes years and a lot of money and challenges. It has and its goanna be a lot of work, and I still have so much to learn and achieve before I can get there. I have recently started saving money on the side to have the opportunity to purchase new equipment but most importantly new software! Since purchasing my editor software ive been able to edit my videos so much better and I really enjoy being creative! So here over the course of the next few months, you will start to notice the channel’s improvements and several changes overtime, so please hang in there with me! My plan for this channel is to start having better opportunities to connect with you thru live streams and have great discussions! SessRin’s Book Club is in the works as well! A place where we can do and discuss our Fan Fic stories of the month. But most of all getting to know the writer and learning about their journey. I'm also getting prepared for Yashahime Season 2!

I really would like to thank the staff, and creators behind SessRin Is Canon for taking a chance with me when I started his Club. Not only did they accept me but helped me out in so many ways. Whenever I had a question, suggestion, and ask for their advice. They were there for me every step of the way! Their constant support and kindness ill forever be grateful for! I would also like to thank YOU THE VIEWERS! Thank you for subscribing to the channel, for liking, sharing, and leaving comments! Every bit of that not only gives me the encouragement to keep going, but it’s what helps YouTube know if my channel is worth putting out there in content searches and outreach! It feels good know there are at least 100 people who like what I do and enjoy my passion for sesshomaru and fangirling over SessRin thru conversations, fan fiction, and art! Thank you, guys, for everything! Its nice to know I have a lot of people who love sessrin just as much as I do, and want to talk to me, and hear what I even have to say!

I love this fandom and community so much! I feel like I’m part of one big happy family and it’s the best feeling in the world! Thank you again for all the love, support, and kindness you have shown to me! It mite just be 3 months in, but its been the best 3 months of my life! Thank you once again and may we continue this journey together! Lets raise our glasses and cheers to the best canon couple in the anime universe, Lord Sesshomaru and Lady Rin of the West!

With Love,

Mrs. Dowdy aka KatyDid

SRFC

#thank you #sesshomaru x rin #sesshomaru yashahime lordsesshomaru #lord sesshoumaru #sessrinfanfiction #sessrin #sessriniscanon

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orionwhispers · 4 years

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Sweet Disaster// Tommy Shelby

(A/N - hello. so basically, i had a dream about chris evans, and then i modified it into this tommy imagine. it was supposed to be a drabble but i physically cannot write anything less than 12k words so thats great. honestly this is very similar to ‘fools gold’ but hey, im in the mood for some angsty fluff and fighting with our main guy tom. next tommy imagine will be the lolita wedding and that will be the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed. thanks for everything, PLS let me know what u think. see you soon! stay safe!)

trigger warnings: fighting, tommy being a douche, everyone being a dumbass, tommy getting jealous and implied sex.

You saw him on a Saturday night, at a bar on the outskirts of the city.

It had been three months, and you had hoped you would have managed to slip through the cracks; pass through the night like the foxes that roamed in the back alleys - but you had never been that lucky, especially not when he was involved.

It was your friend’s birthday, and you tipped back glass after glass of expensive champagne that bubbled and burned at the back of your throat. The lights were blinding, twinkling chandeliers and the smell of cigarettes and french perfume, something like bergamot and vanilla, lingering in the air.

Your dress was cherry red, your hair tied back with a sequinned headband and your lips and cheeks painted in rouge, but you had never felt so awful. It had been bad enough trying to find something to wear, the contents of your wardrobe tipped all over your floor, a mess of mesh and feather and lace, almost everything reminding you of him, as if he had been stitched right into the fabric. You had ended up curled in a ball on the floor, wiping your tears with the Chanel blouse he had bought back from a business trip in Paris.

Stupid fucking boys.

You could hear the girls talking around you, high pitched giggles and exaggerated voices as they gossiped about something or other that faded into static around you. You had spent the past three months holed up in your flat, only leaving for work or the street market on Sunday, stocking up with bread and wine and cheese, everything carb filled and rich to fill the hole in your heart.

You weren’t used to the company of others or the hustle and bustle of a crowded room, and you sat back against the plush cherry velvet seats, dreaming of climbing into bed and devouring the slab of dark chocolate you had been saving.

Your close friend Emma, the one who knew the reason you were staring into space and not laughing and drinking with the rest of the girls, placed a manicured hand on your shoulder, and tilted her head slightly.

“How are you holding up?”

You snapped out of your trance.“I’m fine. I’m sorry I’m not much fun right now.”

“Nonsense.” She pushed you lightly, her voice as soft and playful as ever. “At least you came out! It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Yeah - I’m sure everyone missed having me bawl like a baby and mope around.”

She elbowed you, “Stop bloody feeling sorry for yourself and have a shot! Christ! You can spend the rest of the week wrapped up in your duvet, but tonight - suck it up, and have a drink!”

She handed you a glass of something dark, and you brought it to your lips, tipping it into your throat with a wince. It felt as though you were drinking petrol.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. All that matters is that it’s top shelf and it came from those fellas over there.” She pointed towards a group of men huddled around the bar. They were shooting quick glances and sly winks towards you and your friends. Sure they were relatively attractive, most likely handsomely rich and dressed in suits that looked finely tailored - but they made your skin crawl.

You hated the way that you would always be comparing other men to him, and you especially hated how they would always come up short.

An hour later and whatever liquor was coursing through your bloodstream had done its job, and everything seemed infinitely brighter. You even found yourself laughing at jokes and stories that you only caught halfway through, the alcohol wonderfully dizzying your brain.

You were so caught up in the rush of being drunk and finally feeling somewhat happy for the first time in forever; that you didn’t realise you had caught the attention of one of the men across the bar. You felt him sidle in next to you, following his friends who had snaked their way into your booth, their arms slung around the girls shoulders, whispering sweet little sentiments into their ears.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asked, so close to you that you could smell the sour whiskey on his tongue, your nose wrinkling.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Perhaps you had spent so long being ‘Tommy Shelby's girl’ that you had forgotten what it was like when you were being hit on. You had spent so many nights safely tucked under his arm, his hands possessively wrapped around your body, an unspoken threat sent out to everyone and anyone around you - it had been a long time since a man had tried his luck with you.

Perhaps you were so infatuated with him that you never noticed anybody else. Your mind forever filled with visions of oceanic eyes and three piece suits, his Birmingham accent ringing through your ears like a gospel. He invaded all of your thoughts and infiltrated your dreams, and you loathed and loved him for it. The way that he filled your brain and heart like smoke, clouding your decisions and judgments, like some kind of magical elixir, blurring everything but the shape of him.

The man beside you didn’t concede. He cleared his throat, running a finger over the rim of your glass, ignoring the way your eyebrows furrowed and lip curled.

“Let me get you a drink, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl.

It sounded so wrong. It was never pretty girl. It was - darling, sweetheart, princess. It was - my love, honey, kitten. It was said teasingly and exasperatedly, it was whispered in your ear and buried into the space between your thighs. It was never said in the sticky corner of a club, from the greedy mouth of a stranger undressing you with his eyes.

“I’m - ” Taken. But you weren’t, not anymore, and you hated the way the thought of him made your lip wobble. It’s had been three goddamn months, why did the memory of him still make your body go up in flames?

Emma stiffened beside you, waving a dismissive hand at the gentleman speaking to her, and turned to face you and your unmoving suitor.

“We’re alright here, love. Thanks.”

A flicker of annoyance. His fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white, his tongue running across the ridge of his front teeth. He obviously didn’t take rejection well, and he was doing a shitty job at hiding it.

“Are you sure? It looks like she could do with another drink.”

You swallowed thickly, eyes rolling back at the way he dismissed you and spoke as though you were incapable of thinking for yourself.

“I’m fine.” Your words were curt and clipped, a clear indication of your disinterest, but he refused to back down.

“You shouldn’t be here all alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Really? What kind of man would leave a pretty little thing like you all by herself?”

“The kind of man that would punch you in the fucking teeth for speaking to her like that.”

You froze.

Oh Christ.

A million irreverent, evil, blasphemous phrases hurtled inside of your mind, and you knew that if Polly somehow ever caught wind of what you were thinking, you would be on the receiving end of a sharp slap around the head.

He was here. Of bloody course he was. He had a knack for showing up out of the blue and knocking all of the wind from your lungs.

It hurt like an open wound, feeling his eyes on you, the same ones that had looked at you with love and humour and gentleness, and not being able to fully meet his gaze - knowing just how much it would hurt if you did.

“She’s with me.”

His voice was firm, laced with the same sort of dismissive irritability he used to use whenever somebody tried their luck with you. This time was different however, you couldn’t roll your eyes and kiss him, you couldn’t put your head in the crook of his neck or mutter that you were his under the golden chandeliers, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hip.

You couldn’t do any of that anymore, because you weren’t.

The man seemed pick up on the tension, clicking his tongue slyly, unaware of the consequences his words would have. “Doesn’t seem like she is.”

“Get the fuck out.”

The penny must have dropped for the rest of the boys. The booth going silent as they realised just who the handsome shadowy figure towering over them was. You felt them slowly inch away, head down and gazes low, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire. A few hushed mumbles of “holy shit! That’s Tommy Shelby! One of those blinders!” hurtling around the tables beside you, not completely drowned out by clatter of the jazz band.

“I have every right to be here.” The ballsy stranger said, stiffening up beside you. His spine curled as he tried to make himself bigger. “Who says I have to leave?”

You huffed at his words, exhaling like a balloon. “That’s enough.” You didn’t want to cause a scene. You were exhausted, the night taking such a sudden turn you felt like you had whiplash, and the alcohol sat deep in your gut like a rock. You just wanted to get home, away from the man you wanted so badly your fingers ached to hold him, and crawl into your bed with your cat and a mountain of chocolate.

“Well, considering I own the fucking place, I think that I do - and if you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”

That seemed to do it.

You kept your eyes focused on the mans paling face, the grim look washing over him like salty sea air, you didn't dare turn and face the man you could feel burning holes in your neck.

“I.. I...” The man spluttered almost incoherently, rising to his feet and stumbling out from beside you. From behind you you heard Emma giggling coyly into her glass. “Sorry.” He mumbled quickly, his knees buckling when Tommy clapped a hand around his shoulder, holding him in place like a dog.

Tommy’s voice was still, almost too controlled, and you knew that his words were deadly. “If I see you around these parts again, I’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull.”

He gulped and nodded, darting into the sea of bodies in the crowd.

You kept your eyes low. Fumbling with the pearl clasps of your purse you squeezed Emma’s hand in parting and rose to your feet, wanting to leave as painlessly as possible, not even daring to look up at the face staring you down.

“I should go.” Was all you said, sliding out of the booth and onto the marbled floor. You saw the way the rest of the girls were watching the scene unfold before them, and you knew that by Monday you would have a lot of questions to answer, but right now you needed nothing but the safety of your flat.

You didn’t even let your shoulders brush against him. You coiled around him like a snake, your feet moving so fast your embroidered shoes were nothing but a blur of scarlet. You only made it to the hallway, he let you go far enough that you were in private before he reached for you, a familiar, large hand curving around the dip in your shoulder. You hated the way your body reacted, goosebumps rising to his touch unconsciously.

“(Y/N), wait.”

Your name on his tongue was sweeter than honey and richer than wine, it sounded so right that it hurt. It had been so long since you had heard him call you by your name, so long since he had spoken to you that your gut was twisting inside of you, your whole body aching for him to do nothing but repeat that word like a mantra.

You inhaled, thinking of a way out. It was too dangerous, you were playing with fire and you couldn’t get burnt, not again.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t know, it’s Jessica’s birthday and we - ” You hated how you stumbled over your words. You had never felt so uncomfortable around him and it made your skin crawl. You had kissed him under the stars, laughed with him in the corner of a private party, made love to him in every room of his fucking mansion, and now he felt like a stranger.

You knew what he looked like when he woke up, with his sleepy eyes and tousled hair. You knew what he looked like when had spent the night doing something unholy, you had cleaned his knuckles and kissed his wounds as you sat pressed up against him in the tub, his hands wrapped around your waist. You’d stood by his side, your hands intertwined in the middle of some expansive ballroom, and listened to him sweet-talk his way into a new business deal, all the while stroking his thumb over yours. You had seen him vulnerable, pulling you so close to his chest that it was like you were bound together, whispering to you how he loved you, how he couldn’t live without you.

But he still let you go.

He moved in front of you, leaving you with no choice but to meet his eyes. He looked good, but that was a given, he always did, no matter the circumstances. He looked so... soft. He always seemed that way around you, his eyes getting a little bit kinder, the harshness of his words dipped in sugar, even the sharpness of his jaw looked inviting and gentle, practically begging you to wrap your palm around it.

You bit your tongue. You were being ridiculous. You were seeing things that weren’t there. It was over between the two of you, he had made that very clear. You were grasping at straws and all it was going to do was hurt you.

He spoke suddenly, his thick accent cutting through the silence that felt so loud. “It’s alright. Only really been ours since last night, there were... problems with the last owners.”

Despite everything you felt the ghost of a smile tugging on the edge of your lips, immediately knowing what ‘problems’ he was referring to.

“Arthur?” You asked.

“Yes.” He said with a small grin. “Arthur.”

A moment passed. The air around you feeling all too hot and all to cold at once. It had been a long time since you had seen one another, and both of you were caught up in appreciating such familiar beauty up close. You had missed the small things about him, like the slight curl of his hair and the veins in his neck, you could remember running your lips across the curve and dip of his throat.

You were treading in dangerous waters. It wouldn’t be long until the current pulled you under, and you weren’t quite sure how much longer you could keep a rational mind. You inhaled, flittering your eyes to meet his in some kind of signal of parting, pulling your clutch tighter to your body as an attempt to keep yourself grounded. “I should go. It was good to see you, Tommy.”

You spun on your heel, heading for the large golden doors that led outside. Fresh air would clear your mind, the stars and the velvet night would be good for clearing out all of the junk rattling around in your skull, but you barely got two steps forward before he spoke, already knowing his next words before he even opened his mouth.

“Let me drive you home.”

He spoke so surely, addressing you the way he would one of his brothers or Johnny, as if he knew what was best for you. Once upon a time you would have believed that he did, let him grasp you by the wrists and drag you to the end of the world if he asked nicely, those fucking baby blues and pink lips dulling any warning sirens in your head.

Even now, after everything, you knew that he would never put you in danger, that he would always protect you. And it was with the knowledge of that striking your heart like lightning, you knew that you were still hopelessly, undoubtedly in love with him - not that you ever thought differently, but you had done a damned good job of pushing your feelings away.

“You’ve had a lot to drink,” He said, “and I wouldn’t even let you out on those fucking streets by yourself stone cold sober.”

You pursed your lips. “I’m not drunk, and you don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m driving you home.”

You looked up at him through your painted lashes, disarming him in a million different ways you didn’t even realise. You were oblivious to the fact that his breath felt trapped in his lungs.“You and I both know that’s not a good idea, Tommy.”

“Cmon. Get your things.”

You sidestepped away, pushing the bottom of your heel deeper into the champagne coloured carpet. “No Tommy, I’m not a child! I don’t need your help.”

He rolled his eyes, something akin to fond exasperation rising to his cheeks. You felt your heart drop and flutter like it was a sparrow inside of you, you had never thought you would see that face again, and it hurt how something so simple could twist and mould you in his hands like clay.

He pressed his hands to the small of your back, pushing you forward.

“I don’t care if you don’t want my help. I’m doing it anyway.”

You huffed. Too tired and drunk and confused to put up a real fight.“Fine.” He smiled coyly and his smug attitude made you click your teeth, running a hand through the curls in your hair, not stopping the childish retort on the edge of your tongue. “Prick.”

You felt his hand swat at you, dangerously close to the hem of your dress and you were certain that your cheeks were the same colour as the candles flickering on the tables below. It was such a playful, tender thing to do, and so horribly familiar - memories of his hands on you, pinching and teasing and digging in, a way of communicating without words, something so intimate and personal, something that only the two of you knew.

You wondered if he felt the same way. You wondered if he was reminded of the past, of peach moons and starlight kisses and strawberry lipstick, but as always he remained impassive, as poker faced as always as he strolled down the hall, pushing open the wide brass doors and waiting for you to pass through, him trailing behind you, like always.

———————————————————————

Through your hazy eyes the moon almost looked pink, like a spotlight shining down on you, illuminating the both of you as Tommy’s car purred down the streets, like a black cat stalking under the cover of darkness.

It smelt like him.

Like cigarettes and sin and mint and woodsmoke. You were reminded of driving at midnight with the windows down, his hand wrapped around your thigh, his eyes anywhere but the road. You thought of sticky skin and leather seats and the smell of sex, breathless little laughs and the feel of his teeth biting down on your top lip.

You stared at the polish on your fingernails, hoping for some kind of distraction from the man beside you. It wasn’t far to your flat, and you prayed that the drive home would be as hitch free as possible.

“Had a good night?” Tommy asked, looking over at you from behind the wheel. He’s not even sure what he’s saying, his usually mechanical brain almost short circuiting because you’re finally next to him again. Words and phrases seem tasteless and meaningless, but he wants to savour as much of you as he can. He knows it makes him hypocritical, especially given everything he’s put you through, but he’s never really been very conventional with his love.

“It was alright.”

“Friends from work?”

“Yeah. It was Jessica’s birthday, she wanted to get drunk, you know how it can be.”

“And that...that man - ?” He cleared his throat, hoping that his words came off breezier than they sounded in his head, pretending as if the thought of you with somebody else didn’t feel like a noose around his neck. “Who was he?”

“Just some stupid twat.”

Your words weren’t doing much to quell the fiery flicker of anger inside of him, half of his brain telling him to turn the car around and put a razor blade through the fuckers eye - but one glance over at your sleepy, beautiful face and all of his jealousy fades into mere smoke.

None of it matters.

Nothing will ever matter more than you.

“I shouldn’t have even been out tonight, but Emma practically dragged me.”

Emma. The name rings a bell. He flips through a mental picture book of everyone you’ve spoken about, and finally lands on the glamorous, dark skinned, velvet haired vixen that you called your best friend.

Memories come flooding back.

The nights you would spend with her when he was too busy with work. How in the darkness of his office with nothing but an empty feeling in his chest and glass of bourbon beside him, the phone would ring and cut through the silence.

He’d roll his eyes when Emma spoke quickly down the line, words slurred and filled with giggles as she would explain the drunken shenanigans you had both fallen into. He’d drive through the night and the dim city streets, his mind for once not filled with business deals or money, instead his heart tugging at the thought of his doe eyed, honey lipped girl waiting for him in the city.

“I think she had too much to drink.” Emma would say, clambering into a taxi cab she had managed to hail, teetering in her tall satin shoes. “I wanted to take her home with me, but she was causing such a big fuss and asking for you - couldn’t bloody say no.”

Outside the club his voice would be stern and his stare would be solid. Clipped, quick words to the doormen, feeling you press your cold nose into the base of his throat, mumbling something incoherent about how pretty he was. He’d scold you fondly. Settle you down in the back seats of his car and cover you up with his jacket, smiling ever so softly at the way you cuddled into the warmth and the familiar smell.

He thought of how lonely his nights had been without you.

“How is she?”

“Fine. Everyone is just fine.”

But how are you? He wants to ask, but he has a feeling that no matter the answer he’ll still end with a bullet in his gut, so he lets the silence engulf the both of you, nothing in the air but unspoken tension and the soft purr of the engine.

He had an idea. Something conniving and crafty, something that he’s been wanting to do since the night he told you that it wasn’t safe to be with him, the night he told you to leave. Thomas Shelby has always been a strong, level headed man, but something about you just makes him crumble. You have a way of twisting around him, snaking around his thoughts and feelings like a vine, and he gives himself up wholly.

He would never put you in a position you were uncomfortable with, but he can’t help the claw in his gut when he thinks of how long it’s been since you’ve been apart. He can smell the sweet liquor and perfume on you, can see the way your eyes are glossed ever and your hair is mussed. You’re tired, and after the way that goddamn leech of a man had been fawning over you Tommy is in no mood to leave you alone, he likes knowing that you’re safe, it’s the only thing that makes him able to sleep at night.

He glanced over to you, watching as you yawned into your palm, your soft, pretty eyes looking at the stars and the moon and his decision was made for him.

“You missed the turn.” You said a few moments later, perking up a little in your seat.

“Hmm?”

“You missed it. You should have turned left back there.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you’re pretty sure you know the reason why. Despite the part of your body that is sparked like a match at the thought of spending the night with him, you also know that it is too dangerous, that the two of you together are fire and gasoline.

“No. No, Tommy. I’m not staying over with you.”

“Yes you are. You can stay in a guest room - it’ll give you time to sleep off that hangover.”

“I’m hardly drunk.”

“Well, when we get home you can walk in a straight line for me, eh?”

“It’s not my home.”

That hurt.

He ignored you, feeling the familiar bite of irritation, hating that he wasn’t the same man to you that he once was. He could feel his tone getting desperate, and under any other circumstance he would be furious at being so weak, but never around you. “Just stay. Tonight? For me. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not getting into any trouble.”

“Tommy Shelby never sleeps.”

You huffed and crossed your arms over your chest, sighing in defeat. Tommy smiled, and realised as the car lurched over the bridge that’ll take you back where you both belong that he’s the happiest he has been in a long time.

—————————————————————

His house was as intimidating as ever, even more so under the thick blanket of the night. The architecture looked gothic, the sprawling roof and high chimneys almost seeming menacing as the car pulled up along the gravel, the low sound of the rocks crackling like a fire.

It almost felt strange. A house you had stepped foot in hundreds of times, suddenly feeling unfamiliar and mystifying. It was like the very first time you had seen the house a few years ago, how the large rooms and the tall ceilings seemed empty and dangerous, as though they housed a million secrets.

But since then it had been full of so much light. You had danced with him playfully, barefoot on the kitchen floor, with the windows open and soft jazz flittering in the air like sunlight. You had slept on the sofa in the drawing room, tangled up against his bare chest, the room littered with wine stained glasses and cigarette burns. You had laughed until you had cried, kissed him on the vivaciously on the mouth, sat through dozens of rowdy family dinners, shared coffee and pastry under the sleepy morning light - and now it felt as though a million years had passed.

You let him lead you inside. Keeping a safe distance and a wary eye as though he was an unpredictable stray dog that needed to be kept at arms length. He sensed your suspicion and ignored it, marching forward like a solider, pretending that your distrust didn’t make him feel awful. He hated to think of you on edge because of him, he hated how small it made him feel. He never wanted to be insignificant to you.

You noticed how bare it was in the hallway. Once upon a time the coat rack would have been filled with your furs and shawls, your pastel pink boots and his forever charcoal posh oxfords lined next to one another, a poignant reminder of their owners and the differences that you both shared.

It wasn’t just lack of your belongings, somehow the house seemed much emptier. It didn’t smell as worn as it usually did, the warmth of a recently lit fire didn’t dwell in the air and there were no keys or shoes by the front door. You knew that Mary kept a clean house, but this was something different, and a sour thought suddenly hit you.

“You haven’t been home much?” You tried to keep the jealousy out of your voice and remain level headed, but it was proving hard when you were feeling so nauseous at the thought of him sharing a bed with somebody else.

“Lot of late nights at the office.” He shrugged his jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around a hanger, his icy blue eyes catching yours. “Home didn’t feel like home anymore.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words, but you chose to ignore it.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“I thought I was here to sleep.”

“You are. But what kind of host would I be if I didn’t offer my guest a nightcap?”

You made a noise. Something halfway between a scoff and a huff.

“Tea? Whiskey?”

“No, I’m fine thank you.”

“What about hot chocolate? I still have some of that god awful strawberry stuff you love so much.”

Memories of sickly sweet strawberry kisses flash in your head. Images of Tommy wincing and groaning as if you had poisoned him. Belly laughs and pillow talk. All things you had tried so hard to forget.

“No. I don’t drink that anymore.”

He looked at you. There were no diamond chandeliers or dark corners or red velvet walls distorting your appearance, just the two of you stood opposite in the hallway of his mansion. He looked you up and down, not in a sleazy way, like the man at the bar who had so desperately wanted to get his hands under your dress but almost - longingly. There was something in his eyes. Swimming right in those ocean eyes was something you couldn’t quite make out, he opened his mouth to say something but before he could speak you heard the whine of the door above you.

“Mr Shelby! You’re back.” It was Mary, stood at the top of the stairs. Still dressed in her maids uniform despite the ungodly hour, she looked as pristine as ever, and you couldn’t think of a time you had seen the elderly woman without makeup on. She flew down the stairs, eager to offer Thomas anything she could, but she stopped dead in her tracks when she finally saw you.

“Miss (Y/L/N)!” She said, trying to control the shock in her voice. She hadn’t been there the day that you left, but it wouldn’t take a fool to guess what had happened between you and her boss. Just like you, she probably assumed you would never return to the Shelby house. After a moment she smiled kindly, regaining her composure after the initial shock. “It’s a pleasure to see you once again.”

“And you, Mary.”

“Oh! Mr Shelby I’ve made up your quarters and -” she stopped, realising what she was saying and she awkwardly shifted as she tried to change the subject. “Can I get you anything? Shall I bring you some tea? Or some wine?”

“Oh no. I’m fine thank you, really.”

“You know what Mary,” You heard Tommy say, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Can you fix us some drinks? Whatever’s in the cupboards is fine. Oh, and bring us those chocolates Ada brought from New York. We’ll be in the sitting room.”

“Tommy - ” You started, but he was already gone, walking through his house with renewed energy, and you strained your ears to hear the sentences he called out over his shoulder.

“One drink. For old times sake.”

“Ugh. You’ll be the death of me, Shelby.”

———————————————————————

It should have been awkward. It should have been awkward and uncomfortable and painful - but it wasn’t.

He lit a fire, something about the yellow flames and the crackling wood soothing you like warm milk. You missed the feel of his sofas, the ones that cost such an outrageous price that it made your eyes water, and you sunk into the cushions far more easily than you liked. Mary had made your favourite drink, and the situation felt so familiar that it was ridiculous, but it was more ridiculous how good everything felt.

He was as charming as ever. Giving you those side eye glances and cheeky smiles as he spoke, asking about your family and telling you stories of the trouble his brothers had been in. He moved around the room in a blur of navy, because as God would have it tonight of all nights he was wearing your favourite blue suit, the one that made him look so beautiful and powerful.

He didn’t ask about work, and you were glad, because you weren’t ready to tell him yet.

Perhaps an hour passed, the two of you dancing around each other, neither one wanting to be the one that crossed the line first. Your mind was blurry but you knew that this had gone on too long, you needed to pull the plug before it was too late, but as always, Tommy got there first.

“It feels like fate.” He said, his voice so much warmer than it had been a few moments before.

“What does?”

“Running into you tonight.”

You scoffed. “Please. Tommy Shelby doesn’t believe in fate.”

“I didn’t. Not until I met you.”

Your whole body felt like it had been set alight. He knew just what to say to get you to curl around his little finger. He was watching you intently, moving forward so his elbows were on his knees, as though he was desperate to hear your reply. He was being honest, more so than he had been in a long time, but your mind was too filled with the past to give into his sweet words.

“So,” You said, knocking back the last dregs of your drink. “Are you just going to pretend it never happened?”

“What?”

“Cut the crap, Tommy.” You snarked. “You know what I mean.” A breathless laugh. “God, this is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Don’t say that.”

You rubbed your forehead, massaging away a migraine you could feel brewing. “I need to go to bed. I don’t want to get into all of this again.”

“(Y/N) - ”

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

You stood up and heard the sound of his glass of whisky hitting his red oak table. Your fingers touched the edge of the door handle, but he was pulling you backwards before you could leave. You were facing him, trying to keep your eyes away from his, not wanting to go falling into him the way your body desired.

“You might not want to talk but you can listen.” He said, so close to you that your noses were almost touching. You pursed your lips and squirmed like a child, but he raised an eyebrow and you huffed, letting him speak, his words shattering you like you were a sheet of ice.“Im still in love you.”

You bit your lip to stop from crying. The scab had been picked off, blood clotting down your ankles and onto the floor.

“Think I will be till the day I die. Even after.”

His words were so sincere and you wanted to believe them. You could feel him watching you, cornering you, willing you to say the words back, needing to hear the words fall from your lips.

You held up one finger, trying to stop him from speaking. “Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

You could feel the hot prickle of tears forming in your eyes, and the way your throat constricted like you’d been swallowing cotton balls.“Was this the plan all along? Invite me back, get me drunk and think I’ll crawl back into bed with you after you tell me a few lines?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never do that to you.”

He was angry. More so with himself, he’s always been in control, so articulate and calculated, but he was losing his grip on you, his knuckles turning white. He knew he made a mistake that night when he told you to leave, but his pride was too strong to do anything about it. Seeing you tonight had been more than just a coincidence, he knew that, and everything in him was screaming at him to fight for you.

“I miss you.” It ached for him to say it out loud, such a powerful man admitting that you were his weakness, that you bring him to his knees like he’s a child.

“I miss you too, Tommy, you know I do. But - ”

“I fucked up.”

“Tom.”

“I never should have let you leave.”

“We - Us - It’ll never - ” You couldn’t think let alone speak, all of your words twisting and tumbling from your mouth like loose marbles.

“We were a lot of things, but you can’t tell me that we aren’t supposed to be together.”

“I don’t want to talk about this... I can’t!”

“So let’s not talk.”

His lips met yours and you were on fire. The breath you didn’t know you were holding was knocked out of you by the force of his body on yours. His hands were all over you, checking you were real, feeling the curve and dip of your body the way his mind had conjured up in the dark in the months that you had been gone, he savoured you entirely, he devoured you.

“This isn’t - This isn’t right.” It was lie. Nothing felt more right. Your whole body ached and quivered for him, you wanted to breathe in his smell and run your fingers through his hair until they bled, but you also didn’t want to go down without a fight.

He knew you too well though.

“Stop it.” He had you backed up against the wall, his body pressed in between your thighs. He’d caged you in, one hand curling softly under your jaw, manipulating you so that you had no choice but to look right into his damn sea foam eyes. “Stop being so stubborn.”

“Stop being such a prick then.”

Lips on your neck. His hands all over you. Inhaling your perfume and the smell of your hair, digging his fingertips into your hip, a jolt of pain that you knew would leave a bruise. He captured your lips again, relishing in the way you felt under him, he was desperate for more, and he smiled cheekily when he heard you moan.

“I thought you wanted to go to sleep.” He teased, his voice was playful but he was struggling to keep his composure, he felt like his head was being held underwater, the pleasure teetering on pain.

“I hate you.” You said, gasping for air, feeling adrenaline and liquor and lust flow through you.

“No you don’t.”

You bit down on his plump bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. He winced slightly, and rolled his eyes, shoving you backwards into his bookcase, kissing you even harder. A few novels and a porcelain figurine fell to the floor, the small black horse shattering at your feet. He grumbled slightly, and you giggled into his neck. You bent down to try and collect the broken pieces but he swatted your hand away, kissing and sucking all across your neck and throat, wanting to mark his territory.

“Stop that. I don’t want you cutting yourself.” He muttered into your flesh, clasping your hands together and holding you by the wrists, refusing to let you do anything but melt into him - not that there was anything in the world you would rather be doing.

Slowly the kisses got softer, more tender, all across your collar and shoulders like raindrops. There was something methodical about it, almost poetic, like he was trying to savour the taste of your skin, and the way your body rippled under him. After a moment he stopped, his hands tangling into your hair, gripping you by your jaw, looking into your glossed out, wide eyes.

“I really fucking missed you. I’m sorry.”

You shuddered. “I know.”

“Tomorrow we’ll talk. Alright?” There are a million things he needed to say. A million things he needed you to know, but there was nothing more important to him at that moment than having you under him, letting his body show you all of the things he couldn't put into words. He needed you, all of you. His head was fucked and he needed the wash of calm you gave him, he needed to feel whole, the way that only you could make him.

“Tomorrow.” You whispered.

He nodded solemnly. Ducking his head and pressing your mouths together, hot and raw and heavy. You were sweeter than sugar, stronger than whisky and prettier than all of the stars in the sky, and he struggled to keep himself from buckling at the knees under your touch. The only thing that could stop him from moulding your bodies together were the sweet little words that left your lips, the ones that rang like a gospel in his ears.

“Take me to bed, Tommy.”

————————————————————

He broke it off three months prior.

You had been missing each other, your schedules hectic and mismatched, and it had been a good few weeks since you had spoken for more than a few stolen seconds over the telephone. Finally, like the sun parting through rain clouds, there was one weekend that was empty in both of your diaries and Tommy told you to expect a car outside of your flat one Friday afternoon.

A whole weekend. Two days and three nights spent with your beloved, it should have been a time filled with late nights and rumpled bedsheets, coffee in the morning and wearing nothing but his linen shirts and the pretty lilac underwear he loved so much - but it turned soon turned sour.

On Sunday you had been making rhubarb pie. Folding and rolling the pastry between your fingertips, listening to the birds whistling through the open window and the lull of soft jazz from the radio behind you.

He had taken a call. A sullen look falling over his face as soon as he answered the phone. He had shut himself in his study, and all you could hear was the deep rumble of his voice and the sound of his footsteps, and so you left him alone, and busied yourself with other things.

It had all been so wonderful. Riding his horses through the fields, reading books under his arm as he rifled through papers, stealing kisses that tasted like hard candies and peppermint. You'd forced him to relax, made him take a bubble bath with you, poured lavender and vanilla oil across his aching shoulders until he let out an involuntary moan, ran your fingers through his hair until his breath evened out and his eyes fluttered shut, finally feeling at peace next to the woman he loved.

You’d laughed and made love and kissed and danced and it had all be so perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

For 48 hours he had been yours. He wasn’t “Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders,” he had been your Tommy. You weren’t a fool, you knew that work was always the most important thing to him, that he lived and breathed for the company he had built from his two bare hands, his work ethic and brilliance was something you admired about him, but it didn’t mean that it didn’t sting when he slipped back into business mode.

It had been about an hour, and you were cleaning the counters, something soothing about finding the dark marble granite under the mess of flour. You knew that Mary would have a fit if she knew you were cleaning, but you enjoyed the normalcy it gave you. You heard him before you saw him, the sound of his matte leather brogues on the tile in the hallway, and you lifted your head when you felt his presence in the doorway.

“You need to leave.”

His tone was so sudden and blunt that it almost made you laugh, but one look at the sallowness of his skin and the intensity in his eyes made you straighten up. “Excuse me?”

“It’s Sabini.”

“What about him?”

“He knows - he fucking knows.”

He was being uncharacteristically agitated, and it sent a deep chill down your spine. You lurched forward, hands spread, wanting to carry some of his worry. “Knows what? Tommy, calm down.”

“He’s had men lurking outside your flat.”

“What?”

“One of the new boys spotted ‘em. Fucking filth have been there all weekend.”

You felt your heart sink to your stomach. Truthfully, whilst the thought of Sabini and his men watching you made your skin crawl, you were more worried by the way it seemed to have frazzled Tommy. You weren’t used to seeing him so... anxious, and that sent red hot warning signs to your brain.

Your relationship had never been a secret per se, but you never made it public. After a few months of rendezvous in hotels and bars up and down the country, and Tommy realising his feelings for you were much more than just lust - he laid everything out bare. He told you he wanted you. But he also told you what the consequences of hanging off his arm were. You knew the risks, knew what chaos his love could bring, but you were falling so deeply that none of it mattered to you. You weren’t stupid, and Tommy did everything in his power to keep you safe, and the two of you found a mellow middle ground, a place where you could be happy and young and in love, without all of the mayhem.

“Well - it’s alright. I’m here. I’m safe aren’t I? He was probably just scoping the place out, he probably thought you were there and - ”

You were rambling, and most of what you were saying was untrue. You both knew the reason that Sabini was there, it was a message, a warning. A threat to Tommy that he could take away his weakness with one snap of his slimy little fingers.

You shrugged off your apron, and stepped towards him, shaking your head. “We knew that one day this would happen. That people would find out, it’s not your fault Tom.”

“We were stupid. We were reckless.”

“And what? We were supposed to just stop living our lives in case somebody saw us?”

“Not just somebody. Somebody who could fucking kill you.”

“Tommy.”

“You need to leave.”

“Listen to me -”

“I’ll get Bernard to drive you to the station. Your friend...” He paused momentarily, trying to remember a name he had heard in passing. “Sarah? She still lives in Manchester doesn’t she? You’ll stay with her till I’ve sorted this out.”

You scoffed, your eyes the size of dinner plates.“I’m not leaving.” You tried to make him see sense, but you were having a hard time keeping your voice levelled. “I’ve got work, Tom. I can’t just up and leave.”

He ignored you. You could see his brain whirring a mile a minute, the wheels inside his mind frantically looking for a solution. You marched over to him, forcing him to look at you. “I’m not scared.”

“Well then you’re a fool.”

“Am I? For not running at the first sign of danger?”

“Don’t fucking start with me. Not about this. This isn’t some fucking game.”

“I never said it was, Tom. But what? I’m supposed to hide out in another fucking city until all of this settles down.”

“Stop being so fucking difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. I know what I signed up for, we both did. We knew this would happen eventually.”

“And now that is has - we have to be smart.”

“Not everything in life is a business deal.”

“What would you know about that?”

It was a low blow. Something that struck you like a winning punch to the gut, you stepped back from the impact, shaking your head and pursing your lips. You’ll let him brew in his anger, let him get worked up and pissed off, and you’ll wait for his apology in a few days, something expensive and designer showing up at your front door, his way of saying “I’m sorry I was such an asshole.”

“You know what? I’m leaving. Call me in a few days when you get your head fucking screwed back on. We can talk then.”

“No.”

It came out strangled, like the word sliced the inside of his throat when he said it.

“What?”

“You need to stay away. We need to end this.”

“End this?” You scoffed. “What? Like we’re just a business deal?”

“It’s not safe, and I can’t do anything that’s going to jeopardise the company.”

“The fucking company?” You were furious, your body stinging with hurt, feeling betrayal wash over you like sour milk. “How - How dare you!”

“I think it’s best if we spend some time apart.”

“So this is it then? You’ll throw away everything just because some fucking man has been looking around corners?” His silence made you more enraged, and you willed him to fight back. Fight for you. “Do you want me to leave? Do you want me to go, Tom?”

Silence.

And then - “It’s not safe.”

“Fuck you.”

That was the last thing you had said to him. Three words replaced with two that shattered around the room like an earthquake. You had tears in your eyes, and you rushed upstairs to pack your things, your heart breaking into sharp little pieces inside of you. He could hear the start of your sobs, the ones you tried so hard to muffle with your hand and he truly fucking hated himself. He gripped the marble above the fireplace and steadied his breathing, pushing out any thoughts of the weekend. He willed himself to shove away the happy memories, the sound of your laugh and the smell of your skin, the way he didn’t hear the shovels when you were beside him, safe and warm in his arms.

He needed to do what he did best, regain control and protect those he cared about, and right at the fucking top of the list was you. Any niggles of rationality and guilt telling him that pushing you away was wrong quickly turned to ash in his mind, he was certain that this was the right thing to do, despite the way that it really fucking hurt. He had to keep you safe. Men like him didn’t get to have nice things like you.

So he shut the door to his office, muffling the sound of you rummaging around upstairs, a part of you wishing and hoping that he would open the door and kiss you and apologise, and instead he picked up the phone, and went back to work.

———————————————————————

You woke up to sunlight painting your skin, and an empty bed, the silk sheets in disarray and bundled beside your bare body.

Oh fuck.

Like an ice cold bucket of water dropping over your head, you remembered every detail of what had happened overnight. Your skin relived the feeling of hands and fingertips and oh god, tongue dragging all across you, branded into your memory like a burn. It was the best nights sleep you had gotten in a long time, and the bed was so warm and soft and smelling like sin that you struggled to even lift your head from the pillow to check the time.

Mid morning.

You hadn’t slept in this long for a while, and you knew the reason why. Head slightly pounding from too much alcohol and adrenaline, you crawled out of bed, washing the remnants of last nights makeup from your face and pulling on your crumpled dress and stockings that had been haphazardly flung over the furniture. Your heart lurched a little when you freshened up in the bathroom and noticed your toothbrush still in the holder on the sink, right next to his.

You could hear cluttering downstairs and followed the noise, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, unable to stop the small smile that the sight gave you. He had evidently sent Mary on an errand, something far away so he could make you both breakfast in peace, away from prying eyes. He looked so boyish, so domestic, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, nimble fingers turning the bacon on the pan, his hair mussed from sex and sleep. It made you feel like you had swallowed a match. Your whole body alight from seeing him so gentle and vulnerable, so bare for just you to see.

Thomas Shelby whisking eggs and squeezing oranges, barefoot in his own kitchen, the sight rarer than a unicorn, and you were the only person who ever got close enough.

“Hi.” It left your mouth awkwardly and rolled off your tongue like an ice cube.

“Morning.” He turned and smiled, his lazy eyes trawling the length of your body. You hadn’t noticed it, but he felt a flicker of hurt that you were in your own clothes, a part of him wanting and hoping that you would be in one of his shirts, something that he loved much more than he could comprehend. He shook his head, willing the thoughts away. “It’ll be done soon. I think I’ve burnt the toast though, and probably added too much salt to the eggs.”

You smiled thinly, the light not reaching your eyes. This was all too much, all too soon. He was here and he was beautiful and you were right at the frontline, ready to get your heart broken all over again.“Last night,” You cleared your throat, as though the words were lodged deep inside. “It was a mistake.”

He didn’t blink, cool stare focused on the meal he was preparing, long fingers methodically slicing and dicing, as though your words didn’t make his heart thump against his rib cage. He didn’t like it, not one bit, the way that it sounded as though you regretted the time you had spent together. He never wanted you to feel like that, like the intimacy you had shared was something crude, as though you were a one night stand of a drunken fuck at a bar, this was so much more than that. This was love.

But Tommy liked holding his cards to his chest, and it was much easier to tease you then tell the truth.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

You scoffed, hating his cockiness yet knowing that he was obviously right. “Don’t be a twat, Tommy.”

The ghost of a smile on his face, if you had blinked you might have missed it, but you were always the best person at reading him - the only person he had let close enough to see him, flaws and all. He always liked when you bickered with him, his little firecracker. He didn’t tolerate just anyone speaking to him the way you did, but he would let you get away with bloody murder and he couldn’t deny that it didn’t bring a flush to his cheeks when you got particularly feisty.

You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off, his hands full with cutlery and plates filled with slap up breakfast foods, and you couldn’t deny that your mouth was watering.

“Eat first. We’ll talk later.”

You let out a sound halfway between a huff and a groan but caved in, clambering into the seat he had pulled open for you and piling your fork high. He watched you with a smile, the way you looked so young and pretty and angelic in the morning light, no makeup on and eyes still drowsy with sleep, like some kind of Renaissance painting he wanted to hang above his fireplace and stare at whenever things got rough.

He filled the silence with small talk, noting the weather and a story about one of John’s kids hiding a puppy in her room for almost a week without anyone noticing. You listened as best as you could, but you were distracted by the palomino mare you could see grazing in the fields behind his house, and something was prickling at your skin like brambles.

You cleared your throat, acting as nonchalant as you could muster. “Emma tells me that May Carlton is training your new mare.” Your knife sliced through your yolk, rich butter yellow bleeding across your plate. You tried to keep your voice steady, but you could feel the thickness in your throat as you remembered how it hurt like a bullet wound when your best friend had told you of his new associate. “I hear she is quite beautiful.”

“Yes, I suppose she is.” He murmured, cutting the edge of fat from his bacon. “But she’s nothing compared to you.”

You tried to pretend that his words didn’t make you swoon, and he tried to hide how much he loved it when you got jealous, something about the fire in your eyes making him want to push you up against a wall and kiss you till you couldn’t talk.

He paused, a coy smile on his lips. “Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

You scoffed. “Well, it’s only fair. What with all those Blinders following me. Can’t even go to the bloody shops without one watching me.”

So you had noticed. He had half been expecting a blazing call where you yelled at him for having men watch over you, and it had left a hole of disappointment in his gut when it never came.

“You know I would never let you be unprotected.”

“I know.”

Your eyes met, a wave of warm affection washed over the both of you, but you pulled your gaze back quickly, focusing your attention anywhere else.

“You should come and watch her.”

You froze, wondering if Tommy had just invited you to spend the day with May Carlton, you were sure that would be one evening that would end in blood and tears.

“The mare.” He said, picking up at your uncomfortableness and biting back a smile. “We’ve called her ‘Wicked Gypsy’, and she is brilliant. I reckon she could win the whole bloody thing.”

You liked how passionate he got when he talked about horses. Liked the way that he seemed to light up like a child, despite all the finery and bravado, you liked knowing that the little boy inside of him was still there, hidden deep, deep down, but still there. You were too busy being captivated by him that it took you a moment to realise that he had asked you to join him at the races.

You wanted nothing more, you truly wanted nothing more than to be his girl again. Cradled under his arm, dressed in lace and fur, his lips pressed to the heat of your throat, sweet little words whispered in your ear, a hand tight and possessive around your waist - but it just wasn’t that easy.

You sighed, crossing your cutlery. “Tom. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I want you there. I need my good luck charm.”

“Tommy, after everything. I don’t think we should.”

Firmer now, he looks at you, emphasising his point.“I need you there. When she wins, I need my best girl to be right by my side.”

He was so slippery. So sickly sweet that you could drown in him, struggle to move in the molasses that dripped from his tongue. He was dangerous, carnal fire and sin, but he wasn’t lying, he needed you, really fucking needed you.

You exhaled, thinking things through, and massaging the migraine brewing in your temples. He could see you trying to think of an excuse, another lie about how you’re bad for each other, but he got there first, not wanting to hear it.

“I’ll have a car pick you up on Friday.” He turned his hands so his palms were facing the ceiling, eyebrows raised playfully, “Or... maybe you can stay here the night. You know you’re welcome.”

Always so bloody charming. But you can’t stop the tsunami of thoughts, the mistakes of the past. “What is this, Tommy? What are we doing?”

“I fucked up. I never should have let you go.”

“But you did. And - I don’t want to get hurt all over again.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“You always do.”

You words stung him worse than if you had slapped him across the face, and he had to take a moment to swallow the sour taste that had been swimming across his tongue. He reached his hands out, clasping them with yours, so large and warm and safe, and he spoke with intensity.

“Just - Come with me, Friday. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

Friday. Suddenly it was no longer about slipping up or falling back in love and wondering what your friends might think when you told them, it was about something else that you needed to tell him.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Why not?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving where?” His tone was one of disbelief, his eyes sizing you up, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate excuse.

You sighed, taking your hands away from under his, noticing the lack of warmth immediately. “To Oxford. Peggy transferred me to the company over there.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because I asked her to.”

“You did what?”

You could see him thinking, wondering how none of his boys had found out this priceless piece of information that makes him want to throw his expensive fucking china at the wall.

“I did it all through work. Emma’s the only one who knew. I’m getting the train Wednesday night.”

He stood up so quickly his chair squealed across the wood floor, his mouth agape. “So what? You’re just going to leave?”

“There’s nothing here for me.”

He pointed one finger at you, scolding you like a child. “Don’t say that.”

You narrowed your eyes, shaking your head. “It’s true isn’t it? Why should I waste more time on this stupid cat and mouse game?”

“Is that all this is to you? A game?”

“You left me. For three months I was completely alone! What happens when something comes up, huh? How do I know that you won’t leave me all over again?” It was hard to keep the emotion from your voice, hard not to show just how badly the impact of those three months had been. “We need this! Some...some fucking space. Maybe being a few cities away will be good.”

It was a lie. Nothing sounded worse, but you had to say your piece because god knows you can’t keep holding everything in.

His voice was frayed, split like the hairs in an old rope. “Don’t. Don’t give me space. That’s the last thing I want from you.”

His words and his actions never lined up, and it made your blood boil. All of the anger you had turned into tears had remoulded into red hot rage, and you slammed your hands down on his expensive counter tops, flesh on marble ringing around the kitchen. “So then why did you let me go? Why did you tell me to leave?”

“Because I thought that was best for you!”

“You aren’t the one who gets to decide that!”

“Everything I do. Everything I fucking do - is to protect you.”

“Don’t say that. Protecting me isn’t making me leave, and then not speaking to me for three fucking months.”

You could see the click in his jaw, the vein in his throat throbbing. “You knew what you signed up for when you met me.”

“No, actually, I don’t think I did.”

It was true. You expected late nights, days of no contact, blood staining your bathroom counter and men watching your every move. You expected fights and make ups, going to the races in your finery and then walking down the shit filled streets of Small Heath, but you never expected that he would just leave you the way he did.

He was breathless, trying to control the rise and fall of his chest and the way that his fingers clenched. He never thought that you would leave, he had some fucked up feeling that you would always come back to him, that the two of you would always end up on the same ship, drifting along the same ocean. It was maddening. He had tasted you once again, had you under him, his girl reduced to putty in his hands. It had all made sense, the night seemed to be sweeter and the stars a little brighter and his lungs a little looser when you were next to him. It had all felt so right, and now you were going to leave.

He put it down to exasperation at not being in control anymore, the fact that he was watching you slip between his fingers once again like grains of sand, and so he said the worst thing he thought of, something that he knew would rip through you like a shot to the heart.

“Well at least I got one last fuck eh? That was all you were really any good for anyway.”

He could hear it immediately, the sound of the bullet leaving the gun, or perhaps that’s your heart shattering in two. He regretted it, he regretted it so badly that he wished he could pull the words back down his throat and swallow them like they were poison.

Your eyes watered but you didn’t let him see you cry. Your mouth opened and then closed not wanting to waste your breath on a reply, not wanting to hurt him the way he’d hurt you. You didn’t bother with a reply, not trusting yourself enough to talk, only wanting to be alone to like your wounds in peace. So you turned and left, last nights heels echoing through the hallway, the sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut, silence falling once again.

Tommy pushed the plates off the table.

—————————————————————————-

Wednesday night and you were listening to your favourite record, something to distract you from the suitcase you were packing. Since the fight you hadn’t heard from Tommy, the first thing you’d packed had been your phone, pulling it off the wall as soon as you got home, not wanting to be on edge waiting for his call.

You didn’t allow yourself the time to wallow, refused to let yourself be beaten up by the words he had said, the ones that hung around your head like dead files. You hated that you let him speak to you that way, and you also hated that you missed him with every bone in your body.

Lilac, sapphire and emerald green. You threw your clothes together, watching the colours fade into a blur. You hadn’t packed anything he had given you, but you didn’t want to throw them out either and so they sat in a lonely purgatory in your wardrobe; a little gift to the next tenant.

You knew who was there the second the doorbell rang. Well, rang three times. The sound so shrill and violent that you tipped your head back in frustration. You considered leaving him outside in the summer rain, but soon the rings were switched with incessant knocking, your door surely about to break from the weight of his fists.

“Fucking hell.” You seethed, dropping your shoes onto the floor and stepping over the piles of toiletries stacked in the hallway. “Fuck you, Tom.”

You wanted to say those three words to him as soon as you opened the door, hoping your eyes reflected the anger bubbling inside of you, but he cut you off with a sigh of relief.

“Thank fuck you’re still here.”

“Not for long.”

You tried to shut the door, you really did, but he pushed past and into your flat with little effort.

“Get out, Tom. Now.”

He spun round to face you, and you finally got a good look at him. He looked rough, frazzled almost. His hair messy and his shirt ruffled and his eyes were mostly white, frantically watching your face.

“I fucked up. I fucked everything up.”

“You came all this way just to tell me that?”

“I should have followed you sooner. I should have followed you the second you walked through that door.”

You quirked an eyebrow in challenge. “Which time?”

He spread his hands out, biting down on his tongue. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.”

You sighed, kicking a stray shampoo bottle with your feet, something to fill the emptiness that surrounded you. “I’ve made up my mind.”

He moved one step closer and you moved one step back. “Is this what you really want?”

“We can’t always get what we want.”

“That’s bullshit.”

You threw your hands up in despair. “I’m not doing this with you now, Tommy. My train leaves in an hour and I have my first day tomorrow and I don’t want to fuck it all up.”

“If it’s what you really want, then you should go. But don’t leave if it’s all because of me.”

You scoffed. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

“And I’m not going to let you go without telling you that I love you. I really fucking love you.”

“Tommy.” It’s a warning. It’s a threat. But it hangs between you both, lingering in the air like smoke.

“I know you love me too. I know you do. I also know that I’m a massive twat who fucked everything up, but I’m not letting you get away, not again.”

You're exasperated. His words like honey, but you’re scared that that’s all they are, and you’re more scared that they might be so much more. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because I’m telling the truth. I don’t care about anything. Nothing matters to me more than you. I don’t care if Sabini has men outside my house every fucking night, you’re only safe with me, and I can only do this with you by my side.”

“Talk is cheap.”

“If I have to spend every day proving how much you mean to me then I will. I can’t - I can’t be without you.”

He was so close to you. Your noses almost touching, the hair on your arms and your spine sticking up, something electric about him. You want to hate him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing in your dimly lit hallway, looking dishevelled and beautiful and dare you say, broken. The edge of his jawline caught the light, shimmering like a jewel, and the pools in his eyes were so sincere and so deeply blue that you wanted to fall right into them.

Were you going to do this? Were you going to let him in again? You thought of everything - rain splattered kisses, dancing under the pale moonlight, sour whisky in the corner of his office. You thought of all of the chaos, all of the blood, all of the family arguments and shouting that echoed around his manor. You thought of all the tears you had shed, all the times your throat had been raw and your heart shattered into pieces. You thought of strawberry fields and his hand in yours, laughing with his brothers until you couldn’t breathe, the way that he felt and smelt and spoke like home.

It had been bad, but it was also the best thing you had ever been a part of.

You sighed loudly, clicking your tongue, meeting him somewhere in the middle. “Fuck. I’m never going to get my deposit back.”

His whole body trembled, relief coming from every pore, and he made a vow to go to Church with Pol on Sunday and thank whoever was listening for getting you back. “Well you’re moving in with me so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You rolled your eyes, his large hands wrapping around your jaw, making you look at him. He smelt like woodsmoke and peppermint, like a million bad decisions and the tang of a smoking barrel. It took everything in you to not buckle at the knees and let him carry you like a child.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He cradled your face, hoping his words came off as strongly out loud as they did in his head. He’s not going to fuck up again, but even he can’t stop his brain from short circuiting at the sight of you, so pretty with your doe eyes and raspberry lips, the skin on your throat just begging for the tug of his teeth.

You buried your head in his chest when he pulled you close, your words muffled through the cotton of his shirt. “If you ever speak to me like that again I’ll rip your fucking balls off.”

A soft smile, one that washes over him like warm candlelight. “I know.”

He’s not letting you go, not again. You’re a fucking part of him, like the blood that runs through his veins and the steady thump of his chest, you’re a part of his body, the reason why he can breathe and run and love. You’re the thing that stops the tremor in his hands, the thing that makes him so unshakeable, so tough and in control.

He had something to fight for.

And only knowing that you’re by his side, safe and warm and pressed into the crook of his body, does he finally allow himself to exhale.

#tommy shelby oneshot #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby oneshot #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders oneshot #orion writes

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seasonsofeverlark · 3 years

Text

Haunted Tour of Savannah

Author: @norbertsmom

Prompt: Prim drags Katniss in a Haunted Tour around Savannah GA… will this be a spooky story? silly? will Peeta be a ghost? another person in the tour? what happens in this tour??? Only you know! [submitted by @alliswell21]

Rating: T; Trigger warning for mention of murder suicide.

Author’s Note: Love this prompt, @alliswell21. I sort of got carried away researching Savannah, and the ghost tour industry there.

Hope you enjoy! Happy Halloween!

_____________

The sound of my bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor echoes the pounding of my heart as I run down a dark hallway. Flashes of lightning illuminate the portraits on the wall that watch me as I pass. The booming thunder just seconds later shake the walls as if they would cave in on me.

I don’t know why, but I need to get to the door at the end of the hall, desperately, but it seems so far away. The faster I run, the farther away it gets.

When I’m finally in front of the door, I reach out to turn the knob, but just as grasp it, the door flies open. And all I can see is red.

I wake screaming, tangled in my bed sheets that stick to my sweaty skin. My heart still pounding as I try to catch my breath. I grab the bottle of water from my nights stand and take a drink. The dim red light of my alarm clock tells me it’s only just past 2 am.

I look over to my sister’s bed. Luckily, Prim is still fast asleep. Good. I’m glad I didn’t wake her. We need our rest for the trip to Savannah tomorrow, well, later today. We’re going to spend the weekend on a haunted tour of the city with some friends from college, her idea. Something fun to do before she goes off to medical school. I’ll miss her, but she’ll be to pursuing her dream. That thought helps calm me down enough to fall back to sleep.

“Katniss, wake up,” Prim says as she gently jostles me awake.

“What time is it?” I grumble, not ready to open my eyes and check.

“It’s 7 o’clock. I let you sleep an extra half hour while I got ready,” she says as she sits on the side of my bed and starts combing her fingers through my hair. “You had another nightmare, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I don’t even try to deny it. I’ve had them ever since our father died when I was eleven. “But this one was different. It wasn’t about dad.”

“No? What was it about then?” she asks while handing me my bottle of water.

I take a sip and shake my head. “I’m not even sure. I was running, it was raining outside. I had a terrible sense of dread.”

“Maybe you’re just nervous about the road trip,” Prim suggests with a shrug, “or the haunted cemetery. Ooooo.” Prim mimics a ghost and wiggles her fingers around then gets up off my bed. “Seriously though, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m still just a little tired.” I don’t tell her that I may be a little nervous about seeing a certain someone that I haven’t seen since he transferred to another college. He’s one of our friends that will be joining us on the haunted tour.

“Well, you can sleep in the car if you need to, but right now, you need to get up and get a shower. I’ll make us some breakfast.”

“Okay, I’m getting up,” I tell her as I swing my legs out from under the covers.

The shower and breakfast did the trick, so I don’t need to nap in the car. The four-hour drive from our small mountain town just outside of Charlotte, North Carolina to Savannah, Georgia is going by quickly. Prim and I sing along to the radio.

We are having fun, but this road trip feels like an ending of sorts. We’ve spent our whole lives together. We even went to college together at UNC Charlotte even though she’s two years younger than me. I worked for two years to save up money instead of going into student loan debt. Prim didn’t have that problem with all the scholarships she got, so we ended up as freshmen together. Now, Prim will be going to UNC Chapel Hill for medical school. Sure, it’s only 2 hours away, but medical school is very demanding. She won’t be able to come home very often.

What am I doing? We are supposed to be having fun. I’m not going to let my melancholy about her leaving spoil our weekend she spent so much time planning. I shake those thoughts away and rejoin Prim in singing along to Taylor Swift’s latest hit.

When we arrive in the historic district of Savannah, Prim directs me to pull in front of the hotel. It’s brick façade and green shutters are very distinctive. It has a wrought iron verandah around the front that creates a balcony on the second floor.

As we are getting out of the car, a valet comes out and takes the keys, and gives me a ticket before driving off to some remote lot. We hike our backpacks on and walk toward the entrance.

The emblem on the door to the hotel seems very familiar to me. It’s a small bird in flight inside of a golden circle. Upon a closer look I see that it’s a Mockingjay. That makes sense since the name of the hotel is Mockingjay House Hotel. I must have seen the logo when Prim was doing all of the planning. Still, I can’t help but think I’ve seen it before. Maybe a long time ago.

Once we are in line to check in, Prim excitedly tells me all about the tour we’ll be going on later. “We’ll take a hearse to tour the city. Our first stop is at the Moon River Brewing Company, which is supposed to be the most haunted place in the city.”

“Okay?” A hearse, what are we getting into, I wonder?

“Then onto the Colonial Park cemetery, which is also haunted,” she adds.

“Of course,” I add with a chuckle, and Prim slaps my arm.

“Then back to this hotel. Which is…”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt, “Haunted?”

“Yep,” she answers smugly.

“So, you booked us into a haunted hotel?”

“Of course, I did,” she answers excitedly. “Why stay in the most haunted city if you can’t stay in a haunted house, or hotel in this case.” She stops and grabs my arm. “There’s supposed to be a lot of ghosts here.”

“Okay,” I tell her with a laugh. “If seeing a ghost is your idea of fun, I guess I have to go with it.”

“You’re the best sister in the world,” she tells me.

“Hey guys,” someone calls out and we turn around to see Delly Cartwright and Rye Mellark coming toward us. Prim runs over to greet our friends from college. Peeta Mellark comes in behind them.

Delly, Peeta and I went to school together. Rye is a year older. They all went away to college right out of high school. Once Prim and I got to college we were all in the same friend group. There always seemed to be something about Peeta, even when we were kids, some kind of pull toward him, but nothing really happened. I thought there might have been something after that weird Halloween party we went to, but he transferred to a school here in Savannah the next semester and I didn’t really see him again after that. Prim’s the one who kept in touch with our friends.

Hey, Katniss,” Peeta says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking up at me through his long eyelashes.

Hey, Peeta, um, did you guys just get in?” I ask because I don’t really know what to say to him.

“Well, Delly and Rye just arrived. I actually live here. I stayed after graduating. My paintings are currently on exhibit at the SCAD museum of art.”

“Wow, that’s great, Peeta. You always were a fantastic artist,” I tell him because it’s true. His art is so vivid. It really seems to come alive on the canvas.

“So, what have you been up to?” he asks me.

“I just started at the park service back in Blue Ridge.”

“That’s great, Katniss. You always seemed to live in the woods. I’m sure you’ll be very happy getting to work there every day.”

“Thanks, so you’re going on the tours with us?” I ask him, which is a silly question, really. I mean, why else would he be here.

Prim and Delly and Rye join us before he can answer. “Hey Katniss, glad you could make it,” Delly says. “Peeta here leapt at the chance to join us when he heard you would be here.”

“Delly,” Peeta grumbles as his ears turn red and Rye slaps him on the back.

I don’t know what to say, but we are spared any more embarrassment when Prim and I are called up to the desk to finally check in.

“We’ll meet you guys down here in about an hour for lunch,” Prim tells them after we are done checking in. After the others agree, I wave a weak goodbye before quickly turning away toward the staircase.

Our room is on the second floor, facing the street, so we’ll have access to the balcony as I had hoped. On our walk up the stairs, Prim tells me she and Delly booked the rooms specifically for the balcony. Only the rooms adjacent to the balcony have access to it. When we get to our room, we take turns to freshen up.

While Prim is still getting ready, I check the directory for someplace to eat. As I read down the list provided by the hotel, I find the perfect place. There’s a diner about a two-minute walk from here that I just have to take Prim to.

Prim comes out of the bathroom, as I’m entering the address into my phone. “I just got a text. Rue is here too. Ready to go get some lunch?” she asks.

“Yep, I found the perfect place.”

“Great, let’s go,” she says, and we head out the door.

We meet the others in the lobby, and Prim tells them I chose a place for lunch. Even though Peeta has been living here, he lets me lead the way.

“Hey, if we are going toward the waterfront, we should pass through Johnson Square. You’ll love it,” Peeta says.

I show him the directions on my phone, and he drags the line on our route to detour through the square.

Peeta was right. The landscaping is magnificent. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him, and he gives me a shy smile. The Spanish moss draping down from the trees creates a sort of canopy that remind me of the willow trees back home.

Once we are though the square, our stop is just around the corner. I can’t help but laugh at the look on Prim’s face when we arrive at the Little Duck Diner.

“How did you find this place?” she asks, clearly amused that there’s a restaurant that shares her nickname from when she was little. Her shirt tail used to stick out in the back when she was smaller than me and wore my hand-me-downs. I used to tell her, “Tuck in your tail, Little Duck,” and she’d give me a quack in reply.

“The name just popped out at me when I was going down the list of restaurants. We have to get a couple of glasses to take home with us, Little Duck,” I tell her.

“Definitely,” she says as we walk through the door. When we get inside, Prim and Rue sit together and start taking selfies with the menu’s and placemats. Delly and Rye, of course, sit together. Which leaves Peeta and I to awkwardly sit together as well.

After a great lunch, and some glasses to go, Peeta suggests we stop at Leopold’s for ice cream for the walk back to the hotel. It’s actually past the hotel, he explains, but we have time. Peeta leads us around, showing us the cobblestone streets, and historic buildings. We even walk down to the waterfront to see the river boats. Peeta and I are still stuck together, but he’s good company, so I don’t mind.

As we are walking back toward the hotel, Delly points out a sign for a psychic. “Let’s go there, guys,” she says, excitedly. “We can get our palms read, or whatever, you know. It should be fun!”

All that excitement in one person is hard to fathom, but Prim looks at me with her puppy dog eyes and I cave. I can’t believe we are going to see Tigris the psychic.

Tigris is a tall woman with catlike features. It’s hard to tell how old she is with all of the obvious cosmetic surgery she has had, but she has a kind soothing voice as she tells us about using her spiritual intuition to help us gain insight into our past, future and present. Whatever, she’ll just tell us what she thinks we want to hear all for the low, low price of just $30.

Delly asks is she and Rye can go together for the same $30, and Tigris agrees. Good, I don’t want to have to pay that much for some story she makes up for me.

After Delly and Rye follow Tigris into another room, Prim asks me if I mind if she goes in with Rue. “Sure, Little Duck,” I tell her. I’ll just wait for you guys to be done. I don’t need to have my future read.”

“Aw, come on, Katniss. What’s the fun of going to a psychic if we don’t all go?”

“Fine,” I grumble. That’s $30 I wasn’t planning on wasting.

“Thanks, Katniss,” Prim says with a smile as she and Rue are called back. Delly and Rye must have went out another door because they didn’t come back to the lobby with Tigris.

“I can pay for the reading for you, if you want,” Peeta tells me once we are alone.

“I don’t need your charity,” I tell him sharply. “I just don’t want to waste $30.”

“Sorry, just trying to help,” he says. “How about we go in together and split the cost then?”

“Sure, I suppose that will be okay,” I say sheepishly. “Sorry for snapping at you.”

“No problem at all,” Peeta says with a smirk. “I like your fire.”

I don’t have time to question what he means by that when Tigris comes back. We follow her down a dark corridor into another room. This room has dark wooden paneling with no windows, and one other door besides the one we came in.

After Peeta and I each give her $15, we sit down at a wooden table. “Give me your hand,” she tells us. I’m not really sure which one of us she’s talking to, but Peeta holds out his hand to her. She grabs it between both of her slender hands and closes her eyes. She rocks back and forth for a few seconds humming to herself.

Peeta and I exchange a look before she opens her eyes and drops Peeta’s hand as if it were on fire.

“Give me your hand,” she says to me and reaches for it before I can even offer it up. She holds my hand between hers just as she did for Peeta and closes her eyes again. She doesn’t hold my hand for long before dropping it and opening her eyes.

“You two are soulmates,” she tells, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Of course, we are. That’s what you tell all of the couples who come in here, isn’t it? Soulmates,” I scoff and stand up to leave.

“No, it’s true,” Tigris defends as she and Peeta also stand. “I saw into your pasts. Both of your lives have been entwined for ages, but you were torn apart in the past. Now you have been brought together to right the wrong that was done in a previous life.”

“Sure thing, Tigris,” I tell her. “Come on, soulmate,” I tell Peeta as I grab his hand to drag him out of there. I head for the other door which opens into another corridor. Peeta stops me before we go through the last door which is probably where the others are waiting.

“Katniss hold on. Take a breath a moment. You don’t want to go out there angry. Prim will get worried, and I know you don’t want that.”

“You’re right,” I tell him as I take a deep breath. “That kind of stuff just makes me so mad.”

“I know,” Peeta says as he pushes a loose piece of hair behind my ear. “I know you don’t want to be with me, and I’m okay with that.” I shake my head and try to interrupt him, but he continues. “I know how much you love your sister. You want her to have a good time on this trip, so let’s put on smiles and forget what they psychic said.”

I plaster on what I hope looks like a smile. “Peeta, wait,” I start, but he opens the door before I can say anything. What would I tell him anyway? I never said I didn’t want to be with him, but we hardly know each other. He left school to come here. Now he lives here, and I live back home. How would it even work between us?

“How did it go?” Prim asks as we join them. She’s all smiles so she must have been happy with her reading.

“Just great, um,” I stumble for something to tell her, and I give Peeta a look that he seems to understand.

He adds, “Katniss is going to be very happy working for the parks department back home, and ‘m going to become a famous artist. How about you guys? What did she tell you?”

We all filter back outside as the others take turns telling us how Tigris told them that they would be successful in their future. I’m surprised she didn’t tell Rye and Delly they were soulmates too, but I don’t mention it.

After all that walking, we finally get back to the hotel. We all agree we’ll see each other again when it’s time for the tour to begin. Prim and I drop off our glasses from the Little Duck Diner and freshen up again. “You and Peeta seem to be getting along pretty well,” Prim says with a smirk while she’s brushing out her hair.

“What?” I ask, rebraiding my own hair. “We were just talking,” I tell her, as I try to hide the smile that comes when I think of him.

When it’s time, we meet the others in the lobby. There are a few other people milling around that must be a part of our tour. At exactly 7 pm, a pale woman with pinkish hair dressed in a spring green suit announces to the room, “Everyone who has signed up for the 7 pm ghost tour, please make your way over to me.”

Our group all share a smile and start walking over to her. We are joined by a beautiful couple: the woman with flowing dark brown hair and sea green eyes, and the man, tall, and athletic with copper hair. The man stands behind the woman with his arms wrapped around her waist, whispering in her ear, as she giggles. No one seeing them could doubt their love.

The woman with pink hair looks around at the group and smiles. “Wonderful. You are all on time. Punctuality is a must. We have quite the tour ahead of us,” she says. “My name is Effie Trinket, and I am your tour guide. Our group must stick together for the next few hours, so please, let us go around the group. Please introduce yourself and let us know where we are from and what brought you to Savannah.

“I’ll go first. As I said, my name is Effie Trinket. I am originally from the capital, Atlanta, but I came to Savannah for a visit and fell in love with it. Now I share it with others.”

She gestures toward Prim and says, “Now you dear, please tell us, what is your name?”

Prim looks around the group, gives a little wave and says, “I’m Primrose Everdeen. I’m here with my sister Katniss,” she gestures to me and I nod to Effie. We’re here from Blue Ridge, North Carolina, just outside of Charlotte.”

“And why are you and your sister here, dear?” Effie asks.

“Oh yeah, um, we just graduated from college.” There’s a smattering of ‘congratulations’ around the group, and Prim continues, “Thanks, um, I’m going to go off to medical school soon, so we decided to take road trip together to celebrate with our friends from college.”

“Very nice,” Effie tells us. “Congratulations to the both of you. Anything you would like to add, Katniss?”

“Nope,” I tell her, and the others chuckle.

“Very well,” Effie says brightly. She motions to the other’s in our group. Delly, Rye, Peeta, and Rue all introduce themselves, then Effie moves onto the couple who are joining us. “Who is this lovely couple?”

The man speaks up, still wrapped around the woman, “Hi, I’m Finnick Odair, and this lovely lady is my wife Annie Cresta Odair.” Their eyes meet and they share a smile. Finnick continues, never taking his eyes off of Annie. “We’re from Biloxi Mississippi. We’re on our honeymoon. We’re working our way up the east coast.”

“Lovely,” Effie says. “Congratulations and thank you for spending part of your honeymoon with us.” Effie continues, “Now that the introductions are over, let get onto the tour. You may not know this, but Savannah is the most haunted city in the country. Our first stop will be the Moon River Brewing Company. Everyone please follow me.” Effie walks out of the front door on her precariously tall high heels as we follow behind her.

When we get outside, I can’t help but laugh. Our limousine is a converted hearse, just as Prim said.

Effie sits up front with the driver, as we all pile into the back. “After you,” Peeta says as he lets me get in first. I sit down next to Prim and Peeta sits down on my other side.

It’s a short drive to the Moon River Brewing Company. As we get out and congregate on the sidewalk outside, Effie explains that this location was formerly a hotel, and it has been voted the most haunted spot in Savannah. After we get our drinks at the bar – Effie recommends the smoking mirror drink, which as the name implies, smokes – she leads us down to the cellar and tells us the hotel was used as a hospital during the yellow fever epidemic. Ghosts of people who have died here have been seen wandering down here where the kept the bodies.

Next, she takes us upstairs to a roped off area that looks to be under construction. “You may be wondering why this area is part of the tour if it is in the middle of being renovated. Would you be surprised if I told you this area has been in this same condition for the past twenty years?”

We all look around, puzzled, then Effie continues, “There’s a ghost here named Coriolanus Snow who was a gambler who was killed in an altercation in that room. He is quite malevolent. He has thrown people across the room,” Someone in the group gasps, “and every time anyone has attempted to do any renovations up here, the work is destroyed when they come back in the next day. So, they have given up and left it to Mr. Snow. You may look into the area, but please do not go past the rope. We don’t want to make Mr. Snow angry.”

“Hey old Coriolanus, why don’t you tell us your secrets,” Finnick calls out as they look into the construction area. Annie shakes and grabs onto Finnick’s arm. He whispers something into her ear that makes her calm instantly.

After they go past, Delly and Rye peek in and Delly pulls Rye away rather quickly.

Peeta leans down and whispers in my ear, “Delly is such a scaredy cat. I’m surprised she agreed to go on this tour.”

The feel of Peeta’s breath on my neck makes me shiver. Peeta must notice because he asks me if I’m cold. “No,” I tell him truthfully because I’m actually feeling a little warm. Prim and Rue are all whispers and giggles as they rush past the roped area, barely looking in.

“After you,” Peeta says, as we step up to have a look. I truly do feel a chill just looking into the darkened room. I realize that we are the last two and I just want us to get out of here, but Peeta pulls me away before I can say anything. Effie is standing at the top of the stairs and directs us back down to the bar as she follows behind us.

After we each get a new drink, we are ushered back to the hearse, for our next stop on the tour, the Colonial Park Cemetery, which is according to Effie, the most haunted cemetery in the city. I sense a theme here.

Effie leads us among the head stones and goes on to explain, that burials here began in 1750, making it the final resting place of many of Savannah’s earliest residents. The numerous ghosts sightings here are believed to be the tragic victims of the Yellow Fever Epidemic that are buried here. Many people claim to have seen shadowy figures and hear voices calling out to join them.

Effie stops in front of a pair of graves with the same symbol that adorns the front of the Mockingjay House Hotel, the mockingjay inside a golden circle. “The story of this couple is quite tragic,” Effie says. “Haymitch Abernathy was a famous artist who owned quite a bit of land in the city. It was such a scandal when he married Maysilee Donner, a famous, but rebellious singer. They were both very successful, but they had their issues as most married couples do.”

Effie points to the heads stones. “You’ll notice the dates of their deaths are the same. That’s because Maysilee was murdered in her bed, and Haymitch was found dead at the bottom of the stairs.” Peeta and I share a look as Effie continues, “They now both haunt their old home.”

I just have to ask, so I speak up, “Effie, why is the symbol on their headstones the same as the one on our hotel?”

“Very observant, Katniss,” Effie tells me. “The Mockingjay House Hotel was once the Abernathy’s residence. Before it became a hotel, it was their home.”

“So, we are staying where they both died?” Annie asks incredulously, and Finnick wraps his arms tighter around her waist.

“Correct. But don’t worry, the room where Maysilee was murdered is on the fourth floor. That’s area is only open for tours, no guests stay there. It’s where we’ll be going next,” Effie tells us. “Let’s get back to the limousine so we can be on our way,” she says brightly.

After we all pack into the limousine, I notice Prim is subdued.

“What’s the matter, Prim?” I thought you liked the idea of staying at a haunted hotel?”

“That was before I knew who the ghosts were. I was just expecting some random apparition in white, not actual people with names,” she whines.

“You knew Mr. Snow’s name back at the brewery,” I remind her.

“That was different,” Rue chimes in. “We were only there for a few minutes. We got right out of there.”

“Yeah,” Prim says, “We’re staying at a place where people actually died.”

I’m at a loss for words, not sure what to say, but Peeta comes to the rescue once again. “Well, from what Effie says, the ghosts stay on the fourth floor, right?” He asks.

“Right,” both Prim and Rue answer doubtfully.

“So, they can’t get you in your rooms, or anywhere else in the hotel except on the fourth floor. And we’ll all be together when we tour the fourth floor, so you have nothing to worry about,” Peeta says, and the two seem to brighten at his words.

“Thanks, Peeta,” I tell him and give his hand a squeeze.

When we arrive back at the hotel, we all get out and Effie starts to tell us about its history. “The Mockingjay House Hotel is the oldest hotel in the city, built in 1851 as the Marshall House Hotel when Savannah’s population was booming from the new railroad coming through.” She goes on to tell us how the hotel once housed soldiers during the civil war and was used as a hospital during the yellow fever epidemic in the mid 1800’s.

“The hotel fell into disrepair in the early 1900, and was closed for some time, but Haymitch Abernathy bought it and renovated to the glory you see standing here today.” Effie starts walking around the lobby and showing us the paintings on the wall. “All of this artwork are original Abernathy’s. Haymitch was a very prolific painter, very in demand in his time. He even created sculptures.”

Effie leads us out to the courtyard. In the center is a large sculpture of the bird symbol from the door. Spotlights illuminate it from above. The bird, the mockingjay’s wings are raised up as if it is in mid-flight, surrounded by a golden circle. “Haymitch created this sculpture for Maysilee as a wedding gift. The mockingjay is her family symbol. By renaming the hotel in her honor and adding this sculpture, he showed her that the hotel belonged to her just as much as it did to him.

“Oh,” Delly sobs. “That’s so romantic,” she says and buries her face in Rye’s chest. Peeta and I give each other a smile at her reaction.

“Let’s head up to the fourth floor, shall we?” Effie says. She leads us back inside back to the lobby where we take the elevator up.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I feel that familiar sense of dread I felt last night in my dream. Effie walks us over to the windows on our left and shows us that they are facing the courtyard below. When I look down, the light reflects off of the golden bird statue and the flash reminds me of the lightning from my dream. I start to hyperventilate, and stagger back away from the windows.

I bump into Peeta, and he grabs my arms to steady me. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I’m not sure. I feel as though I’m losing my mind. I turn around to face him, but all I can see are the portraits behind him. The whole wall is covered in them, just like in my dream.

This can’t be the hallway from my dream; It can’t be, but it looks the same, right down to the hardwood floors.

Effie is leading the others down the hall, so I try to follow, but Peeta pulls me back. “Katniss, are you okay? You look like you don’t feel well.”

“Gee, thank,” I say, trying to be sarcastic, but my efforts fall flat.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“I’m okay, let’s just get this over with, okay?”

“Alright,” he says, but I can hear the doubt in his voice. “Just hold onto my arm.”

“Thanks,” I tell him as we turn in the direction the others have gone.

“Come on,” Peeta says as he pulls me along so we can catch up to the others.

When we catch up to the group, Effie is chattering away about the history of the people in the portraits, but I don’t pay any attention to what she has to say as my blood runs cold when see the door at the end of the hall. It’s the door from my dream. I know it is, and I feel that sense of dread all over again.

Effie walks toward the door, and all I can think is how I don’t want to see what’s behind it.

I rush forward to stop her, but she pushes the door open just as I reach it, and all I can see is red as I scream out, “Somebody help me,” as I crumble to the floor and the world goes black.

____________

That’s the end of part one. I hope you liked it.

The diner, cemetery, brewery and ice cream shop are real places in Savannah’s historic district. Even the hotel is a real place, but I renamed it Mockingjay House Hotel.

This story will continue on AO3.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #autumn #autumn 2020 #norbertsmom #submission #prompt #octoberlark #octoberlark 2020

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tahitianmangoes · 3 years

Text

Absolution

Pairing: Micah x Arthur Summary: Micah often felt like he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin. Whether or not Artur shared that sentiment, ever since an encounter out west, inexplicably they keep finding themselves pulled back to one and other. Smut | Not canon compliant

Chapter One - Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapter Two

It was hard to believe that less than a day ago, they had been in the sticky New Austin heat and now, Micah Bell was spending the night freezing his balls off in some godforsaken outhouse half way up a mountain with Bill Williamson snoring loudly beside him.

Things turn on a dime, Micah knew that better than most.

Micah doesn’t sleep. He’d been part of the Van der Linde gang for around six months and that was probably one of the few things that people really knew about him. No one cared to ask why he didn’t sleep, not that Micah would tell them anyway. He would usually sit around the campfire, sharpening his hunting knife or cleaning his revolvers. Sometimes sleep would get the better of him and he’d be woken up by the sudden jerk of his head falling forward onto his chest and that’s when he would hear it - that voice that still struck fear into him even twenty years on: Do it!” The voice screamed at him, “prove to me you ain’t the yella bellied coward you say you aint, boy!”

Just one day ago, Micah had been doing just that, sitting at the campfire in their camp outside of Blackwater. His hat was pulled low but he was listening, he usually was; he could hear John Marston and Abigail Roberts squabbling as usual, he could hear Lenny and Jenny twittering like lovebirds and Reverend Swanson’s drunken singing off in the distance somewhere.

It was Dutch and Hosea that Micah was listening to, though. They were arguing in Dutch’s tent. Dutch was playing his gramophone in a bid to muffle them but Micah didn’t have to hear them to know what it was about; Hosea didn’t think they should do the ferry job the next day. Hosea and Arthur had a lead, what it was Micah hadn’t asked but probably something akin to a theatre vaudeville performance if he knew Hosea Matthews at all. Micah wasn’t a fan of all of the conmanship - it felt underhand. Of course doing what he did, going in all guns blazing, was no better but it didn’t feel as sly - you knew where you stood with a gun being pointed at your head.

Micah was told that Dutch and Hosea used to have more of a united front, in more ways than one but it looked to Micah as if this had run its course.

To Micah, Dutch and Hosea seemed so very different; Dutch was charismatic, charming and spoke such pretty words and had big ideas. He was an optimist, believing that he could change the world and Micah believed him, so did everyone else for the most part. Hosea on the other hand was a pessimist. He sat around the camp with a dark cloud over him, picking Dutch’s plans apart and doubting him at every turn. Dutch, of course, was as patient as a saint with his partner - more than lenient with him in Micah’s opinion - but even a saint has their limits.

So Dutch had proceeded without Hosea this time, entrusting Micah with helping him with this job. It didn’t go unchecked by Micah that this was a big deal; he had been part of the gang for less than a year yet Dutch trusted him to help him with this job. He had to do his best to impress Dutch because who knew where this could lead…

Micah had never known the gang so quiet or sombre the night before a big job. Some people retired early but Micah knew they weren't sleeping, they just didn't want to talk about it. Charles disappeared for guard duty, Javier wasn’t playing guitar and Arthur lay with his hat over his face so Micah couldn't see him but he had a feeling that he was listening hard to Dutch and Hosea too.

For a few moments, Micah let his attention settle on Arthur Morgan - Dutch’s right hand man. Arthur didn't like Micah much but Micah got the impression that Arthur didn't like many people. Arthur had intrigued Micah ever since Micah had joined the gang. From what he understood, Arthur had been taken in by Dutch and Hosea when he was just a kid - it sounded like something out of a boyhood dream, to be taken care of and raised by outlaws… Whether Arthur was grateful or not, it wasn't clear; he was sullen and surly, got that moody cowboy thing down to a T. Always complaining about something or other. He was as stubborn as a mule and as dumb as a dog yet Micah was drawn to him inexplicably.

Maybe if things had worked out differently, he would have been more like Arthur. If his daddy had been a fine man like Dutch. Maybe Micah and Arthur were two sides of the same coin… Micah wondered if Arthur saw that they weren't so different, too. Regardless, Arthur avoided Micah wherever possible, especially after what had happened out at Gaptooth Ridge…

Micah let his thoughts settle back there for a while. It wasn't a particularly happy memory but one he played over and over to himself, trying to work out what it meant. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. So why did he keep thinking about it? Letting himself get lost in the gentle morning sunlight again and again when he closed his eyes, imagining Arthur lying beside him, feeling the heat coming from the younger man and remembering the look in those brilliant blue eyes...

He often wondered if Arthur thought about it too. Right now, in the small, delipidated building on the mountain, he thought of Arthur in the next building over and wondered if Arthur couldn't sleep either.

****

Sooner or later, a job's going to go wrong and boy oh boy, did the ferry job go wrong. Maybe they'd been set up because no sooner had the ferry been too far out for them to retreat, there were Pinkertons and lawmen everywhere. Everyone had been whipped into a frenzy, John Marston , Mac Callander, Davey Callander and Jenny Kirk had all gotten shot and the latter hadn't made it out alive. Charles Smith injured himself and Sean Maguire was taken captive by some bounty hunters. And then Dutch shot that girl...

It was a mess. Micah had never seen a job go so wrong so quickly, not since him and his daddy...

They'd managed to flee to camp, to pack up in record time though things were lost and misplaced along the way and Dutch told them that they were heading north. "North?" Hosea repeated looking sceptical. "North." Dutch replied firmly. "We gotta get outta here and we got get outta here fast." "What... What happened on that boat, Dutch?" Hosea asked sheepishly. Dutch turned his dark eyes to his partner and said solemnly, "nothing good."

Dutch had meant north as they headed deep into the mountains of Ambarino. Soon, a terrible storm set in. The snow swirled around them and Miah could hardly see three paces in front of him if it weren’t for his lantern. He followed the caravan blindly, his loyal Missouri Foxtrotter Baylock stepping carefully through the snow that came almost to the horse’s forearm.

He accompanied Arthur and Dutch in the hopeless pursuit for supplies once they found somewhere to settle. All they found was O'Driscolls and another mouth to feed, a woman named Sadie Adler. Exhausted and freezing, Micah curled up on the floor of the building he'd been delegated to with Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers and Charles Smith. He dozed for a short while but he heard that voice again, piercing his slumber and jerked awake to find that light was seeping in through the cracks in the rotting wood of the structure.

That next day was calmer, as if the storm before had never happened. Outside was bright, the cold sun reflecting off of the untouched snow.

Javier Escuella shivered around a small fire. He’d been outside all night on guard duty. Javier was warmer to Micah than Arthur or even Hosea. He wasn’t brooding or stoic, he could take a drink and a joke and Micah liked that about him.

He wasn’t dressed for the cold, a poncho slung over his shoulders and a denim jacket the only thing between him and the sub-zero temperature only made worse by being sent up a mountain earlier that morning with Arthur to rescue John Marston who’d gone and got himself lost in the storm.

“Are you taking me off?” Javier asked, tired eyes looking hopefully at Micah. “Dream on,” Micah replied gruffly. There was no way he was taking up guard duty out in the cold without orders from Dutch. Javier narrowed his eyebrows, looked like he might want to argue but maybe didn’t have the energy.

Micah warmed his hands briefly by the fire, not that he could feel them and if he didn’t hold them out in front of him, he could have sworn that they had fallen off in the night. Javier muttered something inaudible before disappearing towards the stables.

They had managed to find a place up on this godforsaken mountain, a place that could hold all of them - for now. It looked to have been a mining town at one point but long abandoned now, most of the buildings still stood but were derelict, some beyond repair. They wouldn’t be able to stay for long - sure Pinkertons might not be dumb enough to follow them up here but they’d most likely starve, freeze to death or both if they didn’t leave soon.

Micah never thought he’d miss their camp out of Blackwater, god knows he’d been complaining about wanting four walls and a roof over his head but he hadn’t factored in the snow...

As Micah moved away from the fire, he could hear voices coming from the next building. He recognised the familiar low rumbles of Arthur Morgan. Before Micah had time to move, Arthur and Dutch spilled outside, Hosea hovering in the doorway.

“Arthur, we’ll starve up here,” Dutch was saying. His voice had changed over the past couple of days - he sounded tired, desperate in a way but not yet defeated. “Dutch, I ain’t no hunter.” “I know, son. But we got no supplies here - Miss Grimshaw and Mr Pearson did their best but… We got a few cans from the Alder woman’s homestead and we can’t ask Charles to hunt with his hand in the state it is…” “I don’t know what I can do.” Dutch looked up and caught sight of Micah “Take Mr Belll here with you, go scouting. There’s gotta be something else up on this miserable mountain,” he said. Micah knew he was grasping at straws if he was suggesting that the pair of them went out scouting together. Arthur heaved a sigh, not needing to say anything. Dutch continued, “You’re two of the fittest men we got …I wouldn't normally ask like this. Please, son. We gotta try. People are dependin' on us.”

His voice was soft and coaxing, he usually used that voice when he wanted something from Arthur and Arthur usually fell for it. This time was no different. “Fine.” Arthur muttered in a tone that suggested that it was anything but fine.

The pair of them looked at each other; it wasn't the fact they were being asked to go scouting but the fact they were asked to go together.

****

They rode in silence for what seemed like a long, long time, Arthur just up ahead of Micah, obviously not interested in small talk.

These mountains were all but barren - they saw some deer that fled too quickly for either Micah or Arthur to pull their rifle out, heard the echoes of a distant grizzly bear washing over them periodically but nothing else.

"Maybe we should just head back now." Micah suggested after over an hour of them riding away from camp and seeing nothing but more snow. The sun would soon be going down and the last thing they needed was to be stumbling about in the dark. "Jus a little further…" Arthur muttered. Micah knew Arthur didn't want to let Dutch down - he never did.

So they carried on, climbing and following a trail so buried by snow it was barely visible. Once they reached the top of the climb, a basin came into view - a frozen lake surrounded by trees whose leaves had never cared to grow back and at the top of the frozen lake was a small cabin.

The pair urged their horses towards the cabin, a spark of hope for the first time in days. Arthur went to knock on the door only for it to swing open at his touch. The cabin consisted of one room: a small cot was pushed up against one wall, a table was in the centre of the room beside a fireplace. There were various cupboards and chairs but not much else. It looked like someone had been there once upon a time but not now. Everything looked to be covered by a thick layer of dust but there were provisions - mainly canned goods. On the table was rancid bread and cheese that was covered by mould and newspaper clippings that when Micah inspected them, saw they were from three years prior.

"Well, looks like they won't miss this stuff," Micah said more to himself than Arthur as they set about taking whatever they could. It wasn't a huge haul but it would be enough to feed them for a day or two when added to what they found in the Adler house. “This oughta keep us goin’ til we get off this goddamn mountain.”

There was a pause before Arthur shot back, “we wouldn't be stuck on this goddamn mountain if it weren't for you."

Micah turned to look at Arthur now. He was older than Arthur by around five years, they were around the same height, give or take an inch or so, both blond however Arthur’s hair was more a fawn colour and looked soft to the touch. Both had blue eyes, Micah’s icy and Arthur’s rich like the ocean. He was broader and more muscular than Micah who was perhaps thirty pounds heavier than Arthur and couldn’t boast of the same brawny frame as the younger man. Arthur was handsome, even if he couldn’t see it. Maybe Micah resented that, resented the way that his uncomplicated good looks often made things easier - women around the camp didn’t look at Arthur with the same repulsion they did Micah and maybe even Arthur’s looks meant that he was treated more favourably by Hosea and Dutch - not having to go on guard duty, always getting a tent with a cot and having any mistakes he made glossed over so easily...

Different sides of the same coin

Micah drew himself up to his full height before responding. “And how'd you come to that conclusion, cowpoke?” Micah asked, rolling his eyes at Arthur. Arthur always had something to say about him or the way he conducted himself.

“If you hadn’t egged Dutch on with all the ferry crap, we’d be well on our way to gettin’ ourselves some land. Me an’ Hosea had it covered-” “Sure looks that way,” Micah retorted with a sneer, “what was it this time? Hosea pretendin’ to be an college professor or maybe a magician? And you his pretty assistant? Or maybe you was both dressin’ up as ladies and stealin’ from a church fund?” “I have had enough of you!” Arthur snapped, “all you done since you joined us is cause problems, an’ now we lost Jenny, Davey, maybe Sean and Mac too!” “Less mouths to feed don’t sound like a problem to me, cowpoke.”

Arthur made a sound similar to a growl. Micah saw his fists ball, Arthur was the type to settle his scores with fights rather than words, maybe because words so often illuded him. Micah smirked. “Go on then cowboy, show me what you got.”

Micah saw the thought flicker through Arthur’s eyes briefly like lightning in the night’s sky and then he decided against it.

He turned, heading back to the door of the cabin muttering about going back to camp. When he flung the door open, the light had dwindled considerably quicker than either of the could have imagined and snow was coming down in thick, heavy flurries. “Shit!” Arthur hissed. “Well,” Micah sighed, heading to the door too and surveying the magnitude of the situation, “don’t look like we’re goin’ anywhere fast, sweetheart. Jus’ you an’ me now.”

****

There were logs that had been left by the previous tenant that Arthur threw into the fireplace and proceeded to light. The pair of them sat close to the fire, the night had drawn in fast and not only was it the only source of heat in the small cabin, it was also the only source of light.

Micah could see that Arthur was shivering, his arms folded flush across his chest and jaw tight. He glared into the fire. “I’m freezin’ my ass off,” He grumbled. “Well we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Micah replied with a hint of snideness about his voice. Arthur shot him a look colder than out in the storm but Micah continued, maybe because he liked to see Arthur squirm. “You ain't cuddlin' up to me to keep warm if that’s what you want.” “I’d rather die o’ hypothermia than let you anywhere near me.” But they both knew that wasn't true.

Both knew the other was thinking about Gaptooth Ridge again now. It was all Micah had thought about since the day it had happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in their tent, panting and moaning softly with Arthur’s lips on his like nothing else in the world mattered, and perhaps didn’t even exist anymore. He could hear trains rumbling in the distance and condors circling above, the warm air enveloped him just as Arthur’s smoky scent did and everything in the world was still aside from his racing heart.

“When we gonna talk about it, Morgan?” Micah asked without even thinking. He’d wanted to ask Arthur for weeks but Arthur had been avoiding him even more than usual. He felt so weak caving and asking first. He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be; did he want this to be a thing? No. That wasn’t Micah’s style… Yet… He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about Arthur. About the way they had been together that day.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Came Arthur’s gruff reply. Micah let out a snort of disbelieving laughter, “ain’t there?” “No. There ain’t.”

Arthur got to his feet now and walked to the back of the cabin, Micah's eyes followed him. Micah watched as Arthur leant against the wall and nonchalantly lit up a cigarette and smoked it, not looking at Micah but watching the tip of the cigarette burning down in his fingers between drags.

“Bullshit.” Micah said hotly, squaring up to Arthur. “You’re talking bullshit as usual.” “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout it, Micah. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t even happen. It was nothing.” A twisted smirk crept across Micah’s face. He wanted to play it the hard way, huh? “That ain’t what you was sayin’ when you had my dick in your mouth.” Arthur’s eyes flashed and his face turned stony. “You watch what you say to me.” He growled. Micah wasn’t about to back down, his body pumped with adrenaline. “What would ol’ Dutch say if he knew what you got up to? Or does he know you like to get on your knees-”

Before Micah could finish his sentence, Arthur had grabbed him by the collars and pushed Micah up against the wall with such force that his hat toppled from his head. Micah would have laughed if the wind hadn’t been knocked from him. Arthur threw his cigarette to the floor and that hand found its way to Micah’s throat. Micah’s eyes flickered, Arthur was panting, they stared at each other wordlessly. Micah still wore his lopsided smirk, as if willing Arthur to do it.

Arthur’s brows were knitted together, eyes mean and jaw clenched. He looked like he would kill Micah. Micah didn’t doubt that he could.

Before Micah knew it, Arthur had pushed his lips to Micah’s in a kiss. Micah made a sound - a groan. Oh, how he’d longed for this again, thought maybe it would never happen and that their time out at Gaptooth Ridge had been a one off, one of those crazy things that never happen again no matter how hard the yearning. Arthur kissed hungrily, one hand still pressed against Micah’s throat and Micah kissed back eagerly, tongue sliding into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur permitted it with a sigh, as if he had been longing for this too.

Micah brought his hands up, cupping Arthur’s face, the skin cold, the stubble scratching against his fingertips and Arthur shivered at his touch. Arthur removed his hand from where it rested now so Micah could breathe again and tugged Micah’s head back by his hair, exposing his neck so he could kiss it bruisingly, making Micah gasp.

He placed his hands on Arthur’s broad shoulders, fingers curling around the thick material of Arthur’s winter coat, submitting to the younger outlaw, almost paralysed in pleasure at the feeling of Arthur’s hot mouth - tongue licking and teeth grazing - sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck.

He felt Arthur wedge his thigh between his legs and his hips moved instinctively before he could stop himself. The friction was delicious, Micah was uncomfortably hard in his pants already and he let out a soft moan at the relief Arthur’s leg provided. He heard Arthur growl into the crook of his neck. They remained like that, Micah shuddering as he rutted against Arthur and Arthur biting at Micah, hard enough to leave bruises, hands groping at him through his clothes, making Micah sigh and moan.

Suddenly, Arthur ripped away from him. Micah panted, whimpering quietly- unsatisfied. His breath visible in front of him in the cold, cold cabin but the heat between them was like a furnace. Micah stared at Arthur, for once lost for words. Arthur’s expression was unreadable. Had Arthur come to his senses?

Perhaps not. Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the bulge in Micah’s pants. He was hesitant as he reached to press his hand against it but Micah didn’t stop him, of course not. He had wanted this, hadn’t he?

It didn’t go unnoticed by Micah that Arthur’s fingers seemed to tremble as he unbuttoned Micah’s pants and freed his erection. Micah turned away at this, slightly embarrassed at how hard he was. He could hear Arthur’s breaths heavy and hard before he felt the other man’s hand wrap around his cock.

Arthur held him firmly. Micah let out a sound, higher pitched than normal. He felt his cheeks burn but he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed, the feel of Arthur’s hand on him so starkly made him quake. And then Arthur’s hand moved, grip strong as he pumped Micah’s cock. “M-Morgan..!” Micah choked. Arthur's shimmering eyes met Micah's, as if asking for permission to continue. Micah didn't say anything, he leant his forehead against Arthur's shoulder and let his hips rock into Arthur's hand.

Arthur stroked him fast, making Micah's breath catch in his throat. He found himself clinging to Arthur, clawing at the other man's wide back as he tried to stop himself calling out. He felt Arthur's lips on his neck again, kissing along the exposed collarbone to his shoulder. Arthur's name tumbled from Micah's lips like the snow from the sky outside.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Micah's orgasm to coil in his stomach. He found himself moving faster, rutting helplessly against Arthur as he began to shiver, knowing he couldn't hold on any longer. He tried to stifle himself as he came, burying his face in Arthur's neck, taking in Arthur's strong musky scent of gunpowder, cigarettes and whiskey.

He stayed like that for a few moments, blood pounding in his ears, eyes closed trying to compose himself. Arthur didn’t move either, they leant against each other. It was Arthur that moved away first. Part of Micah wished Arthur would stay like that just a little longer.

Micah’d gone soft now, his release was on his pants, on the floor and on Arthur’s pants, too. When he looked back up at Arthur, he could tell that the younger man wasn’t finished with him just yet. He had a dark look in his eyes that Micah wasn’t sure he had seen before. Arthur didn’t say a word, his eyes still fixed on Micah’s. It was his turn to unbutton his pants now and then, he laid his hand on Micah’s shoulder, gently but firmly pushing Micah down to his knees. Micah didn’t resist.

Arthur’s length was strainingly hard and tip slick with precum as he freed his cock from his undergarments. Micah'd seen it before, of course; part of him had known that Arthur’s cock would be generous in size and he had been right about that in both length and girth. Micah had never felt an urge quite like it, an instinct almost, to take it into his mouth and suck. Tentatively, he touched the reddened skin of Arthur’s throbbing erection, it was burning hot under his fingertips. He wet his lip before he opened his mouth and as he did, Arthur grabbed a fistful of his hair and stuffed his length down Micah’s throat without giving him a chance to adjust. Micah made a choked sound and tears instantly filled his eyes at the stretch from the sheer size of Arthur. Arthur didn’t relent. Micah knew this was punishment but part of him didn’t even care, there was something about having Arthur above him like this , powerful, doing his best to repress his moans that turned him on.

Arthur didn't talk, just fisting Micah’s hair and snapping his hips forward rhythmically so he can fuck the older outlaw’s throat. They didn't talk last time either, just their touches had been enough. Micah's gags and heavy breathing filled the room along with Arthur's low growls and soft curses. As the length hit the back of Micah’s throat, Arthur hissed and fuck, that sounds made Micah’s own cock twitch awake again. Micah felt his face redden, he could feel the drool and precome spilling from the sides of his mouth and his jaw ached. He tried to steady Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s strong thighs, using them as an anchor so he can bob his head back and forth on the length, sucking as best he knew how, using his tongue to pressure the underside of the shaft like the whores he’d used before had done to him… like Arthur had done to him before.

He closed his eyes now, getting used to breathing through his nose. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing back to pay attention to the tip and then taking as much of the length in its entirety at a time. He used his tongue to flick the tip, let his throat and jaw go slack so Arthur could press in further until he felt the younger man shiver.

Arthur groaned softly, when Micah looed up, Arthur's eyes were closed and his face was sheer portrait of perfection - lost in a rhapsody of bliss. Micah took hold of his throbbing cock now, needing some relief and as he did, Arthur gasped, hips stuttering, eyes open now, a flash of blue as he cursed loudly, "shit, Micah!" and spilled himself into Micah’s mouth.

Micah retched at the taste but was taken by surprise, swallowing the majority of it and coughing as Arthur pulled out. Arthur’s breathing was hard as he moved away from Micah and tucked himself back into his pants. Micah remained on his knees and wiped his mouth. He stared after Arthur who returned to the fireside, composing himself.

Arthur didn't look back at him as he spoke. “Now we’re even.” Arthur said almost emotionlessly. Micah didn’t want to admit it to himself but it hurt.

#morbell #rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #micah bell #writing

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westerhos · 4 years

Text

Our Story: Chapter 7

Hi friends! Sorry for the delay here. I’ve been on vacation, so my priorities have been boozin’ and cruisin’. Thanks for your continued support of this story—I love hearing your feedback. This one’s a whopper of a chapter!

______

We often lose track of time in this great, big world of ours, in much the same way we lose a pair of keys, a couple of pens. “I swear I saw them two seconds ago!” we groan, groping to purse-bottoms, finding only lint and chump-change. So many things—these small facets of our lives—sucked into the void of bygones, taken before we can ever think to tie them down.

“I swear I was twenty-two just yesterday.”

This is how it is for Jamie and Claire, their years like old playbills confiscated by the wind and an invisible clock. Certain acts reappear from time to time, when the arm of a broom sweeps them into the light, when the frosting of dust disturbs, then floats. And for a brief moment, as the particles of time and forget resettle themselves, Jamie and Claire can hear their lives’ most glorious crescendos. The lowest notes tip-toe from the long-kept silence, rising and sinking slowly, steadily. All plucked strings, still vibrating, until the echoes die, cradling the past.

You can write an entire story with these bits and pieces of their lives, cut the acts together to form one winding opera. It plays and stops until, eventually, the grand finale. The overlap: a perfect harmony which carries them from their separate wings, to center stage and to each other.

And it is there, finally, that they meet again, lips and lives melding. They stand together in the orb of the spotlight. A single sun, glowing.

THE SPIRIT IN THE HORSE, 2000

Starring James Fraser, Jenny Fraser, Brian Fraser, The Doctor, Ellen Fraser, Fitzy (and a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else)

Though a bestselling author, JAMES FRASER did not grow up with dreams of books, but of horses.

He was born on an unusually hot day, spring 1968. Everything melting at its very seams, the birthing room’s thermometer feverish with mercury blood. His father and sister had fashioned fans from intake forms, moving heat-murk and birth-stink with the accordioned papers. They looked on with damp foreheads, lips white and tight, so that Ellen could have the breaths they saved.

At half-past noon, the doctor had caught Jamie’s auburn crown, dripping more heavily than his own laboring mother. All of this—the heat, the sweat, the waving forms—was taken as the stamp of Jamie’s fate. Surely, they had all agreed, he would set the world on fire, would be a brand forever puckering its skin.

The hibernators had emerged early that year, scurrying from their earthen wombs just as Jamie had slipped from his mother’s. Heat-drunk and dizzied, they had eaten everything in sight. Corn stalks, cabbage leaves, whole fields of barley—gone. Even Ellen’s strawberries, barely ripened—devoured by mid-April. The red fruits had shrunk to halves, then thirds, as the creatures munched and munched. Fleshy hearts eaten to bleeding, the pulp left to the sleepy stragglers.

And so on the day Jamie entered the world, the Frasers had returned to a dark and stifling house. Rot wafted from the windows, and the electrical wires were chewed cleanly through. One rabbit, the chosen martyr, had laid cooked in the grass, fur spiked.

Brian had thrust Jamie into his daughter’s arms, ran inside to rescue what unspoiled food he could (three eggs, a loaf of bread). Waiting in the yard, Jenny had imagined the wilting lettuce inside the fridge and Ellen, equally wilted under the blue hospital sheet. She had watched a squirrel leap across the berry guts, a rope of black wire between his paws.

How—if at all, she had wondered—would they survive without her mother?

Too exhausted for a trip to the store, Brian had fried the eggs on the driveway. The yolk was thick in his mouth and the sorrow thicker in his chest, before he realized Jamie’s cries had quieted. He started when he heard the horse’s whinny, the snorty exhale through its nostrils. Beside him, Jenny had scuttled away, feet scraping at the egg crusts.

Incensed by the heat and the crowd, Fitzy the horse had stormed her stable doors to freedom. She had brayed, desolate to find her owner gone, until she spotted the flame in Brian’s arms. Copper, auburn, cinnabar—all Ellen’s colors—poking from a swaddle of blue. And so Fitzy had bowed her head, brought Jamie into her awed silence. One shining moment, the first since Ellen’s passing—calm and peaceful.

Even now, 32 years later, Jamie loves to tell this story. How Brian had pressed his baby fist to the mane, his mother still a stickiness on his baby thumb. And how, as a young boy, Jamie had thought Ellen lived somewhere inside auld Fitzy. Something in the black bead of the mare’s eye: a flash, a peculiar spark. It was an acknowledgement that, until one night in 1989, Jamie had never felt before.

After his book tour in ’99, Jamie Fraser decided to take the leap—carpe diem—and purchase his own horse and his own land (fields way out in the Highlands; a farmhouse converted to splendor by his millions). The horse, like Fitzy, wears a chestnut coat. She is stubborn but loving, recognizes Jamie’s voice when he calls and his face when it floats above her stable door. He sees a flash of Fitzy—and of his mother, he thinks—when she surrenders her anger to Jamie’s flags of truce: a fresh Granny Smith, a carrot stick plucked from the ground. He sees a More-Than-Flash of Someone Else when she nudges his shoulder, apologetic. The only source of happiness, this beautiful beast, outside of his writing.

“Ye see?” Jamie had said after their first standoff, “Ye canna stay mad at me forever.” And when the horse had chomped the apple from his hand, he’d sworn that she was smiling.

“Mo nighean donn,” he’d whispered, and decided, then and there, to name her Sorcha.

______

CARROLL’S THEORY OF TRUTH, 2003

Starring Claire Randall, Frank Randall, Joe Abernathy, duncandonuts, wetwillie, mark_me_1745, parsleymarsley, l.mackenzie (and The Author)

When CLAIRE RANDALL is not working at the hospital, her nose is pressed to a blue-white screen.

For years, she had resisted those monstrous, blocky machines—Macintosh, Dell, Gateway—all brand names accompanied by her husband’s greedy and jabbing elbows.

But there was value in tradition, Claire had argued. A kind of sanctity in the ping of an Underwood or the swish of pen; privacy and authentic connection. Frank had merely rolled his eyes, always lusting after the new and shiny—whether it was a computer or a student’s gloss-plumped lips—knowing it was not “tradition” itself that his wife was holding onto.

“So like you, Claire,” he’d said bitterly one day, “wanting to stay stuck in the past.” And, of course, he’d been right. Just to spite him, she’d finally surrendered and gave him one for Christmas.

Gradually, Claire came to love the whirring engine, the wail of the dial-up, the period of isolation where she was unreachable by phone. Like time travel, almost, the way it took her places past and present, opening every door like some futuristic gentleman.

But mostly, Claire loved the computer for the freedom it gave her. Boot up the system, click the mouse, log on, be someone else. Online, Claire could play a different role than the surgeon or the amateur gardener, pretend she was not the wife who turned her cheek as often as she made her husband’s dinner. On the Internet, her identity was a thirty-word bio, her face a grey silhouette displayed comfortably—anonymously—inside a neat, square frame. A million different bodies growing inside her, once her fingers flew across keyboard:

Claire Randall, the British spy.

Claire Randall, the avid hiker, climbing the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Claire Randall, the mother, who loved the melt of ice cream down her daughter’s chin. Her tiny mouth, sweet and sugared, when it met hers for a kiss.

One website, her favorite, was this: a forum, populated by other faceless humans who, like Claire, could recite page 451 (or any others) of A Blade of Grass. In this corner of the online universe, they had spoken of The Author on a first-name basis, trading facts like prized baseball cards. But it was only Claire who could share the most private knowledge, attribute it all to her keen nose and thus earn the respect of 16 anonymous users.

Even so, Claire had been surprised by what they knew solely through their reading. The Author’s childhood, his relationships, his favorite color. She was able to ask her own prodding questions and receive correct answers, such as:

whiteraven: A long shot, but does anyone know how to contact him by telephone?

And five of the grey-faced few had responded.

duncandonuts: easier to send him send him a letter (might get lost among the rest of his fan mail though).

wetwillie: have you tried his agent, john grey, in london?

mark_me_1745: if u meet him, tell him 2 come 2 brasil!!!!!!! we <3 him!!!!!!!

parsleymarsali: Publishers Weekly mentioned he’s now with Geordie Gibbons at the Claude F. Agency, not Grey, @wetwillie. Think it had something to do with creative differences and missed deadlines.

l.mackenzie: pass that info onto _me_ if you find it, girl! <g>

By a stroke of luck, someone had known someone who’d known someone who’d known someone. And just like that, she was given a phone number the following Wednesday. A day like any other, if it weren’t for a single string of digits sitting in her inbox, a silent but ticking grenade.

She spent three months with the numbers inside her head, stored in a folder marked with The Author’s name. She did manage to call though—once—when her hand finally lowered from its hover. She’d waited out the sonorous ring-ring-ring, the robotic chime, “You have reached the voice mailbox of..." She had listened to the beep that followed and then the silence, stretching, until she remembered her mouth. It opened, exhaled, then shut abruptly with the click of her teeth. There was the clatter of keys and the thwop of a briefcase—Frank home from work.

She had almost whispered, but did not.

It was too much to have both men in the same room: one gently pecking her lips, the other pressing an electric current into her cheek, crackling. Too much, too much. Claire had slammed the phone down and cursed, “Bloody teleprompter. Always calling before dinner,” which had made her husband laugh. She’d made him spaghetti that night, the spices forming twelve digits in the saucepan no matter how many times she swirled the spoon.

It’s been four months since that first and only call, though Claire still remembers The Author’s number. She thinks of if—when—she will have the courage to call again, to finally speak and fill the space of eleven empty years. While Frank snores beside her, she plays the scene from start to finish, like a draft of the real, inevitable thing.

Again: the sonorous ring, the tinny greeting, the beep, and the silence that waits for her. But this time: her mouth opens—one, two three times—and five words repeated, again and again.

In some versions, she says them aloud. In others, merely pushes them, soundless, into the air. Still, they are there, held aloft by satellite arms high up in the sky. Somewhere between her and The Author, existing: I was born for you, I was born for you, I was born for you.

And what is said three times—even unfinished, even without words—is always, always true.

______

THREE TIMES THE WORLD ENDED , 2004

Starring Jamie Fraser, Jenny Fraser, and Laoghaire Mackenzie (and The Girl)

JAMES FRASER, age 34, can pinpoint three moments where his world fell apart.

He was eighteen during the first, a brazen thing, but still as green as the pot freshly stinking his Levi’s. After reading the call notice pasted to his door, he’d floated to the common room on a cloud of White Widow weed. He dialed, laughing, until Jenny’s voice had sobbed down the line, breaking the peace of his druggy fug.

Their father, she’d cried, had died the previous evening.

With the news, the had drugs turned. Floors slanted, limbs jellied. Jamie watched as a hole ripped open the wall behind him, its enormous black void revealing the space Brian Fraser had left behind. It had swallowed Jamie up, refused to spit him back again until The Girl reached inside and found his heart two years later. Returned it to him, like a love note, passed on the inside of her smile.

Jamie describes the second collapse in his two famous novels, A Blade of Grass and Two Centuries in Purgatory. This time, the world had split completely, Jamie and The Girl like two tectonic plates shifting in the night. It was his writing that had bound Jamie’s world together again, though the spine remained cracked, a few of the pages missing.

The third time occurred just last week though Jamie was not entirely surprised. It’s what happens, he supposes, when you build something on uneven ground. Physical presence—someone’s here-ness—does not equate to love.

Nine years after the second earthquake, a new person had come into Jamie’s life. She would stand in the doorway at 6:30PM, jump to her tip-toes to welcome him home. There would be steam from the stove, and utensils would gleam in perfect, shining order. Napkins would wait with their patient folds, each prepared to catch the food that she, his ever-present Laoghaire, had prepared during the day. And for those three years, Laoghaire’s toothbrush had sat next to Jamie’s, her silks hanging beside his cottons. Evidence, he had thought, that he maybe-almost loved her.

But then Laoghaire had grown curious—“Why’ve no made progress on yer novel? What are ye writing all day if it isna yer third book?”—and stuck her piglet nose into places it did not belong. She, in a rare moment of ingenuity, had unlocked the safe and found his letters.

And so this time, Jamie’s world had not ripped or split—but exploded with a thousand sticks of paper dynamite. Laoghaire had burned through the house, burned through the letters. She’d called the magazines and the bloggers, vowing to tarnish his reputation with lies: cheater, drunk, lunatic, fraud. Finally, she’d left, taking the napkins, the cutlery, and the toothbrush—but leaving the embers in her wake, smoldering. A few scraps had avoided the fire, and Jamie read them as the night rose.

My da once told me I’d know straight away, that I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t.

For so many years, for so long, I have been so many different men.

The love of you was my soul.

and

Yours, Jamie

Forever, Jamie

Come home, my heart. I am not as brave as I was before, Jamie

On and on and on they went. Singed pieces of his letters. Every one meant for The Girl who’d confronted his darkness, had rescued his heart at a Christmas Eve party.

4,380. One letter for every day he had missed her.

______

THE KILLING GIRL, 2006

Starring Claire Randall*, Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, Frank Randall (and The One Person)

CLAIRE RANDALL* , resident at Boston GH, was five years old when she thought she was murderer. For years, she could hardly sleep, fearing not the monster beneath her bed, but the one beneath her covers.

Instead of counting sheep, she’d recounted facts as they’d been reported in the paper: Henry and Julia Beauchamp, parents of one Claire Beauchamp. Their mangled car, and a rocky deathbed set one hundred feet below. Both husband and wife, father and mother—dead upon impact.

Rarely, did this guide Claire towards sleep, and so she began to picture the accident as she’d recorded it in her diary. The same story, but more accurate—one that played behind her eyelids as if she had watched it all, a spectator on the road’s shoulder.

There was her parents’ blue Ford ribboning the cliffside. The low hum of conversation and the static of the radio. There was Claire’s goodbye before they left—“You always go without me! IhateyouIhateyou!”— which followed her parents and pushed them off the edge. She was sure it was her words that had broken her mother’s neck, had snapped it like a flower’s stem. One Claire Beauchamp, the little killing girl.

Five years passed before Lamb had found her in the courtyard, weeping her guilt into a mat of grey feathers. She had confessed to her five-year old anger then; how she’d pried open the rocky mouth and dropped her parents in.

“Death doesn’t move according to reason, my dear,” Lamb had said, “but only chance. And by no fault of yours.” He had patted her on the head like a priest grants forgiveness, and they buried the bird in the Nyungwe Forest. Wings and Claire’s blame laid to rest beneath the trees.

Still, Claire likes how accountability sets her world—so wracked by coincidence—back on its axis. Responsibility, however false, is easier to accept than the fickleness of husbands, of dead parents, of love and life. She assumes the role of the guilty to feel a sense of control, like she herself is in charge of the scale’s tip. And so:

It was Claire’s fault that the frost returned in May, all her marigold suns snuffed out.

It was Claire’s fault that the infection took the wound, gnawed the patient’s flesh so that a saw had to chop the bone.

It was Claire’s fault that midnight voices chirped down the receiver. The girls’ lovesick pleas—I need you. I love you. Leave her.—placed in Frank’s pockets by Claire’s own hands.

And of course, it was Claire’s fault that things had ended as they did. The final fight, every bit of hate, hers to claim:

“I am not an idiot, Frank! And I’m tired of being made into one.”

“Darling, you aren’t an idiot. I never said you were an idiot.”

“Don’t bloody ‘darling’ me, you bloody cad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How novel.”

“Truly, I am.”

“So that’s it, then? Just ‘I’m sorry.’ No excuses? No begging-on-bended-knee?” (Claire had scoffed. Her laughter, like the paring knife that guts the beast.) “No, of course not. Begging would be too embarrassing for you. Too much effort. All your energy is spent chasing skirts and quick fucks. You selfish, disgusting man.”

“So I’m the only selfish one here, is that it? Just me?”

“You’re saying that I’m selfish?”

“I am.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you, Claire! You, who is always working and never here. You, who sleeps with his books under our mattress, still wears the man’s goddamn ring on a chain. Like a fucking noose around our marriage, from the start.” (Claire had winced; Frank’s knuckles had cracked the wall.) “No, I’m not selfish, Claire. I’ve shared you with another man for thirteen years.”

“So I see you’ve lost all sense, but still have some fucking nerve."

“Cursing doesn’t improve your argument.”

“Wanker.”

“Now Claire…”

“Just go.”

“Claire, please—”

“Go.”

And thus, it was Claire’s fault that Frank had whispered, “You’ve never looked at me. Not once, not really.” And it was her fault that he had grabbed his keys, slipped into the blizzard and into his car.

And it was Claire—Claire, Claire, Claire—who became the ice that hissed against tires. Who launched Frank’s body through the glass, turned his skin purple-blue and the snow dark red. Her fault that the last thing she’d said was “go”, and Frank had taken her at her very word.

All of this, she has put upon her shoulders, for its burden is lesser than the truth: that she has no control, never did and never would. Claire is forever held at the mercy of a capricious gravity—she and everyone else, a little bit helpless. Always.

But there was One Person, she often remembers, who had given her a kind of foothold. On their wedding night, she had whispered about her mother’s flower neck, about the grey bird whose wings she’d given to the Nyungwe. And he had understood, promised forgiveness for whatever wrongs she had and would commit. “Real or imagined, Sassenach” he’d said into hair, “Already forgiven.” They had spiraled through life, the pair of them, both a little bit helpless—but everything shared.

But of all of her false faults, this is one Claire fears is true: that she is the reason The One Person is not here, but some 3,000 miles away. She was, after all, the one who had packed the suitcase and caused the gavel to fall, Divorce.

All her fault: Claire Randall. The guilty one, the killing girl, the widow. Spinning and spinning into empty space, grasping at stars, alone.

*[Note from director: Ms. Claire Randall has requested we change her name to Claire Beauchamp. Please reprint with this correction ASAP. Thank you.]

______

POINT OF CONVERGENCE, 2007

Starring Jamie Fraser (The Author, The One Person), Claire Beauchamp (A More-Than-Flash Of Someone-Else, The Girl), Geordie Gibbons

JAMES FRASER does not like to disappoint. It is his greatest fear, seeing someone’s face pull, twist, and finally droop into an expression of discontent. Even worse: when the expression is given a name, “I’m so disappointed in you, Jamie.” And worst of all: when the name is given by his agent, Geordie Gibbons.

One of the most important days of Jamie’s life began in anticipation of such disappointment. He had twiddled his thumbs beneath a table, dreading the moment Geordie’s fedora ducked beneath the restaurant’s eaves. The wait staff had milled around him: A waiter dashed towards snapping fingers, the hostess offered towels for rain-soaked heads. He’d felt jealous, watching them, of their readiness—how they could be so effortlessly on time. Jamie couldn’t even manage to meet his deadlines, the desk calendar at home flipped far beyond the designated X.

Jamie and Geordie were to have “lunch” and “catch up”. This would, inadvertently, devolve into an interrogation about Jamie’s third novel, which was nothing more than a series of working titles. It was a pattern, this lateness and lunching, never changing despite the demands and promises made by both parties. Geordie would remove his hat, exposing the frown previously shadowed beneath its brim. Their food would be served—Jamie, something yeasty; Geordie, a taxidermist’s culinary experiment—and Jamie would choke down a side of his agent’s disappointment. Eventually, they would part ways, and Jamie would return home, knock out a few pages. Turn in a shitty draft the next morning for the sake of postponing a second “lunch.”

But on this day, the universe had shifted; the pattern broke. Jamie had continued to sit there, all sweat and nerves, but Geordie’s fedora, the interrogation, and the food never came.

Because while Jamie had waited in the restaurant, CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP was arguing in her bedroom mirror: Claire vs. Claire, Head vs. Heart. She was thousands of miles away in a Boston apartment, but still—the tremor traveled, pushing a storm across the Atlantic, down the Royal Mile, to Jamie. The trajectory of his day and his life had changed as Claire gesticulated wildly at her own reflection.

So at 12:14, Jamie had been alone, Geordie unusually late for a man so fond of punctuality. He read the menu three times, settled on a whisky. Thought better of it; ordered two.

At 12:30, Claire’s battle had still raged, no victor in sight. The thunder had shaken the house, shaken the mirror on the wall.

At 12:46, Jamie had condemned Geordie, then deadlines. Art, he’d fumed, was beyond time, existed outside of it. He had ordered a third whisky when a wine spill was wiped up, gone before it had the chance to leave its mark.

At 12:48, Claire had moved to the kitchen. Both armies were advancing quickly, charging into the living room, to the yard, back to the living room, over and over. She and herself, it seemed, had reached a stalemate. Head and Heart had squatted, dripping rain, and awaited the other's surrender.

At 12:50, Claire had paused and looked through the window. She caught a glimpse of her garden, reborn and thriving despite the storm, and the sight of the marigold blooms did not reveal an emptiness inside her. She felt, for once, happy. Her Heart had stormed her Head’s walls, then, the gates of decision giving way.

At 12:51, Claire had opened her scrapbook, a secret once kept from Frank. It was filled with bits and bobs: a piece of bubble wrap, a bell from her holiday sweater. Both of them glued beside old polaroids. Again, she did not feel her Heart stutter, but expand; lift straight out of her chest. A full siege after that. Her Head’s weakest men fell beneath the lash of artery whips.

At 12:52, the end was near, and Claire’s Heart marched to her computer, hunted through years of mail. Its trophy had laid buried in a folder—one message with twelve digits—and the battle, at last, was won.

At 12:53, both Jamie and his phone had buzzed. The door opened, letting in the air. It had smelled of wet soil, earthy and ripe. Familiar, like a ghost’s kiss on the back of his neck. He put the phone to his ear, and…

At 12:53:05, he said, “Jesus, man! Where are ye? I’ve been waiting nigh on 50 minutes!” There was no response.

At 12:53:08: “Did ye get caught in the storm? Are ye calling from a pay phone?” More silence.

At 12:53:13: “Hello? Anyone there?”

At 12:53:20: “Geordie, man, is that you?”

At 12:53:25: A deep, shaking breath. An audible gulp. Claire’s Heart whispering its victory song.

12:53:26: “It’s isn’t Geordie.”

12:53:27: “It’s me.”

And at 12:53:28, everywhere, suddenly—the brightest sun.

Phew! This chapter is one of the longest, but it’s also one of my favorites. The structure is lifted straight from Fates and Furies—there’s a chapter that is just a series of the protagonist’s plays—and I was looking to try something new (it also weirdly fits in with the tone of the chapter introductions). In my opinion, the best thing about writing fanfiction is that you have so much room to experiment.

This structure also allowed me to do what I’d been wanting to do from the beginning: move away from the One Day conceit and explore Jamie and Claire’s pasts. It was very easy to just run with any image or idea that came to mind—we know so little about their childhoods; there are so many possibilities!

And speaking of why fanfiction is so awesome—and I mentioned this in another post—but it’s a blast figuring out how to incorporate canon into an AU setting. Using canon dialogue can boost the emotional punch of a line in a way that is just *chef’s kiss*. “I was born for you.” “I am not as brave as I was before.” Ugh, kill me.

I have to whistle past some of the melodrama and Frank’s computer craze (wouldn’t he also be a typewriter sort of person???). And modern!Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Brazil comment still tickles me. This is not meant as an offense to Brazilians—y’all are just always on *clap* it *clap*, and I love your enthusiasm.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed :)

#myfic #outlander #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #reunited and it feels so gooooood

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

The Third: Killan

CW: Literally nothing beyond some vague visual references to past torture, plus some unpleasant/negative generalizations about a fictional species. Killan is truly living the comf dream.

TIMELINE: ... later

As always, Killan’s universe and details of fae meta/biology/magic all belong to @wildfaewhump!

Even though the young woman knew the way, it still took three hours to walk from the barn, where she always stopped first to give a final scritch behind the ears to her favorite barn cat, to her aunt's tiny wooden cabin.

It wasn’t even an easy three hours of walking. Instead, it was three hours of hard hiking in her loose pants and shirt with a shawl thrown over for warmth, her thick black hair with its rough curls sticking to her neck with sweat even as she shivered from the chill breeze. Sometimes the walk felt like it was all straight up, placing each step with care as the rocks scattered back down below and her heavy boots dug into the earth to keep her hold.

At least her skin had held its color from summer and she felt the warmth of the sun settle in as she walked up to see her aunt.

The old woman lived up high on a ridge, hugging the side of the great mountains where the fae stayed hidden, with a view in the winter of the village far below and in the summer of acres upon acres of bright green trees and fields.

No one lived closer to the fae than her aunt did without coming to harm - the young woman even saw them circling overhead sometimes, out on the hunt. She’d even seen a mother, or she thought it was a mother anyway, with three littler fae flying behind her.

Might’ve been cute, if the fae didn’t teach their fledglings to hunt by siccing them on lambs and other defenseless things in the spring. The young woman had made a note of the fledglings, that year, and they’d kept an eye out. No lambs went missing, though, so maybe the fae mam had decided to teach her babes to hunt somewhere else.

Living this close to the fae was dangerous. Anyone else would’ve been terrified to live that way, but her aunt had kept the same home since she built it herself as a young woman and swore she would live nowhere else.

I have honest dealings with Sidhe, love, said the old woman - who wasn't really her aunt, not by blood, but who was connected to her instead through a complex web of distant relations and friendships that her family simply called kin. Honest as can be. There had been a twinkle in milky green eyes that the young woman never quite understood, when she said those words. You might say, if you were so inclined, that I have had the most honest sort of dealings one can have.

Her aunt’s laughter had near lifted the roof off with its volume, and the young woman had smiled uncertainly along, even though she didn’t quite get the joke.

Her aunt’s sense of humor always puzzled her. Fae weren’t to be joked about, not with such a jovial, even affectionate, tone. They were dangerous. They hurt people, slaughtered those who tried to find the pass through the mountains. They spoiled milk and made people sick. Everyone in the village kept iron along every window and doorway to keep the fae out.

Everyone except her aunt, whose windows were always open, like she wanted them to crawl in with their wiry limbs and claw her face off. It had never happened, but… still. It wasn’t safe to live alone, to live so close to the fae. Her aunt did it anyway.

The young woman didn’t even know her real first name. She was Aunt Llyrie, but everyone knew Llyrie was just a name she’d taken, said she’d been given by someone and thought she’d keep.

By who, Auntie?

Mmmn, someone else, from long ago, when I was prettier than I had any right to be and he took a liking to walking on the ground for a while. That’s all you’ll ever need to know, love.

The young woman and her sisters and cousins had all asked her aunt, and the answer was always the same. Someone else. What could that even mean?

She was called Aunt Llyrie because all women above an age were Aunt So-and-So or Auntie Whoever. It was simply how you did things, and the young woman had never thought twice about it. Her mother's sister was her aunt, and so was the old woman up on the ridge who grew herbs and made potions and salves. She came down only to check on pregnant women and new babies, and otherwise people who needed help went to her.

Not that very many people did. The old woman was spoken of in hushed tones. People made a sign against evil, they called her touched.

But they asked her to be there when their babies were born, anyway. No woman had died in childbirth in forty-three years, not since the old woman had taken up midwifery and started bringing her medicines with her. She had been there for the births of babies, and those babies’ babies. She might be there to meet the first babies’ grandbabies, too.

Who knew?

She was odd, though. Ask her about the fae and her aunt's face would settle into a hundred wrinkles like lines on an ancient browned map as she smiled.

Her voice creaked a little as age wore down its firm strength in sound but not in the iron-tough foundation of her spirit, and she would only shake her head. I do not fear the Sidhe. Will they carry an old woman away when they did not take the young one? Paugh, maybe he will one day. I would thank him for the final journey into the sky.

The young woman didn’t understand that, either.

Still, she had gone to see her aunt a hundred times or more, in her life. She was always welcomed with open arms by a woman who had seen her coming long before she actually arrived.

Today, though, she wound her way up the small path only to find her aunt’s cabin closed up tight. Even the shutters to those open windows were closed, despite the mild mountain air. A thin curl of smoke wound up from the chimney, the only sign of life beyond the solid black cat who slept along the low stone wall that encircled the garden. She gave it a quick run of fingers along the top of its head and down its back as she passed, feeling it arch up gratefully into her touch. It meowed, stretching, and leapt gracefully down to the path to trot along beside her.

Swallowing, she knocked on her aunt’s door, feeling trepidation curl cold and heavy in the bottom of her stomach. “Auntie? Are you at home?”

Where else would she be? In the young woman’s twenty years on earth, she had never once seen her aunt be anywhere else but home or seeing to the birthing of a baby. And since there were no new babies in the village…

The door popped open with a creak of ancient hinges, and the young woman swallowed as her aunt’s eyes peered through, with an expression she had never seen before - suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, I-” The young woman blinked, startled. She felt suddenly guilty, even though she had committed no crime. Did I do something wrong and I just don’t remember? “I came to ask for a tincture, there’s an ague has hit the blacksmith and his family. My mam sent me up-”

Her aunt cleared her throat, cracked the door just a little bit wider. “Today’s not the day for it, love,” She said, her voice slightly sharp, snappish in a way that made the young woman take a step back, unsettled and uncertain.

“Well, I… it’s just, the ague is quite-... Aunt, are you well?” The young woman’s head tilted, trying to take a closer look, only to have the old woman close the door slightly, showing just one blue eye through the crack. Her heart began to race. She had clearly done something, said something on her last visit, angered the old woman in some way. But she had no idea what she could possibly have done. “If you’re sick, Auntie, I could nurse you?”

“I’m not sick, dear.” There was a pause, the old woman taking time to think, and then she said, “Can you keep a secret, love? From everyone but me?”

“A… a secret?” Despite her nervousness, and how ominous everything seemed when put together, the young woman had to admit she felt no small thrill at the idea of something secret. In a village like hers, there was no such thing as a secret. Even a quick kiss with the blacksmith’s son was reported to her mam within minutes, and she a grown woman whose kisses should be her own business by now. “I could, Auntie, of course I could. But what is the secret?”

Her aunt hesitated a moment more, and then the door swung open. Inside smelled like a mix of smoke and something savory, and the young woman’s eyes lit on the meat pies cooling out on the table as she stepped into the open cabin’s kitchen-side. “You must swear on your life you won’t tell a soul, love.”

“I won’t, Auntie, swear on my heart.” Her eyes scanned the walls, finding all the cooking pans hung on their hooks, bundles of herbs drying above the fireplace, a kettle hung for water to boil for tea. It was all the same, and yet there was a change in the air in here, something different indeed. Something smelled sharp and cold, like the way the night smelled in autumn when the sky was clear and the stars gave off nearly as much light as the moon. “What is the secret?”

There was a rustling from the bed-corner, and the young woman turned that way to stare, wide-eyed, at what she thought at first must be the largest bird she had ever seen.

Her aunt’s hand, warm, dry, with softly wrinkled brown skin like thin creased paper folded a thousand times until it is nearly cloth, came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “It’s not a ‘what’,” She said, her voice gentle. “It’s a ‘who’.”

“Wh-what-”

The wings moved, parting to reveal-

“Gods almighty, a fae!” The young woman scrambled backwards, tripped over a broom, fell flat on her arse on the flat wooden slats of the floor. She let out a breathy scream, backing up until her back hit the wall, grabbing the handle of a cast-iron cookpan as tightly as she could - let the bastard fae try to hurt her, she’d whack it with iron until its face was nothing but boils, she would, she’d not go quietly into some fae’s stomach - and holding it in front of her as a weapon.

The thing on the bed flinched back when she did, curling itself up tightly, staring at her with wide, terrified bright blue eyes with razor-thin slit pupils, perfectly inhuman. Its face, though… well, its face and hair looked nothing like she’d been told fae should look. It wasn’t angular or pointy-chinned, had no pointed ear that folded back or forwards, it just looked like… like a person. Like some man her own age, really.

It looked… well, it looked frightened, is what. Of her.

It made a high keening sound of fear, not a human sound at all.

“Calm, the both of you,” Her aunt snapped, stepping between them. The young woman didn’t move, kept the iron pan out ahead of her like a knight brandishing a sword. The fae-but-not-fae stayed pressed up against the wall in the bed, his wings shivering, trilling low in its throat. She could hear the feathers rustling with its fear. “He won’t hurt you, love. He’s just looking for a place to heal.”

“H-Heal? From what?” Her voice shook, but her hands didn’t. She was proud of that.

Her aunt began to laugh, and the young woman simply stared blankly, wondering if the old woman had perhaps lost her mind. “The ague, dear. Same as the blacksmith. This young man has taken quite ill.”

The young woman turned narrowed eyes back to the thing on the bed. Had it bewitched her aunt, somehow? Used their wicked dark magics on her? “Fae don’t catch our sicknesses, Auntie.”

“Hm, that’s true.” Her aunt’s smile was shining, beatific. “Fae don’t. But this young man isn’t fae. He came in delirious overnight. I’ve given him a tincture has brought his fever down some, though not all. Come, love. It’s rude to threaten a young man without even learning his name.”

“But-... but he-...” She frowned, and took a step closer, and then another. The thing on the bed did look like a young man, that was true. He wore tattered old clothes, worn to holes where his knobby knees poked through. But for his wings and his eyes… “He’s not… fae? But the wings-”

“Mmmn, yes. I did ask about that. He says they came later.” Her aunt shrugged, as if to say, pay it no mind. “He’ll not give me a name but said I could call him Del. That’s fae for boy, that is.”

“How d’you know that?” She took a closer look at the old woman, then, and wondered how much about the woman’s life she had kept secret from the village, too.

“Just do. Isn’t important. So anyway, he clearly knows a fae, even if he isn’t one.”

“I-I’m not,” The young man spoke for the first time. His voice was low and hoarse, but sort of… lovely, too. The young woman took another step closer, slowly lowering the cookpan. “I’m not fae.”

“Are you… half-breed, then?” The young woman asked.

The boy looked away from her, and it was that more than anything that made her think he wasn’t fae at all. Everyone knew fae would never look away from you, never let a threat or a meal pass their sight. Everyone knew that.

“No,” He said, softly. “I’m not. Half-made, maybe. Are you-... her niece?” His eyes went, puzzled, from the young woman to the elderly one.

The young woman’s aunt threw her head back and laughed, shining laughter that filled the room all the way to the roof, and even the young woman felt an answering smile on her lips. “Oh, my, no, sweet boy. I’m just an old crone in the woods. Now, your tea’s just about ready, and here I am with a new guest to serve the extra to. Let’s make introductions, and you’ll stay for dinner, love,” She said, turning her eyes back to the young woman.

“But the blacksmith-”

“Will be right as rain by morning. First, though, you’ll stay for tea. My name is Llyrie, this is Del, and… Del, let me introduce this woman who would hit you with a pan if she could.”

“She could,” The young man - Del - said. He smiled. It was faint, but there, and if it weren’t for his eyes she might have said it was a handsome smile indeed. “I wouldn’t, um, wouldn’t stop her.”

Despite herself, the young woman smiled at Del, and watched the tension in his wings relax, just a little. The kettle began to whistle as the water boiled within, and the old woman moved it to rest to the side, pouring in a generous palmful of dried herbs, leaves, and flowers to steep. Then she moved over to the bed, reaching out, and the young woman’s muscles tensed, her hand jerking forwards and then stopping itself, as she watched the old woman grip onto the not-fae’s taloned right hand as though he were perfectly normal, perfectly human.

“You’re safe,” The old woman said, softly. “Nothing with wings has ever come to harm in my home, Del.”

The not-fae - the young man, wasn’t he, really? Just a young man, and yet all wrong and not a young man at all - nodded, slowly. “Please,” He whispered. “I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone.”

He sounded so… genuine. It didn’t seem like a trick at all.

The young woman did not lighten her grip on the pan.

“Del,” Her aunt said, patting the back of his hand while holding it, and his talons never touched her, “this young lady is one I have known her whole life. Come here, love, say hello.”

The young woman moved carefully, cautiously closer. She could see, now, the bright red blotches along Del’s cheeks that gave away his lingering fever, the shadows under the bright blue eyes that spoke of restless sleep or little sleep at all. This close, she could see that he was still trembling, just a little, even relaxed.

“Hello,” She said, softly.

“Hello,” The young man said in return. “I’m-... I’m Del.”

“She said that.” He looked down, and a bit of wavy light brown hair fell over his eyes, hiding them from view. She leaned slightly forward, until he looked up again. It was… strange, to see inhuman eyes in a very human face, but if she really thought about it, they were… pretty, weren’t they? “Del, are you-... sure you’re not fae?”

“Pretty sure.” He had a hint of wry humor in his voice at that. He glanced over at one wing, then back at her. “Last anyone checked, anyway.”

She realized, all at once, that there were rings pierced through his wings in two places, just above his shoulders and again at the topmost join. Small brass rings ran through the piercing, and they clinked a little when his wings shifted.

Who had done that? She’d never heard of fae piercing their own wings before. But if he wasn’t fae, maybe… maybe whatever he was did it. Maybe there was more than fae in the world with wings.

“Will you… show me your teeth, Del?” She asked, voice low and quiet. Her auntie hissed at her about rudeness, but the boy obeyed immediately, baring his blunt, human teeth. She breathed out in relief at the same time her stomach twisted at the thoughtless, instant obedience.

“Auntie, you said you… you found him sick?”

The old woman nodded, checking on the scent of the tea steeping in the kettle. “He was wandering the woods talking to no one. He’s lucky I found him first.”

“He sure is. My da and the others’d sooner shoot him than speak to him.” Del’s wings bristled, nervously, and she glanced back over at him, flushing slightly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about you like you’re not right here, should I?”

“It’s all right,” He offered. “I’m used to it.”

“Still. Just ‘cause you’re used to rudeness doesn’t make it any less rude. And I haven’t told you what I’m called, either.” She held out her right hand, watched him hesitate and look down at his talons, and then she laughed and held out her left. He slowly reached his left hand - simply human, nothing else - out to shake hers.

“I don’t know what you are,” She said, voice firm, “But you don’t seem like you’ll hurt me, and my auntie likes you. You’re Del?”

He nodded, slowly, eyes on her face in a way that made her feel strange, like her skin was stretched too tightly over her body, like her nerves were too close to the surface. “You can call me that, yes.”

“All right, I will. Nice to meet you, Del. I’m Laekna.”

---

Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @spiffythespook, @oceanthesarcasamfox, @whump-only, @just-strawberry-jam(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

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