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sleekervae · 3 years

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Suck It And See [0.1]

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"Attention all passengers, next stop is:"

"Sheffied Station,"

There was a notable shiver that ran through the air as the soft, feminine introduction was cut short by the blunt, robotic voice that muffled out the train's next destination. The pit of jitterbugging nerves in Jade's stomach reached a new boiling point as she felt the mobile car gradually begin to slow. She pulled her earbuds out and grabbed her luggage case, yanking it through the tight aisle with all the might she had in her tiny body. The conductor was kind enough to hold the sliding door open for her as she came into the pass and hopped out of the side door. The smell of burning coal and engine oil wafted into her nose and made her shiver in disgust.

The station was teaming with people, all of them buzzing back and forth in order to catch their departing train or eager to head home for the day. Jade reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper; it was a portrait of the family that was supposed to be taking care of her. Her mum's sister, Aunt Joy, as well as her Uncle Cosmo, and her cousins, Oliver, Noah, Charlie, Alfie, and Flora; relatives whom she hardly knew growing up as they lived roughly three hours away by train.

They're faces in the photo were off to her, perhaps it was the fact that nobody was smiling? Perhaps it was that the photo was about five years old and the faces were younger? Regardless, Jade's eyes scanned the crowd until she was able to just make out the familiar face of an older, but gorgeous, well-dressed woman standing by the turnstiles; looking absolutely appalled to be standing so close to the mechanisms. Meanwhile, her teenage daughter was sitting on a bench as she flipped through some random fashion magazine.

Pulling her luggage behind her, Jade tentatively approached the older woman. Once her eyes landed on the teenage brunette, her face lit up.

"Oh, my stars! Jade!?" she exclaimed, seemingly enthusiastic to see her. Jade nodded slowly and cracked a shy smile.

"A-Aunty Joy?" she stammered back.

The older woman wrapped Jade into a tight hug, engulfing her in her pungent, suffocating rose-scented perfume. The teenager -- Flora, she presumed -- was reluctant to put away her magazine and stand up, but she did anyhow and forced a smile onto her face. Flora was wearing tight, ripped jeans and velvet sweater with a black tank top underneath. Her long, honey blonde hair was tied into a tight ponytail atop her head with pom-pom elastics keeping it in place. She had shimmery, silver eyeshadow dusting her eyelids and shiny pink lipgloss smeared over her lips. To Jade, she looked like a washed up circus performer.

Aunt Joy meanwhile held herself with pride. She was dressed in a fine black pantsuit and three-inch pumps. Her voluminous, mousy brown hair was loose and curly, brushing over her shoulders, and every inch of her face was covered in fine, sophisticated makeup. Needless to say, this woman stood out like an onion in a bean dip within the station.

Aunt Joy released Jade from her bone-crushing hug and held her face in her hands, seemingly studying her. Her semi-wrinkled hands were surprisingly soft against Jade's skin, "Aw, you look just like your mother," she gushed, but the soft, kind expression in her eyes suddenly shifted to something more... indifferent, "We'll have that fixed before you leave, dear,"

Jade wasn't sure how to respond to that, besides an awkward "okay,". She turned and looked at Flora, who still had her nose buried in the magazine. Aunt Joy snapped at her.

"Flora!" her posh accent boomed at her, "Put that trashy thing away and say hi to your cousin," she requested -- no, demanded.

Flora rolled her eyes and stood, then she wrapped her weak little bird arms around Jade. Flora wasn't much younger than Jade, only by a few months. Regardless, she was short enough to be confused for a twelve-year-old.

"You've grown up," Jade forced herself to say, hoping that Flora might take her as genuine. Instead, she quickly dropped her arms from the hug and stood back. She glared down at Jade's chunky, dirt stained, white converse sneakers and snared at her.

"Why are your eyebrows so big?" she asked.

Jade, once again, wasn't sure how to respond. She subconsciously ran her fingers over her right eyebrow, feeling at the little hairs that brushed against her skin. They were only a bit longer than Flora's smaller, nearly bleached blonde eyebrows.

"Whatcha' mean?" she could only reply.

Aunt Joy glared at her daughter before she turned on her heels, "Flora, there is nothing wrong with Jade's eyebrows. If wants bushy eyebrows, that's her prerogative,"

Jade wasn't sure whether she should thank her Aunt for standing up for her, or shudder at the sly insult.

Nevertheless, Aunt Joy lead the two girls out of the station and into the parkade. There they all walked towards a silver, classy Mercedes Benz. Aunt Joy popped the trunk and rounded to the driver's side door, while Flora went for the shotgun. Neither of them helped Jade as she struggled to pick up her luggage and put it into the car's small trunk. Once she slammed the door shut, she jumped into the backseat just as the engine roared to life.

The car ride was mostly silent, the only exception being when Joy would asked Jade about her mother. Ruth Carswell was sick, too sick for a few doctor's visits here and there and drug store prescriptions for a quick-fix. Jade didn't like to talk about it much; hence why she chose to come to Sheffield to continue her school. With the medical bills piling up, as well as some bills left over from her parents' divorce, Aunt Joy and Uncle Cosmo were kind enough to take Jade into their home and pay for her school, right up until she would graduate.

"She needs a stable home environment!" Uncle Cosmo would say over the phone. Ruth Carswell was gracious to her sister for taking in her only daughter, while Jade's father, Peter, wasn't as ecstatic to have his fifteen-year-old daughter living three hours away from home.

Jade continued to stare out the window, glaring at the passing dull brick buildings and wet streets. Few people were out; cycling, smoking, sitting on benches and not doing much of anything for entertainment. At least in Newcastle, there was some life that was always breathing its way into the city; this town seemed half-dead.

As they passed a large sign that read Rotherham in white, cursive lettering, the dark, boring brick buildings soon emerged into flatter plains and larger townhouses. They were regal, conservative, and clean, as though just built and painted in a fresh coat. But just as before, nobody was on the streets. It was eery to Jade.

Aunt Joy turned into a cul-de-sac and pulled into a driveway just as the end of the ring. Before them was a beautiful, victorian-style dark green and red house. Its colours matched in tandem with the bushy coniferous trees and bustling flower gardens. The curtains were all drawn open and the grass was a gorgeous, rich green, still damp. On the porch was a darling little bench swing built in rustic, varnished wood. It appeared as a happy home, to Jade and the rest of the world, at least.

Aunt Joy marched up the small staircase while Flora hopped behind her; again, neither of them bothering to help Jade. Luckily for her, Uncle Cosmo opened the door, puffing on his pipe with a big, joyous smile on his face.

"There she is!" he awed. He swept passed his wife and daughter and went right up to Jade, wrapping her in a bear hug. Unlike Aunt Joy, Uncle Cosmo's hug was comfortable, familiar to Jade. His expensive, subtle cologne mixed with his pipe smoke, delicious and bubbly as the scent wafted up Jade's nose. Despite how little she did get to see Uncle Cosmo, she enjoyed spending time with him. He was a kind man with a heart of gold and a hand that was constantly open.

It made Jade wonder why on Earth he would've married Aunt Joy.

"Yeh're growing faster than a weed, darlin'!" he exclaimed, "Last I saw yeh, yeh was just knee-'igh to a grass'opper,"

Jade finally felt herself relax in Uncle Cosmo's embrace, "It's been a while, hasn't it?" she replied.

Uncle Cosmo took the luggage from her and hauled it up the stairs with ease with Jade following. Flora had long disappeared inside her home with Aunt Joy stood off to the side of the door, watching her husband with a derivative of adoration. Her gaze followed them inside before she slammed the door shut, making Jade wince at the sudden cacophonous calamity. Aunty Joy and Uncle Cosmo gave Jade a brief tour of the large house, the sitting room, the kitchen, the basement, rooms she could and could not enter due to 'privacy reasons'.

Her uncle excused himself to his office soon after, his pager had gone off. That left Jade alone with her Aunt. She struggled to pull her luggage up the two flights of stairs Aunt Joy was leading her. They descended down a brightly lit hallway with gorgeous, crisp white panelled doors. One of them was covered in Hot Wheel and Transformers stickers, no doubt that room belonged to her youngest cousin, Alfie.

"The boys are just out at their lacrosse practice, dear. They should be back by dinner time and you can all get reacquainted," Aunt Joy said to her. The older woman turned the corner in the hallway and came to another white door, seemingly decayed and left abandoned by the the passing of time. She wrenched the knob and turned it with a loud creak and pushed it open.

"And here we are. Home, sweet home," Aunt Joy seemingly sang. Jade followed her in, and she found herself standing in a small bedroom. It was perched in the back roost of the house, with dull, beige walls, stained and scratched floorboards, and a single window that overlooked the backyard. The bed was turned down with plump, freshly cleaned sheets and linens, and in the corner was a small desk, chair, and lamp. In the opposing corner was a four-foot long clothing rack. To put bluntly, the room lacked any personality whatsoever.

Jade looked around the room, finding disturbing patterns on the floor. They were boxy in shape and a few shades lighter than the rest of the floorboards. The room smelled of mothballs and lemon pledge, as well as something stuffy. Perhaps it would have been better once she had opened a window?

Jade didn't dare ask her aunt, but she had a creeping suspicion that she had placed her in what was once the attic.

"Now then," Aunt Joy stood by the door as Jade looked around, "House rules: no running down the halls, no loud noises, and if you're going to have friends over, you must approve with myself first. Oh, and no smoking in the house,"

Jade felt her nerves fizzle as she turned around, seemingly dumbfounded, "I'm sorry?" she quipped.

The older woman simply giggled as though she had told a silly joke, "Oh please, dear. I know nicotine when I smell it. You get that awful habit from your mum," she said, "Nevertheless, I'll let you get yourself settled. Dinner's at seven-thirty, I expect you to be downstairs by seven-fifteen. You need to use the bathroom, it's just down the hall. Just be sure you knock first; Flora likes to experiment with her makeup in there," she said.

"Alright," Jade replied tentatively, "Erm -- is there somewhere for me to plug in me phone?" she asked, noting that there were no outlets in the walls. Perhaps, since this was really the attic, the family figured they wouldn't need any electrical outlets.

"Oh," Aunt Joy brought a hand to her face as she looked around in thought, "Well -- I'm sure Cosmo has one in the office you can use. He shouldn't mind too much," she said.

Jade only nodded in reply. Aunt Joy left the shut the door behind her, giving her time to get herself settled. Jade looked tirelessly around the joyless room, figuring out ways in which she could liven it up. Perhaps with some old movie posters or art pieces? Jade placed her luggage at the foot of the rickety-looking clothing rack, pulled off her jacket and let it fall to the floor, and she took a seat on the bed. Despite the plush linens, the bed was hard, creaky, and uncomfortable. Cold and uncomfortable -- just like the rest of the house.

She let out a heavy sigh and laid back on the bed, immediately her eyes landed on a crack in the angled ceiling. Maybe by luck, a poisonous spider would come down from said crack, bite her, and take her out of this wretched situation? Because the Lord only knew how badly she wanted to be at home, with her own loving, but broken family.

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azvolrien · 4 years

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Water Horses - Chapter Two

In which some plans are laid and we find out why Asta’s back was sore.

~~~

The pain in Asta’s back had dulled from a knife-blade to a steady ache when she woke, but an equally steady quiver in her gut and her hands had arrived to join it. She sat up, rubbing her face – another sharp pain lanced across her back with the movement – before she twisted around to perch on the edge of the bed, lowered her feet to the floor, took a deep breath, and lurched upright. The room spun; she pressed both hands against the wall, taking deep, shaking breaths until it stilled.

For a moment she looked over her shoulder, frowning at the unfamiliar room. None of the chambers in Lady MacArra’s house had been round with drystone walls and a chimney in the centre like the hub of a wheel. Then the previous day came back to her with a vengeance and she almost had to sit down again. But it was true – she, a mere scribe untrained in any kind of survival or combat skills, had stolen her construct from her new owner’s desk and fled the MacArra estate outside Duncraig, riding full-pelt throughout the day all the way down Loch Gorm to the ‘haunted’ broch of Dun Ardech. A small, breathy laugh escaped her.

The smell of cooking and the sound of Roan whistling to herself drifted up from downstairs. Asta took another deep breath and, leaning heavily on the wall, followed them down to the main room.

Roan looked up from the frying pan she had balanced on a stand over the fire and grinned. “Well, look who’s up – good afternoon, sleepy-head!” She tapped her wooden spoon on the edge of the pan. “I’ve got eggs here just now, and I’ll be starting on some fish in a minute. Both, one or neither? There’s some bread as well if you’d rather that.”

Asta opened her mouth to answer and collapsed to all fours at the foot of the stairs.

“Whoa, hey!” Roan set the frying pan down on the hearthstone and crossed the room at a run to help her back to her feet. “Easy there, I’ve got you – just give me your arm and – oh, gods.”

“Hah?” Asta twisted her head to the side, trying to look down at her back. All she could make out was a blurry stripe of red on her shoulder, striking against the white linen of her tunic, but the implications struck her all too clearly. “Ha-oh. Oh.” Her stomach lurched; she clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Hey, look at me!” Roan gripped her upper arms in both hands and ducked her head to look in her eyes. “Deep breaths. Now…” She took her own advice. “…I think you should let me have a look at your back for you.”

Asta swallowed her reluctance and nodded. “Yes. I-I think that might be a good idea.”

Roan helped her to the nearest chair and, once satisfied her guest wasn’t about to keel over again, left her to get ready while she went to rummage in one of the cupboards over by the kitchen. Asta awkwardly pulled her bloodstained tunic off over her head and knelt on the chair, folding her arms over the back just as Roan returned with a metal box painted with a symbol Asta vaguely recognised as belonging to the devotees of a local medicine god.

“I won’t sugar-coat it for you,” said Roan as she took a pair of scissors from the box. “There’s no ‘probably’ about it – this is going to hurt. But you will feel better afterwards, I swear.” She began to cut away the bandages Asta had haphazardly wound around her chest. Asta clenched her jaw as the scabs tore away with the cloth and warmth began to trickle down her back again.

Roan’s breath hissed through her teeth. “What excuse,” she said in a low, dangerous voice, “did they give you for this?”

Asta sighed and closed her eyes, as much against the memory as the sight. “Daro – the man you spoke to – called it ‘pre-emptive discipline’. He wanted… to be sure I knew my place now that his grandmother wasn’t around to protect me.”

Roan muttered a curse, tipped something from a small glass bottle onto a clean cloth, and began to clean away the blood – and other fluids – oozing from the ugly whip-furrows on Asta’s back, criss-cross over her skin from her waist to her shoulders. As promised, it hurt; Asta choked off a scream. Roan silently handed her a scrap of leather to bite down on and kept cleaning.

“Stormhaven wound tincture,” she said once she had finished and tied a fresh, much neater dressing over the scars. “Hurts like hell, right enough, but it’ll have burnt out whatever sickness was taking hold in those and they’ll heal much quicker now. Sit tight for a minute – I have a clean tunic you can borrow, and then we can eat.”

She brought another woollen tunic – a little too big for Asta, as Roan was a few inches taller – down from upstairs and they ate in silence, side-by-side on one of the couches.

“They weren’t planning to sell you, then,” said Roan, putting her plate down once she had finished. “Slaves with that many whip marks don’t sell for as much. Buyers are less willing to go for someone they think will be a troublemaker.”

“No, I don’t think they were,” said Asta quietly. Also as promised, her back already felt a lot better; the fire in it had died down to a mere warmth. “I heard somebody say that they didn’t have slavery in the Sea Lochs before they were annexed into the Empire.”

“Oh, they did,” Roan assured her. “It’s been practised for centuries – not much room for moral superiority there. But it didn’t become the sort of industry it is now until then, no – there just wasn’t the population to support it. Well-off families would have a few household thralls, but it wasn’t such a pillar of trade. But today, a certain Lady MacArra the Younger and her children are neck-deep in it.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

Roan closed one hand around her other wrist and stretched both arms above her head. “I have a degree in finance from the University of Duncraig. Economic History was a required course in my first year.” She glanced to the side, caught Asta’s stare, and grinned. “I wasn’t always a hermit.”

“So you – what? You got tired of accounting and ran off to become a semi-feral sea witch?”

“Aye, that’s about it.”

“Maybe I should have done that…” Asta sighed and finished her eggs and fish. “So… speaking of history… Imperial law does have a few things to say about harbouring runaway slaves.”

“Funny thing about Imperial law,” said Roan, gesturing with her fork. “It’s not as rigid as the lawmakers would want you to think, especially out here on the fringes. Generally, so long as you pay your taxes and aren’t actively plotting to assassinate anyone, the Empire is happy enough to leave you alone. Think you can manage the stairs?”

Asta shifted her weight experimentally. Her back only twinged. “I think so.”

“Then follow me up to the roof. There’s something I want to show you.”

She waited until Asta had joined her on the high walkway before she pointed out to sea. “Do you see the island out there?”

Asta shaded her eyes with one hand. “Yes, I think so. How far away is that?”

“About ten miles, give or take.” Roan placed both hands on top of the stone rampart. “Technically, it’s within Imperial waters and subject to Imperial law. In practice, it doesn’t cause trouble so it gets quietly ignored. There’s a market that meets out there every few days; I take my sloop out to trade for a few necessities – bread, medicines and so on – and I’m not the only person who sails there. I’ve also seen ships from Stormhaven docking there. And by their laws, there are no slaves in Stormhaven. Step over their border,” she clicked her fingers, “and you’re a free woman. Might be worth seeing if any of those ships will give you passage south.”

“Can they be trusted, though? If they’re smugglers?”

“Not all of them,” admitted Roan, “but there are a few I’d vouch for. Besides, Stormhaveners tend to have… strong opinions about slavery. They might even give you passage for free if you explained the situation.”

Asta nodded slowly. “I suppose it can’t hurt to ask,” she said, equally slowly. “When’s the next market?”

“Day after tomorrow,” said Roan. “We can take the sloop over first thing and see what’s what.” She smiled. “So I’d better give you a proper tour of the place before that, eh?”

Although only Roan still called it home, Dun Ardech had been a village once, not just a broch, and a little of that still showed in its bones. Asta had not noticed the previous night, but a few outbuildings sat in the courtyard around the broch itself, still enclosed safely within the outer walls. A chicken coop sat against one wall, while a few tough little hens pecked through a small but healthy-looking vegetable garden. Roan pointed out one small drystone booth as the outhouse – “And it’s bloody freezing at this time of year!” – and another, bigger shed as the workshop where she prepared the various animal bones and skins she made use of, from her sealskin cloak and the reindeer fur that lay across her bed to the smaller pelts of foxes and rabbits she took out to sell at the island market. Outside the wall, a little way inland and sheltered in the lee of a rocky outcrop, there was even a reasonable equivalent to a bathhouse: another hut – drystone, inevitably – concealing a spring of comfortably warm water bubbling up from beneath the earth.

“It’s not deep enough to get a proper soak,” Roan said as they walked back to the broch. “That’s one of the few things I do miss about Duncraig – that big bath complex near the University.”

“I know it,” said Asta, nodding. It was one of few that allowed unaccompanied slaves to use it.

“But it works for a warm scrub if you have a sponge or a cloth. All the deeper water around here is either salty, unbearably cold, or both.” Roan shaded her eyes, peering into the sun as it sank over the ocean. “They’ll be hauling out soon,” she muttered.

“Who will?”

“Come up to the top of the wall. You can get a better view of why we stay away from the water after dark.”

A short flight of stairs brought them up to the top of the outer wall, with a clear view of the wide rock pavement between the broch and the sea. Roan sat down cross-legged, watching the sea. Asta gingerly copied her.

“You might have noticed,” said Roan, “that the gate through the wall doesn’t actually have a gate in it. It’s just a kind of narrow, angular corridor inside the wall.”

“I did notice, yes.”

“That’s because it’s not supposed to keep people out.” She pointed down at the surf washing against the pavement. “It’s a defence against them.”

Long, sleek forms heaved themselves from the water onto the rocks, their smooth hides – solid black, mottled grey, even a few reddish-brown ones – rippling with both blubber and muscle. They were more graceful on land than seals, but only a little, with long webbed toes ill-suited to walking and heavy whale-like tails that dragged behind them. One took exception to another that wandered too close; both reared up onto their stronger hind legs, hissing at each other and baring pointed teeth that suited a crocodile better than a mammal. And yet, Asta could see how they had come to be called water horses: apart from those terrible jaws, their long heads and arched necks were a similar shape, and each one bore a narrow strip of longer hair running down its back from between its ears.

“They come closer if the tide is further in at the right time,” murmured Roan. “Easy enough to avoid if you know they’re out there, but you do have to time your fishing trips carefully. The mares tolerate each other if there’s enough food, but the stallions will square up to fight even outside the mating season. You see the biggest one, there in the middle?” The water horse she pointed at was half the size again of the next-largest, and its scarred pelt was a pale grey with black markings like leopard spots along its back.

Asta nodded. “It’s hard to miss.”

“I’ve seen him a lot over the last few years, usually with his herd around him. He seems to be the dominant stallion of this territory, however eich-uisge map their waters out. And I think – couldn’t swear to it, but I think – it was him who responded to my horn call last night.” She wrinkled her nose in a sort of affectionate grimace. “I call him Riabhach.”

“R – sorry, ‘Reevack’?”

“Riabhach. Sort of not quite touch the back of your tongue to the roof of your mouth to make the ‘ch’ sound.”

“Reevacckkh – sorry, I can’t quite get it.”

Roan very carefully patted her shoulder. “You tried.”

“They’d attack, then?” asked Asta “If we were to walk down to them.”

“Absolutely. Like I said, they’re very territorial. But the gate’s too narrow for them – they’re not flexible enough to get around the corners. They stay out at sea while it’s light.”

Asta nodded, trying to suppress her shivers as the sky dimmed. Roan heaved a sigh and stood up. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go back in and get the fire going.”

The next day dawned to a hard frost and a dusting of snow on the hills looming above the headland. Roan changed the dressing on Asta’s back again and spent the rest of the day in quiet industry, heading out to check if the traps she set both in the water and on land had caught anything before returning to sort her catches – several fish and a grouse – and the rest of her goods bound for the island market. Asta made herself useful helping to pack everything into neat crates and bales, ready to load into makeshift panniers rigged across Pardus’s back and onto the boat when they got up early the next morning.

The boat itself lived in a small shed, a few minutes’ walk up the coast where the rocks gave way to a narrow stretch of sand. Roan unlocked the doors and threw them wide with a theatrical flourish. “Ta-da!”

Asta, not very familiar with such esoterica as boats, nodded appreciatively as seemed to be expected. Roan squeezed in around the side and shoved the boat out of the shed. It was about twenty feet long from prow to stern and roughly three feet wide, but despite its size it slid easily enough over the sand to the water.

“Right!” said Roan, clapping her hands. “Let’s get the cargo aboard and we can be underway.”

The boat did not really have a deck, just a couple of planks laid across the hull, but it still had a small ‘hold’ – more of a chest – near the mast into which all the goods – pelts, bones, and whatever foodstuffs Roan felt she could spare for trade – packed easily enough. Asta sealed the lid over the hold, dismissed Pardus back into its summoning stone, and at Roan’s insistent gesture stood back to let her step the mast and unfurl the sails by herself.

“Did you build it yourself?” asked Asta.

“Not from scratch, no,” said Roan, securing the mast in place. “But I did have to find it a new mast, and the figurehead’s my own touch as well.”

Asta hadn’t noticed the figurehead. It did indeed fit in with what she had observed about Roan’s style: it was the skull of a water horse fixed to the prow, gazing fiercely ahead, while the white bone had been painted with flowing blue patterns like Roan’s tattoos. “You do seem to like… decorative animal skulls.”

“What gave it away?” asked Roan, grinning as she fastened her sealskin cloak and settled the skull atop her head. “You can probably guess her name. Hop in – I’ll give us a shove.”

Within minutes, the sails had caught the wind and the little sloop was skimming over the waves towards the island in the distance. Asta hunkered down and tried to stay out of the way of the boom.

“This market we’re going to…” she said. Roan adjusted her grip on a rope and nodded to show she was listening. “How… how rough a sort of place is it?”

“Well, it’s not exactly Siraki Square,” said Roan, “but it’s not the Black Vennel either. Stick close and you’ll be fine.”

“Have you ever had trouble there?”

“Once, near the beginning,” said Roan brightly. “Lad from up in Kaldrfjord tried to con me out of some good pelts, then gathered a bunch of his pals with big sticks to support his argument. Set me right off, and I never had any bother again.”

“What do you mean, they set you off?”

“Hmm…” Roan wrinkled her nose again, this time in thought. “D’you know what a berserker is?”

Asta nodded warily. She had once seen one fighting in the Grand Arena, back in Kiraan before all her family’s trouble had started. The man – a blond-haired giant from distant Myrkfjord – had hacked his way with sword and axe through six opponents in a row, howling like a wild beast and completely heedless of the wounds he accumulated, before the arena marshals had finally managed to subdue him.

“There are a lot of different theories about where it comes from,” continued Roan. “The traditional one is that it’s a blessing from Torravon, the Sea Loch goddess of war. Some people think that it’s inherited, or that there’s something in the water around here. The only thing I’m sure of is that I am one.” She caught the worry in Asta’s eyes and shot her a reassuring smile. “But a bit different to whatever flailing blood-soaked carnage-maker you’re picturing,” she added. “I don’t go into a battle-frenzy so much as a battle-focus. It’s… hard to describe. Hopefully you’ll never see it.”

“…Is that another reason you live out here?”

“It’s not at the top of the list, but it is on there. I hasten to add that I didn’t kill the Kaldrfjord crowd. Just sent them running scared.”

“You’re an interesting skill-set, Roan. Accountancy, sailing, first aid, combat…”

Roan shifted the tiller, adjusting their course slightly. “You’ve got your history, and I’ve got mine. Besides – my lifestyle leaves me with a fair amount of time for practising new skills.” She grinned again. “I do enjoy sailing, though.”

It was a fine day for it, bright and crisp with a good wind, but even so the voyage out to the island took a couple of hours. Each-Uisge pulled up next to a wooden jetty at the south end of the island, and it wasn’t the first to do so. Many other small rowing and sailing boats had moored nearby, while a few bigger ships rode at anchor just offshore. A well-trodden path led inland from the jetty and towards the distant rumble of voices.

Roan climbed out to tie the mooring ropes. “We might be in luck,” she said, nodding towards the ships. “You see the one furthest to the left, with the two masts? I know that ship – that’s Curlew. It’s a Stormhaven trader, and its captain is an upstanding sort. For a smuggler, at least.”

Asta began unpacking the hold and passing the cargo up to Roan. “You really think they’ll just give me passage, no questions asked?”

Roan just shrugged. “There’s only one way to know.”

~~~

Like if you also want to run away to become a semi-feral sea witch.

Asta doesn’t pronounce ‘Dun Ardech’ properly either. Try as she might, she just can’t get the ‘ch’ sound and it comes out as ‘Ardeck’.

#az writes stories

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impfiltration-archive · 5 years

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@pafallende liked for a thing after the holts are kidnapped, shiro is rather susceptible to katie’s tears

Katie had never felt so small.

It was more than just her size. Humans scaled on the smaller side throughout this grand universe; the girl has stood before giants, and her confidence was never this shaken.

She’s trembling like a scared animal, now—curled up on herself and trying not to cry. Neither of her parents had ever spoken about feelings as some kind of shameful act; in fact, they were quite insistent about expressing yourself. Katie did not like to cry, though. One time, when she was enrolled in the private institute for prospective engineers in the albidax system, she cried and everyone laughed.

Her face was ugly when her eyes were all puffy and her skin turned blotchy; what’s more, she was pathetic for wailing like she was still an infant.

Tears were fine when they were absorbed by her mother’s lap, but not in the big, open halls of the central precinct. That shame shouldn’t be as palpable as it is now—not after the fresh trauma of a home invasion. However, it seems like that one string of pride is keeping Katie from shrieking ugly, high-pitched cries and tearing at whatever’s around her. The method is only barely working, though—there’s little, needling tears making their way down her reddening face, and Katie keeps sniffling.

As plush as her seat might be, there’s not anymore cushion for her to sink into; instead, Katie just tries hiding her face behind her knees. Whenever she closes her eyes, the masked figures are tearing through her room again—it’s better to just barely peek over her legs, then stare at the floors as all the noise of the precinct plays overhead.

There’s footsteps, chatter, and lots the ringing. Katie hopes there’s something about her family throughout all the chitchat and calls. Maybe someone spotted the shuttle that took them, or the investigators already figured out who ransacked her home—yet no one comes to talk to her. Everyone just keeps walking by, doing nothing that might help her family.

It’s all just a bunch of other nonsense.

Her gaze hardens, but before any agitation can really consolidate, a hand settles on her shoulder. Katie sits up instantly and her head snaps to the right. It’s Shiro and Katie has never felt so much relief in that exact moment. Her wide, frightful eyes crinkle into something soft as she surges from her caved-in position to cling onto the man, all the while crying, “Shiro!”

The hug is awkward—the girl wound up standing up on her knees, and was practically spilling out of her chair. She trapped Shiro in an odd stance, too. His left arm is stuck to his side, now, and he’d been standing at an angel. It hardly matters, though, as his relief was also immense. He winds up settling his free-hand around her shoulders, then squeezes just enough to provide some comfort.

It’s upsetting to find out she’d just been left out here. There’s a well of shame that’s been pooling in the recesses of his mind, and it just ended up even deeper. Not only did he fail his post, but he also left his youngest and now only charge to in some lobby.

Not like he had much choice with the latter-half. The intruders had used sedatives—Shiro could barely move by the time any reinforcements arrived, he was lucky he could be treated at the precinct instead of being hauled over to the hospital.

There’s no convincing him of any immunity, though. A good guard wouldn’t have let intruders get past the front doors, must less stick him full of tranquilizers. Shiro even felt a pinch of shame over how eagerly Katie received him. Given the circumstances, she should be screaming at him. Being terminated by a twelve year old would be a fitting end to his time as a personal guard.

He buries all that ignominy in the wake of Katie’s abject state, though; she’s obviously scared, confused, and in need of consolation. Yet he can’t think of anything to say besides a long series of apologies.

I’m sorry I didn’t stop them. I’m sorry I didn’t protect your family. I’m sorry you were left alone. I’m sorry your father put so much faith in someone that failed him.

His hand moves from between her shoulder-blades to the back of her head, and Shiro hopes that somehow conveys at least a fraction of his remorse. Katie just peels her face away from his side to reveal a snotty, tearful look. It pierces straight through his heart and drops it somewhere at his feet. She looks so fragile, his blood boils when he remembers the intruder that had picked her up—kicking and screaming—by her hair.

“Takashi,” she only ever used his first name when serious, and her voice was as pitiful as her face, “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Katie’s grip had loosened enough for Shiro to crouch down more around eye-level. His own hues are watery but the man’s jawline is tight; he’s trying to maintain a calm facade for Katie’s sake. He cups her face with one hand, and says in earnest, “I know, we just have to stay here a little longer while they figure things out. They need to decide who’ll be taking care of you.”

Immediately, Katie is whimpering, “I don’t want to be sent to some place! I want my family.”

Were this situation more mundane, Shiro might remind her that “young adults” don’t whine. This isn’t the place to assert etiquette; if anything, Shiro wishes he could cave in to her doe eyes. If only he could pull the Holts out of his pocket like an extra piece of candy. Unfortunately, Shiro can’t succumb to her sniffles, or even the way her little hand rest over his.

He might as well been curb-stomped.

“I’m sorry, Katie,” somehow, he keeps his voice from wavering, but there’s no denying just how soft it just went, “you’ll need to stay somewhere while they look for your family.”

Her bottom lip trembles and Katie pulls away from him before more or less crumbling into the armrest. Shiro could hear some muffled hiccuping, meaning Katie had finally broken into full-blown sobbing. He’s taken aback for a tick—unsure whether this is a cue to give her space or smother her in his arms. Neither option sound quite right, so Shiro opts to brush back her hair as he whispers ever so gently, “Hey, they’ll probably send you to Kaylana. You know she’ll take good care of you until your family is rescued.”

Her head shifts, like she had been shaking it no, then she speaks in a muffled tone, “But she lives so far away. They’re probably just going to send me somewhere on Earth. What if the kidnappers come back? What if I end up with someone who’ll just use me for dad’s name?”

Shiro felt something fold over in his gut. He wants to pat her back until these dramatics subside, but there’s no denying that there is some validity to Katie’s worries. The kidnapping was very clearly a coordinated attack, and what’s more, the kidnappers had aimed for all the Holts.

Sam made sense. Shiro only ever stood outside the meeting hall or lab doors, but that man had dealings with almost every colony in this quadrant and Central Command. He had enough clout to be a prime target for rebels and foolhardy bounty hunters. If someone had targeted not just him, but his whole family, then something nefarious was brewing, and Katie was apart of it.

A second kidnapping was likely, and if not, then there were plenty of low-leveled officials that would see her being orphaned as a chance to bolster their career. Taking custody of a Holt child would put them in the favor of dozens of different diplomatic figures.

Admittedly, Shiro can feel his sense of reason start to fray at the edges. These concerns had standing, but they were based off the assumption that her case would only be treated haphazardly. He can imagine why Katie feels that way after she’s been left here all alone, and he tries not to agree.

Again, he smooths out her hair. It’s getting harder and harder to steel his expression into something cool and collected, He’s only managing it now because Katie is crying into the armrest. “That isn’t going to happen. You’ll be protected, I promise.”

Shiro bites his lip when Katie shows the white of her eyes. They’re wet, puffy, and continuously overflowing with fat teardrops. “Does that mean you’re staying with me?”

His reluctance to answer or even meet her eyes in answer enough. Katie sits up again; by this point, she’s well past pride, and feels no shame in exposing her ugly crying face. “But who’s suppose to protect me then? You promised you’d always be there.”

Shiro winces at that. He knows the exact moment she’s talking about, too—back when she was much younger, and he had first been assigned to the Holts. He had made a big, noble pledge about how he’d protect her from all monsters and creeps, and this is the first time he ever regretted it. “I’m.. not going to be assigned to you anymore after tonight.”

He failed. And Sam had been the only thing keeping him from some military outpost. The Garrison scored him as perfect solider material, and various generals had hounded after him before Sam made a request for a personal guard. Shiro does not mention this; that’s not Katie’s problem, and this is a fate he deserves at this point.

Katie didn’t care about any of Shiro’s brooding though, and she grapples onto one of his arms like it might’ve been a stuffed animal that was being taken away from her. “No, you can’t leave me!”

He winds up with an armful of snot, but Shiro only moves to try and calm her. Katie’s hold turns into a death grip, and eyes seethed with a sound dissent at Shiro’s quiet, little, “Katie.”

“You’re suppose to protect me! You can’t leave me here-- They’re going to send me to someplace horrible, or the kidnappers are just going to come back. Please, Shiro, don’t leave me here.”

She was picture-perfect is someone ever wanted to phorogrpah desperation. Shiro stared right into those tearful, honey eyes and felt a little bit of his soul wither away.

He closed his own eyes and sighed something long and tired. Shiro wanted to remind himself that he was too close to the situation. He was reading into it, just trying to insert himself back into the narrative. There’s the clanking of metal boots somewhere behind them that catches his attention instead. Of course, it was a Galra solider (That clanking was always a precursor to being berated at the Garrison). For a second, she seemed to be heading for them—perhaps to act as escort for Katie to some actual accommodations—but the woman simply passes through. Probably making some rounds; you could always find a solider or sentry on patrol in any big or heavily-populated space.

Either way, she was just another body in this hall of white noise.

Shiro’s eyes still trail after the solider for a handful of moments, though. He eyed her armor specifically, and felt bile raise in his throat at the sight of it. Despite all his shame, Shiro can’t quite stomach the thought of being fitted into his own armor (His doubts with the empire were repressed somewhere in his subconscious, then masked over with simple repulsion). It almost happened to him once already, but Sam had saved him from that fate.

Now his daughter was clinging onto him like he was her lifeline, begging for his help with every fiber of her being.

Shiro looks back into her eyes and sees a reflection of Sam. All the sudden, Shiro feels the flighty sense of impulse in his chest steel over, and scans the whole of the lobby. There’s all sorts of people—either milling about or working at different terminals, but no one’s paying attention to them. It would take something obnoxious or truly suspicious to draw any eyes.

Keeping his voice low, Shiro carefully eases his arm out of Katie’s grip, and mutters under his breath, “Keep your head down low and don’t make any sound.”

Katie’s brows raise up with momentary confusion before she nods. Her tears are finally thinning out, and she sniffles one last time as Shiro stands back up. As big as Katie might be getting, Shiro can still pick her up like she’s six. Katie easily fits into the position, and tucks her head into the space between Shiro’s shoulder and neck—just as he instructed.

She also digs her fingers into the collar of her uniform, and Shiro settles his hand against the back of her hand in turn. This way, her hair wouldn’t be noticeable. He doesn’t waste any further time situating her; Shiro pivots around, then makes his way to the main doors. His pace was brisk pace, but not too much so.

Being nonchalant was key here. There was a little bubble of paranoia forming in his chest, and Shiro imagines Katie is experiencing the same anxiety—her grip was getting tighter and tighter. There were dozens of people in their peripherals, and all all they had to do was notice her. Shiro just swallows hard and keeps his eyes forward; he could already see the nighttime sky through the glass doors.

Once he got Katie through them, it was just a matter of finding a shuttle and leaving before anyone noticed they were gone. He been trained to fly just about any standard ship, and stealing one from the precinct lot wouldn’t be hard—security was minimal unless you were in a military facility.

Step by step, Shiro made a sort of catalog of things they’d need immediately, and how to get his hands on them (He had practice when he was young, and dreamt about running away to live in nebulous clouds).

As nerve-wrecking as every step was (Traitor, traitor, traitor), there’s no denying the burst of excitement that Shiro felt when the cool, night air finally hit them. He rubs reassuring circles into Katie’s back as that giddiness starts to mix with his neuroticism into a manic cocktail.

He’s finally escaping.

They just need to get out of here before he’s found kidnapping a diplomat’s daughter.

#[ DRABBLE ╰☆]#v; runaway child #pafallende #no proofreading we die like men

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gayhee · 7 years

Text

Give Us a Little Love (We Never Had Enough) Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Words: 2945

A/N: sorry about the wait! small warning, this chapter has a few mentions of violence and blood. witches mean serious business and it will likely get very nasty in the future! keep that in mind. enjoy! chapter title from O' Death by Amy Van Roekel

you can read the chapter on AO3 here!

A loud thud from upstairs and the smell of smoke caught the attention of Luciel and Yoosung from the kitchen, who were working together to prepare dinner for everyone. They exchanged a look before they shrugged it off, and resumed chopping vegetables and attempting to make a vaguely edible meal. Yoosung started to set the table, and let his gaze drift upwards for a few moments. “At least they seem to be making some progress.”

Upstairs, Jaehee stood slightly hunched, brow creased with frustration and a frown on her face. Her forehead was covered in sweat, which caused the tips of her hair to stick to her face. Behind her was Zen, on his back, spread out on the floor. His chest heaved as he regained his breath, and he was visibly exhausted. Seated in a chair at the front of the room was V, with a small, warm smile. He looked between the pair, and decided he would pity the young witches. “Alright, you guys have done well today. Take a break, help Luciel and Yoosung with dinner. We can train more tonight, if you’d like, just let me know.”

Zen groaned in response, fully resigned to spending the rest of his life on the floor, until Jaehee extended a hand to him. He took it gratefully, and she helped him back onto his feet. The pair thanked V before leaving and heading downstairs. While Jaehee rolled up her sleeves and gently took a knife out of Yoosung’s wobbly grip, Zen plopped himself in a chair at the dinner table, laying his head on his arms with a loud sigh.

“That bad, huh?” Luciel teased, but he could sympathize with the younger, having spent weeks, months, years training himself to get his powers where they were.

Zen lifted his head to respond, barely able to shoot Luciel a slightly pathetic look before he whined and his head fell back to his arms. “I spent hours trying to light a candle…just a candle! Ended with me getting pissed, and the flame kind of…went all over the place. Burned the table the candle was on, but the candle still wasn’t lit. Concentrating my flames is so draining.” He sighed into his arms again, and Luciel threw back his head to laugh.

“The guy who set the entire living room on fire 3 weeks ago can’t light a candle?” He snorted out a taunt between laughs, only getting muffled grunts in response. The redhead shuffled over next to Jaehee, pulling himself up to sit on the kitchen counter. He gently kicked his legs back and forth, watching mesmerized as the brunette finished chopping vegetables. “How ‘bout you, how’d your training sesh go?”

After a pause and a deep breath, Jaehee resumed cooking, eyes glued to the ingredients. “I dropped a bookshelf. Again. I’m having trouble levitating anything over about 20 pounds for more than 5 minutes.” They both knew well it would take weeks of work for any substantial progress to show, and Luciel nodded to acknowledge her words. “Luciel, are you joining us for training after dinner?”

Since their powers were still quite unpredictable, and most of them couldn’t control them entirely, nobody was allowed to practice without V there to supervise them, often leading to group training sessions to save time. Luciel shook his head no, and hopped off the counter to head upstairs.

“Nah, I’m going solo today. You know I focus better alone. Tell Rika and V I’ll be up all night, and save me some leftovers!” He spoke over his shoulder as he left, and retreated to his room. Luciel was the only one allowed to practice on his own, having spent years learning to control his power before he joined the coven. Only Luciel himself, and V, knew what he did to practice, but he spent hours holed up in his room, and nobody wanted to interrupt to find out. Jaehee sighed to herself and continued cooking, while she made a mental note to inform Rika and V of Luciel’s plans for the night.

Dinner was served, and everyone (sans Luciel) sat around the dinner table. They dug in immediately, too preoccupied with eating to speak at all. Once their appetites had somewhat calmed, they chatted about their days, with a sense of calm and friendship surrounding them. Yoosung pestered Zen into letting the blonde style his hair later, and Rika asked everyone how their training had gone. She had yet to join them during practice since she was busy attending to, well, whatever it was being the Supreme of a coven entailed.

They all had only vague ideas of what Rika did all day – filling out paperwork, working on potions, talking to other witches, maybe stirring a cauldron and cackling in the moonlight. Nobody knew exactly what she did, but she kept the coven running smoothly and that was enough for them. By the time Rika promised she would join in on group training some time that week, everyone had finished their meals and began to go their separate ways.

Before everyone had left, Jaehee remembered what she and Luciel had spoken about earlier.

“Hey, Luciel is taking the night to train, and I think it was his turn for ghost duty – who wants to take his spot?” After a round of sighs and grumbles, Yoosung offered to cover for him, though he seemed reluctant. Nobody really enjoyed staying up in shifts to make sure that if a spirit possessed Jumin while he was asleep, they wouldn’t do much damage, but it was a necessary evil. They hadn’t experienced anything intense yet, but even stories of the harm spirits had caused, to Jumin or others, had spooked them into agreeing without argument.

Yoosung threw himself onto the couch, having decided on a nice nap before his 4 AM watch shift. Jaehee grabbed a slowly retreating Zen by the wrist, dragging him upstairs against his will to train more.

“Just another hour or two, Zen, then we can rest. Besides, you aren’t the one on watch tonight. You’ll get plenty of sleep. Isn’t it always better when we practice together?”

Zen reluctantly sighed, pulling his hair into a high ponytail. “Yeah, I guess it is. We could use the training…alright, let’s do this.”

Yoosung groaned as a shrill alarm woke him up, and he fumbled in the dark for his phone. He blindly pressed at the screen until the noise stopped, and brought the phone up to his face, as he squinted at the numbers: 2:58 AM. He rubbed at his face before he pulled himself up, stretching his arms out before standing. He grabbed a few snacks from the kitchen and climbed the stairs, mind still clouded with the remnants of sleep.

He reached the top of the stairs, and was met with Jaehee’s slumped, seated form leaning against the door of Jumin’s room, book in hand, with her glasses low on the bridge of her nose.

“M’here, you can go Jaehee.”

His mumbled words were barely even words, but Jaehee understood them nonetheless. With a groan, she pulled herself up, and clapped a hand on Yoosung’s shoulder on her way past him. Yoosung took her previous spot on the floor and wondered how Jaehee managed to not fall asleep. He cracked open a can of soda, and hummed at the refreshing taste.

While he was used to watching over Jumin at odd hours, it didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Jumin, when possessed, was a danger to himself and others, and he came into the coven knowing firsthand that ghosts did not care what time it was when they possessed him. In order to prevent a spirit from wrecking the entire coven while they slept, they all took turns staying up near his room to make sure everything was going smoothly. Nobody liked the lack of sleep, but they assumed they were better safe than sorry.

Jumin, though it had been his idea, despised the system. He hated people having to look after him, due to his stubbornly independent nature. They all put up with it for the sake of the coven, though, and Jumin kept his griping to a minimum.

Yoosung pulled his 3DS out of his hoodie pocket and loaded up pokemon, resigned to a 4 hour shift of fighting of sleep with caffeine and games. He could feel his head nodding occasionally, sleep calling to him, but he was sure he could stay awake. His eyelids began to droop, but he shook his head and had another sip of pHd pepper – he could do this.

He could not, in fact, do it. A loud shattering noise startled Yoosung out of his inopportune nap, and he barely missed knocking over his soda can as he stood up less than gracefully. He pushed Jumin’s door open, all traces of sleep leaving in an instant as he watched Jumin carve into his own arms. Blood dripped from the cuts, from the shard of glass in his hands, from the hand gripping into the glass like it was nothing.

Jumin – NOT Jumin – had hardly noticed the intrusion, and continued to drag the glass along Jumin’s forearm, face distorted with an eerie grin. Yoosung sprang into action, and hissed as he cut his hand when he attempted to grab the glass away from Jumin. A deep growl came from Jumin, and Yoosung could already tell this would be one hell of a fight. He swept a kick at Jumin’s legs, satisfied when Jumin stumbled and loosened his grip on the glass.

The spirit inside of Jumin did not take the attack kindly, and howled as it lunged at Yoosung, who very narrowly dodged. Jumin’s body slammed into the wall headfirst, but merely shook it off and turned to shriek at Yoosung again.

“GUYS, CODE RED, STRAIGHT UP EMERGENCY! HELP, PLEASE!”

Already having been woken up by the yelling and various fighting noises, V flung the door open, Rika right behind him. The spirit, likely knowing they were outclassed and outnumbered, attempted to flee, hauling Jumin’s body towards the window. Rika raised a hand, and Jumin froze in midair, was gently lowered to the ground. He struggled in place, snarling as V approached him.

Yoosung watched wide eyed, before Rika ushered him out of the room. The only people who knew what happened to rid Jumin of the spirits were V and Rika. Part of Yoosung was wracked with curiosity, dying to know what happened that they weren’t allowed to see – a larger part of Yoosung knew it was probably better that he didn’t know. He quickly left the room and felt the door shut behind him as he joined the trio huddled outside the door.

At his appearance, Zen gasped audibly, and Jaehee stared intensely. Yoosung looked down, confused, only to realize he was stained with Jumin’s blood.

“Guys, I know it looks bad, but it’s really not. Jumin will only need a few stitches, and he’ll heal, good as new. Rika and V are helping him right now, just leave them to work.”

Neither Zen nor Jaehee seemed comforted by the explanation, so Yoosung shuffled over to Luciel. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up, maybe after we can put on a movie?” he whispered, as his fingers fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “I think Zen and Jaehee are kinda shaken up about the ghost thing, maybe keep the mood light? Answer any questions they have. And hey, make some hot chocolate while I’m gone!”

Yoosung turned to head to the bathroom, but a small ‘wait’ from Luciel kept him in place. Luciel took a step forward lifted his hand to Yoosung’s face, and gently swiped his thumb across the blond’s cheek. He flushed and sputtered a bit, face burning even after Luciel explained, “you had some blood on your cheek,” with a smirk. Yoosung turned sharply and all but ran to the bathroom, head ringing with Luciel’s fading chuckles.

Luciel turned back to the nervous Jaehee and Zen, and slung an arm around Zen, casually wiping his bloody thumb onto Zen’s white t-shirt. Luciel led them to the kitchen, making idle chatter while he did as Yoosung requested and fixed everyone some hot chocolate. Jaehee sipped hers for a moment, before she softly spoke up.

“What exactly…happened, with Jumin?” Luciel waved a hand as to somewhat dismiss the tension that began to fill the room, and made sure to keep his expression neutral. “Jumin was possessed by a more evil spirit, likely some kind of demon. It doesn’t happen often, but not all ghosts are nice. I know as much as you do about the specifics, but the demon probably roughed Jumin up a bit. But he’ll be okay, he’s used to the risks, and nobody was seriously injured! It’s not so bad, you get used to it.”

Jaehee seemed content with that response, though still a bit spooked. The three of them crowded on the couch in the living room, and heatedly argued movie choices before they compromised on Balto. Yoosung returned, hair damp and dripping, and eagerly picked up his mug of hot chocolate before squeezing his way between Luciel and Zen. They were too strung out to rest, despite how early it was, and put on another movie after Balto had ended.

Halfway through the second movie, Jaehee used her power to put everyone’s mugs in the sink, and gently float a large, fluffy blanket over them all. Exhausted from the shock and intensity of the night’s events, one by one they fell asleep, all cozy together on the sofa.

-----

Zen was pulled out of his slumber and back to consciousness with the smell of buttery, syrupy pancakes. He was alone on the couch, mind foggy as he slowly recalled how he had gotten there and why he’d slept in the living room. He ran a hand through his hair as he stood up, and tied his hair back into a low ponytail as he softly padded to the kitchen. Rika stood at the stove, flipping a final batch of pancakes, while V cooked scrambled eggs and bacon next to her. Luciel and Yoosung were seated at the dining table, where Yoosung attempted to read Luciel’s mind while he blocked Yoosung out, and Jaehee flitted around the kitchen to set the table instead of the distracted duo.

Jaehee was the first to notice his presence, as she bustled past him with cups of orange juice for Luciel and Yoosung.

“Morning Zen. Coffee?”

He smiled fondly at her, and nodded as he sat next to Luciel. Rika set down a large platter of pancakes in the center of the table, and V set down the eggs and bacon soon after. They all dug into their meals, content, though Jumin’s lack of presence made the group feel as if there were a hole. Zen surprised himself, words tumbling out of his mouth before he’d even thought them.

“Is Jumin doing okay?”

Jaehee raised an eyebrow at him, and Luciel held his fork up to his open mouth, frozen. He refused to be embarrassed about it, though, he was simply curious about the health of a fellow coven member.

“He’s doing fine, we stitched him up, and he should be back to normal in a few days. He’ll probably sleep all day, though.” V spoke directly to Zen, eyes glinting as if he knew something Zen didn’t. Zen shrugged his shoulders, and everyone resumed eating. V then addressed everyone, and informed them that some witches from the coven 2 doors down wanted to officially welcome them to the neighborhood, and congratulate them for their official coven status.

The doorbell rang as soon as he finished his explanation, and he got the door while Yoosung spoke rapidly about the perfect timing. Everyone stood up to greet the neighbors, and found 3 girls standing in the living room. The girl in the center, with long brown hair and full bangs, smiled warmly at them.

“Hi, we’re from the coven a few houses down! We thought we’d welcome you to the area. This,” she gestured to her left, to a girl with magenta hair down to her waist, “is Sarah. And this,” the girl on the right, with wavy brown hair and shiny blue eyes, “is Echo. And I go by MC.” After introducing themselves to the neighbors, MC offered them a tub of cupcakes, a housewarming gift of sorts. They all chatted for a bit, and hit it off pretty well.

The trio of girls left with bright smiles, and a promise to have them over to their own coven house sometime soon. They seemed nice enough, and Yoosung, Jaehee, and Zen all seemed relieved to have other witches in the area. Luciel narrowed his eyes at the girls’ retreating forms through the window, and crossed his arms. There was something up with one of those girls, he didn’t buy their fake smiles for one goddamn second, but he had a hard time putting his finger on what was wrong, and with which one.

He kept it to himself, not wanting to start drama when he had no proof of anything, but he trusted his gut instincts. He could get to the bottom of it himself, and he intended to.

Everyone tried the cupcakes, humming in appreciation at the deliciousness. Sarah had said she baked them herself, and they all praised her baking skills. Luciel figured it couldn’t hurt to have one cupcake, and begrudgingly agreed that they were incredibly tasty.

Stomachs full, they each resumed their day, unaware of exactly how much damage one cupcake could lead to.

#mystic messenger #mysme #mystic messenger fanfic #mysme fanfic #witches #witch au #witch! au #give us a little love #minor violence and blood tws #not my greatest chapter but it sets a lot of things in motion so!

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verrottweil · 7 years

Text

a semblance of familiarity

on ao3

alu/seras bonding, can be taken as strictly gen or a prelude to more.

He disinterestedly watches her change into a new uniform. Her mop of blonde hair clings wetly to the nape of her neck and the width of her hunched-together shoulders, she sits daintily on her bed with one leg crossed over the other, trying to do the front hooks of a form-fitting black bodice with a furrow between her brows and her inner cheek carefully clenched between her teeth. He suspects Walter will get her a coffin soon enough.

Seras had protested his presence at first, when she emerged from the shower in a full-body towel and saw him seated at the sorry excuse for a dinner table in her claustrophobically small room.

But he was her sire and he would burke no insubordination from her.

Folding both hands in his lap, he settles down low against the backrest of the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, the heels of his leather riding boots clacking hollowly on the stone floor. Alucard catches the nervous glance she gives him from the corner of her eye and offers her a toothy grin. It’s enough to make her fumble with the last hook, almost nick her finger on the brass, and shirk even more into herself. He chuckles and nonchalantly looks away.

What are you doing here?! Seras had yelped, not knowing how to react aside from wrapping her arms around herself, I’m not decent! As if he was supposed to care about decency.

He hadn’t answered her question, assuming his intentions were rather evident: she’s gotten hurt and it was still his duty to check on her, since she had refused to drink his blood. While Alucard was often baffled by human behavior, he supposed getting stabbed by consecrated bayonets and carrying the dismembered head of someone close to them were legitimate reasons to be unsettled. She had been so distraught during the incident.

But his fledgling would only grow stronger from the experience, because there’s no other outcome his pride will allow.

Seras puts on a clean blouse, buttons up and adjusts the collar. Next to her on the bed are a pair of thigh-highs and a short skirt, the rest of her uniform, with the colors muted in the dim lighting of the room to a matte olive. Her movements are quick and practiced, she seems to have rehabilitated well despite her reluctance to consume the blood bags Walter dutifully brings her every evening.

“Police girl,” Alucard calls, taking note of how she perks up at the nickname, tilting her head to the side to face him with her wide, expectant eyes. He holds his chin high, peering at her from behind the yellow-tinted glass of his shades, and says, “Anderson could’ve easily killed you, you know.”

Her shoulders slump at the words, as if she takes them for a beratement instead of an assessment. He blinks. How curious, he thinks amusedly, watching her fumble with the hemline of her blouse.

Seras heaves a heavy sigh and mutters defensively, “I couldn’t bloody well leave your head behind—” here she hauls a hand through her wet hair, bares her expressive gaze to him and continues, “—I thought I’d lost you, master.”

Tipping his head back and closing his eyes, he tries to throttle the nostalgia that threatens to rise from his gut at the fragile, vulnerable and slightly accusatory tone of her voice. Nostalgia for another life. He hears her standing up, balancing on one foot, back on two as she puts on the skirt, the same routine for the socks, shuffling around, and then footsteps echoing louder as she comes closer. There’s the scrape of wood over stone and a soft ‘plop’ as she sits down.

Alucard levels her a look when he hears something sturdy clank against the surface of the wooden table. She’s brought a hand mirror, an antique thing with the Hellsing crest engraved in the silver and he briefly wonders if Walter gave it to her or if she snatched it from somewhere in the mansion. In her other hand, she has a simple, plastic hairbrush. He suspects it’s always been hers, it certainly looks that way.

When Seras starts to struggle with the tangles in her hair, he chuckles, and the sound catches between the four walls and the damp, low-hanging ceiling of the basement, an echo.

She huffs in frustration, levelling him a disgruntled look from underneath her blonde fringe, plastered against her forehead in wet strips of hair. With a flourish, he gets up from his chair, the tails of his coat bellowing with his movements when he rounds the table and approaches her; she throws a bewildered glance over her shoulder when he comes to stand behind her.

After plucking the brush from her grasp, Alucard motions her to look straight ahead and hold the mirror properly.

“You didn’t drink the blood,” his tone of voice’s deceptively conversational, more easy-going than the grin toying along the corners of his dangerous mouth. He gingerly swipes back a few strands of hair from her temple.

He remembers thick, dark hair between his slender, childish fingers; the multi-colored mosaic on the walls was glittering under the sunlight cascading inside from the high windows, the floor was padded with heavy, finely-threaded rugs and cushions, the ceiling thinly-veiled with the smoke from the pipes, and there were feminine voices all around him. They deemed him less than a man, sending him into the sultan’s harem with just one order, a boy like you is hardly a boy at all.

Humiliation had burned angrily on his cheeks that day, when he’d entered the room on bare feet.

They had dragged him through the grand gates of the Topkapı palace by the scruff of his neck, as one of the many foreign princes held hostage by the Ottoman sultan, as a spoil of diplomatic warfare. His pride still flares at the thought that he was bartered like common stock, cattle. They had trust him into servitude, snatched the cross from his neck and dressed him in light, linen clothing, fed him sherbet and taught him the symbolism behind Divan poetry. And they were watching him, always watching him from the shadowed corners of the palace, to see if he would finally bend to Muslim customs, to Muslim traditions.

Seras is talking to him, a soft explanation in a softer voice, “I’m sorry, master, but I couldn’t, not yet I couldn’t—”

Nothing but a hum in acknowledgement, not betraying his mind’s elsewhere.

Do not burn what you intend to pillage, the sultan sneered at him when he spoke in his Turkish tongue. How subtle the threat behind those words, he sometimes muses. Do not squander what you might use someday.

“Master!” She yelps out when he tugs hard on her hair, making her neck curve backwards painfully, the teeth of the brush caught stuck in knots.

Blinking owlishly, Alucard snaps back to the present. He hushes her, brings one hand to the handle of her jaw and continues what he started, noticing how her hair tends to tangle together along the width of her shoulders. By her reflection in the mirror, he sees how she throws him another wary glance, but he only shakes his head to ease her worry. His grin stretches when she finally relents, showing off all his sharp teeth when she exhales loudly and relaxes under his touch again.

Gentleness was something he thought to have forgotten, but it seems his body has remembered how to brush a woman’s hair properly.

Elisabeta, a whisper of a name haunts the back of his mind. Elisabeta at the hearth as she takes off her maramă, and her long tresses come tumbling down her back like they were made to be run through by your fingers, and her eyes are reflecting the warm glow of the fire as she bravely looks up to you with your war-torn hands and your bloodied armor. He combs through Seras’ hair with his fingertips to make sure there are no more knots to be untangled.

It draws an approving hum from her and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’s close to dozing off.

Elisabeta undressing and bidding him closer with a coy smile; Elisabeta throwing herself off the battlements; Elisabeta dead. He unconsciously forms a fist against the first knob of her spine, holding onto strands of hair as the memories chase each other out in front of his eyes. Mina with her big blue eyes in her modest sleeping gown, staring at him in wonder; Mina and her parted lips, ravenous, covered in blood, his blood; Mina dying, Mina dead. He shakes his head lightly, sliding his knuckles between her shoulder blades, letting her hair slide through his fingers. Seras strapped to the chest of that FREAK, staring at him in wonder; Seras dying. Seras undead.

One word pulls him from his reverie, such a soft-spoken admission it might as well have been an exhale.

Father.

Alucard can feel his fledgling stiffen when she realizes she said it out loud. It’s comical how she abruptly drops the hand mirror, and how the heavy thing clatters unceremoniously on the wooden table, and how she snaps her head back to regard him with wide eyes. He laughs in the face of her embarrassment.

“I didn’t… That’s to say— I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean it,” Seras stutters, turning to him in her chair with one hand on the backrest and the other pushing her away from the table, and she takes a deep breath to compose herself, “I wasn’t thinking, master.”

“So it se ems,” there’s no mercy in his teasing reply, the only note of humor being the curt chuckle he ends the statement with.

Walter later tells him that Seras was orphaned from a young age, and he merely dips his chin and smirks knowingly, saying that he figured as much.

After he’s put the brush down, he motions her to sit straight again and her slightly cross expression changes into one of wonder. Alucard gathers her glossy hair in one hand and slowly rakes his fingers through, watching how the strands gracefully fall back against the nape of her neck and her shoulders, done away -for once- with the spikes.

He smirks then, when she starts to tremble a bit, and comments idly, “Is this the point where I say you look presentable, pretty even—” and here his grin threatens to split his face apart, “Daughter-mine?”

Seras sounds so mortified, so human, like she’d hide her face in her hands and refuse to look him in the eye ever again. “Master! Could you shut up, please?!”

And Alucard can only spit his cruel laughter at the inexplicable fondness that blossoms behind his ribcage like a field of roses and threatens to choke him on its flower petals and thorns.

#alucard #seras victoria #seras #aluseras #alusera #hellsing #alucard x seras #dad's home for dinner #hellsing fic

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