#(and sure maybe she comes back from an adventure with three broken limbs and a concussion but she gets some tasty pastries while she heals)

[unsettlingcreature]

saw a tiktok where it was like "this is skyrim but cozy!" as if you can't make skyrim cozy. my dragonborn is spending the morning picking flowers, coming home to a loving husband while she bakes all afternoon then winds down in the evening with some music and reading. and she is looking cute as a button while doing it. what about that isn't cozy.

[heyyyharry]

Chapter 14: Masquerade

(from ‘The Winter and The Crown’)

…in which there are intruders in the castle.

Word count: 3.1k

AU: queen!y/n, commander!harry

Description: Y/N and Harry set off on a new adventure to find ‘the cure’ for an ancient curse, meanwhile, the enemies are plotting to take her kingdom.

Wattpad link (Reyna as Y/N aka “Peach”)

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Y/N had danced her third dance of the night with her third partner. The entire time, she'd kept searching the room for Harry. Where was he? It wasn't like him to promise that he'd be here and not show up. She blamed all the trauma she'd gone through for her being too guarded and anxious, yet she trusted her gut instinct, and tonight, it was telling her to be careful.

The crowd broke into applause at the end of another dance, and Y/N felt a tap on her shoulder.

"May I have a word with you in private?" Lance asked, eyeing Y/N's dance partner. The man took the hint and bowed goodbye to Lance and Y/N. Lance gave Y/N a mysterious grin as he gestured with his hand toward the door, letting her walk first.

"You seem anxious," he pointed out once they were alone in the corridor and the orchestra music became muffled.

"How anxious?" she asked, pulling off her mask.

He kept his mask on, holding his hands together behind his back. "Right now? Not as much as before." He offered a calming smile. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time to talk about politics?"

"It's never a good time, but go ahead."

Lance hummed his agreement. "I didn't see Mary tonight. I thought Jo was supposed to keep an eye on her."

"She's being kept an eye on. Don't worry. Her room is being guarded," Y/N said, arms crossed. "What's wrong?"

Lance inhaled deeply, catching his breath. "She was to betray us. She was a spy for Calanthe. She told you to go to the North mountain because Calanthe wanted you to lead her there. She also wanted to find the lake. But her plan failed because the forest protected its secrets from outsiders like her."

Y/N's stomach dipped. "How long have you known this?"

"Weeks."

"And you decided to wait until now to tell me?"

"Look," Lance breathed, raking his fingers through his dark locks. "I was going to wait until after tonight because you'd gone through so much–"

"So what made you decide to tell me in the middle of my dance?"

Lance worked his jaw. For once, he was inarticulate. "This might sound stupid, but...it was my gut feeling telling me to tell you right away."

Y/N bit her lip. "So...why are you keeping this a secret? Why are you protecting the witch?"

Lance hesitated. "I don't want to hurt Jo..."

"Jo?" It took Y/N a moment to realize what he meant. Her heart dropped. "Oh, no, Jo...She was looking for someone tonight. I thought it was you."

"No," Lance chuckled, shaking his head. "Jo doesn't like me like that. Or at all."

"Everyone likes you."

"Is that so?" His eyebrow lifted in amusement. "Well, I'm very flattered, Your Majesty, but I don't think me being likeable could do much good for us. Calanthe has a plan."

"What plan?" Y/N scoffed. "Is there something else you're not telling me?"

"It's not a fact, just my speculation."

"Go ahead."

Lance rubbed his chin. "Well, I think George Wallace was murdered, but not by one of our people."

Y/N took a moment to let that sink in. "What are you implying? That it was a setup?"

Lance nodded, his eyebrows knitted. Y/N watched his grey eyes dance behind the mask as he observed his surroundings before lowering his voice. "They sent him here to kill him. He was the bait. No one would suspect Calanthe to sacrifice her most trusted advisor."

"Harry said the same thing," Y/N said and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"What?"

Her head shot up. She blinked at Lance. "What?"

Lance cocked his head to the side. "Is everything all right between you two?"

The question wasn't sarcasm with the intention of taunting her. Lance genuinely cared about her feelings despite his own. Knowing so, she could not help but think about what he'd said the other night and earlier on the dance floor. First and last dance...

No. She was overthinking again. She wasn't allowed to have these thoughts. This political chaos was already too much to handle. There was no time for personal business.

"Nothing is all right, Lance. You know that," Y/N answered with a soft sigh.

Lance nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

Just as the uncomfortable silence threatened to creep back in, a guard showed up, gasping for air as he bowed to Y/N and Lance. Y/N thought to herself, 'Not another dead body,' and her limbs went numb as she remembered that Harry was nowhere to be found tonight. He could be anywhere in the castle. Who knew what could have happened to him?

"Your Majesty," the guard said between laboured breaths. "There are intruders in the castle."

"Where?" asked Lance, his fingers secured around his sword-hilt.

"The west wing," the guard said. "Commander Harry saw someone."

"Where's Harry?" Y/N asked, her stomach knotted. She unconsciously reached for the sword at her side, only to be reminded that she was wearing a ball gown, and there was still a dance going on behind those doors. She was stupid and careless enough to have gathered all the important people here tonight.

"The Commander went after the intruder, Your Majesty. We suspect there are more than one."

"Fucking idiot!" cried Y/N as she picked up her skirt and ran. She heard Lance telling the guard to keep the ballroom secured and make sure no one came and left. Then he chased after her.

If that idiot Harry didn't die tonight, she would kill him with her bare hands.

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Harry wanted to skip the dance. People had been whispering about him since he'd returned, so he didn't want to draw more attention to himself by dancing with the Queen herself. However, he'd promised Y/N he'd be there for her, and he never wanted to let her down. And so he deliberately took a bit longer to get ready just to show up late and blend right into the crowd.

The castle was so quiet tonight with almost everyone being in the ballroom. Harry could hear the music all the way from his chamber. He took one last look at himself in the mirror before adjusting his mask and leaving for the dance. He was accompanied by a guard, which made him quite uncomfortable. Still, he knew it was all for his safety. Everyone must be careful after the murder of George Wallace.

"Help!" a scream tore through the night, causing both Harry and the guard to whirl around. A shadow dashed out of the darkness and crashed right into him. He caught the person with both arms and was terrified to find that it was a woman covered in blood.

Mary.

"Help!" she choked, tears streaming down her scarred face. Her hands were shaking as she smeared blood all over his shirt. "They're...they're dead! They wanted to kill me!"

"Who?"

"The guards," Mary sobbed, her face as white as the moon-washed floor. "They're dead! A man killed them and...was chasing after me! He had a weapon!"

"Take her somewhere safe," Harry told the guard, pulling Mary up to her feet.

"You're not coming, Commander?" the guard asked Harry.

Harry opened his mouth to answer when all of a sudden, he spotted a tall and slim figure lurking in the shadows of the corridor. It vanished in a blink of an eye. Harry knew it headed to the courtyard for there was nowhere else to go.

"There are intruders in the castle," Harry told the guard, his heart pounding. "Send backups. Alarm the King and Queen!" And without waiting for the guard or Mary to stop him, Harry ran after whom he assumed was the murderer.

He didn't stop until he was deep in the garden. The snow was falling peacefully all around while the beating of his heart accelerated. Thousands of tiny candles dotted ledges hidden throughout the topiaries. It would have seemed magical had the fog ever lifted. Now the little lights played strangely with the mist, creating shadowy phantoms, there one moment and gone the next. Harry gripped his sword with cold and numb fingers, overwhelmed with anxiety as he scanned his eyes around.

Suddenly, he became aware of another's presence behind him and swung his sword just in time to deflect the blow. The person stumbled back. A clang of metal on metal. A whoosh. Harry let out a gasp as he felt the cold tip of the blade at his throat. Meanwhile, he was holding his sword with an outstretched hand, pointing straight at Lance's heart.

"You," Lance said, catching his breath. He seemed relieved, which confused Harry.

"You!"

"Peach!" Harry and Lance bounced away from each other as Y/N rushed up to them. She looked beautiful in her golden dress, yet she also looked angry...

"Mind explaining what happened?" she asked before Harry could open his mouth. Lance put his sword away, assessing Harry with a raised eyebrow.

"Someone killed the guards outside Mary's room," Harry said, hating the way Y/N's face grew grim. "They tried to kill her but she escaped."

Y/N groaned as she hugged her arms around her chest, gooseflesh rippling over all that bare skin. It was far too cold to be out.

"You shouldn't be here," Harry said. Y/N's eyes sharpened furiously at him. He was expecting her to snap when a broken branch alerted the three of them.

"Y/N!" cried Lance, but he didn't react fast enough. Y/N had yanked the sword out of his hand and chased after the figure. Harry could see it a bit clearer now. It looked like a man wearing a dark cloak. He exchanged horrified looks with Lance and both sprinted after Y/N and the intruder.

"Show your face!" Y/N shouted as she studied the garden in silence. From where they stood, the ballroom, shining so brightly inside, could barely be seen. The orchestra's music echoed eerily in the fog. Y/N looked half-crazed. Her words came out in smoke. "Surrender and maybe I'll spare your life."

There were footsteps padding towards them, gaining speed, closing the distance. There was more than one person.

As they closed in, Harry spun around. He drew his sword and struck at eye level. A cry of pain answered him. Y/N deflected the blow and lunged with her sword, which met with the figure's blade which gleamed in the moonlight. Beside Harry, Lance was dodging every strike. He was quick, yet unable to fight back without a weapon.

Harry heard Y/N mutter something under her breath, her eyes met his for a second, and he could see the helplessness in them. She wanted to protect Lance.

Harry took down the man charging at him with a swing of his sword before thrusting it right through the one cornering Lance. Lance looked up at him, wide-eyed, breathing out smoke. He hadn't expected Harry to help him.

Y/N's sudden cry startled both men. They turned. Like a silver snake, the last intruder's sword shot out and caught Y/N in the shoulder. She fell with a hard thud to the ground.

"Peach!"

"Y/N!"

Lance and Harry bolted towards her. The murderer took that chance to flee, disappearing into the fence maze when Harry looked up. The heavily falling snow had covered all the footsteps like a perfect accomplice. The garden returned to its peacefulness as if there hadn't been a crime committed against the Queen.

"I'm fine," Y/N said, wincing as she held her shoulder. Red blood was trickling down her skin, staining the snow, bringing back to Harry the unpleasant memories of those nights in the woods. He was reminded once again that he could lose her any moment if they weren't careful.

Lance put an arm around her as he helped her stand up. Harry tore his sleeve and wrapped the piece of fabric around her wound to temporarily stop the blood. His heart ached as he watched her bite back the pain. Blood had stained her beautiful dress. Then, Harry noticed that Lance was looking at her with the same agony in his eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. Harry and Lance both hurt the same.

"Y/N!"

"Your Majesty!"

Jo and five guards finally showed up. Jo gasped into her palms when she saw that Y/N was bleeding. "Oh, Y/N, you're hurt!"

"Took you long enough!" Lance snapped at the guards. "I would have had all of you beheaded had something bad happened to the Queen!"

The guards muttered their apologies which were silenced by Lance's raised hand.

"I don't think they wanted me dead," Y/N spoke. She sounded strangely calm for someone who'd just been stabbed. "If they did, they would've killed me already."

"They're here for the witch. They knew she betrayed them," Lance said.

"Betray?" Jo muttered.

Lance's expression shifted. Harry reckoned that Lance hadn't meant to let Jo find out this way. Harry wasn't sure he was more shocked by the news or Jo's reaction to it. He had never seen her so genuinely hurt by anyone that wasn't Y/N.

"She was a spy for Calanthe," said Y/N, seemingly too in pain to acknowledge her friend's pained expression. "Don't worry. We'll take care of that."

"You're not going to...hurt her, are you?" Jo said, her voice wavering.

Lance placed a hand on Jo's shoulder. For the first time, he was showing sympathy with a servant. "We're not. Don't worry."

Jo nodded, yet the uncertainty was etched on her face as she wrapped an arm around Y/N's waist, escorting her back inside.

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Harry lit a candle beside Y/N's bed. She was lying on her back, watching him. Her shoulder had been bandaged. It didn't hurt as much as before yet she could not shake off the fear she'd felt earlier in the garden. She wished she'd seen those men's faces. She believed they were the Monks. Calanthe had either sent them here to kill the witch or to light a match that would start a war.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hand placed over of hers.

"About what?" she chuckled. "Tonight wasn't your fault."

"You came to the garden to find me."

"Yes, I did it by choice." She squeezed his fingers and cracked a reassuring smile. "I can take care of myself. Don't you worry. I'm brave."

"I know," Harry sighed. "Brave people tend to get themselves in trouble."

Y/N snorted as she rolled her eyes. "Trouble follows me everywhere I go. So many people have wanted me dead. But look at me now. I'm the Queen, and I'm not losing my crown to anyone. I'm not letting them take my father's kingdom."

Harry exhaled, a smile playing on his lips. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she said.

There was a knock on the door. "Y/N?"

"It's–"

"Lance," Harry said, his expression unreadable.

The door creaked open and Lance poked his head into the room, looking surprised to see Harry there. "I'll leave," Lance said.

"No, I'll leave," Harry said, smiling at Y/N. "Goodnight, my queen." Then, he kissed her hand and got up to go.

"Hey," Lance stopped him halfway through the door. "Thank you for earlier."

"No problem," Harry replied. With just that, he was gone, shutting the door on his way out.

"Glad to see my fake future wife still alive," Lance said as he made his way to the bed to sit down at Harry's previous spot.

Y/N let out a light laugh. "I'm sorry I took your sword."

Lance squinted his eyes in amusement. "Yeah, and still, you managed to get yourself hurt."

She scowled at him and punched his shoulder as a joke. He pretended to wince in pain before busting out laughing. "Sorry." Lance cleared his throat, suppressing a grin. "How's your shoulder?"

"It hurts less. Thanks for asking."

"It wasn't like you to be so careless," he said.

Y/N pursed her lips. "I was distracted."

"By?"

"I was...worried you'd get hurt," she mumbled. Even without looking at him, she could still feel his notorious smirk growing wider.

"Don't let that happen on the battlefield," he said. "I can take care of myself, with a sword, of course. But you should always remember that the enemy wants your head more than mine."

Y/N swallowed hard as Lance reached out his hand. She watched him ponder for a second before gathering enough courage to place his hand on top of hers. Just like Harry had before. Harry's touch had been natural and comfortable. As for Lance, she felt him turning into a bundle of nerves.

"You're too good for me," she said.

His eyes danced as he chuckled. "No one is too good for anyone." Then he sucked in a breath. "I hope we'll both be alive after this."

"We will," she said even though she was unsure.

"What will happen then?"

"We get married. For our kingdoms."

Lance's smile faltered. He clenched his jaw and looked away, his fingers sliding off hers. "We don't have to if Calanthe's dead," he whispered.

"Our people expect a wedding."

Lance shook his head and switched his gaze back to her. "Forget what the people want. What do you want, Y/N?"

"I can't just forget what the people want. I'm their queen."

Lance's lips slightly parted yet he said nothing more. It was hard to tell if he'd run out of arguments or simply didn't want to start.

"Let's try to stay alive and find out," he said with a thin smile. "Goodnight."

She watched him get up, looking rather weary. The complete opposite of the charming king he'd been at the dance.

"Why did you say it was our last dance?" she asked before he reached the door.

He looked over his shoulder, lips curled to the side. "It was a joke. Because you said you didn't want to dance with me, which I hope was also a joke."

"It was." She gave a small smile. "I loved dancing with you."

"Good," he said, weakly. "Rest well, Y/N."

"So do you," Y/N said.

As quietly as a shadow, Lance slipped out of the room.

[ambersky0319]

Idea: Intrulogical fusion, completely in sync despite being a fusion of Remus and Logan. But Virgil and Patton didn't like it. Virgil because, It's Remus. He shouldn't be with a lightside. Patton because it makes him feel like he failed Logan, after all, hes eith Remus. So they force them apart. But, their roles are switched. Logan looks like King George III, but he has shackles & broken crown. Remus looks like your stereotypical mad scientist. They have no memory of who they once were. -Rayne

I had a lot of fun with this- also I decided to draw Macabre! It also ended up being longer than I intended. I hope y’all enjoy this!

Pairings : Intrulogical, Background Roceit

Warnings : Unsympathetic Patton, Morally gray but also pretty Unsympathetic Virgil (I mean, he feels somewhat regretful of what he does at the end-), Fusion, blood and pain mentions, if I need to add anything else please let me know!

Masterpost 

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It started off as something small- an idea that Remus had, which Logan was more than happy to try. They were just figments of imagination, after all, it’s not like it was an impossibility. And it took a lot longer than either side believed it should have taken, but they got there.

Logan and Remus fused.

When they first fused, they cried. Tears streamed down their cheeks as they hugged themselves because it just felt so incredible, so loving. They hadn’t even looked in a mirror yet, but it felt right, being together like this. They fell to the ground just hugging themselves, rocking back and forth. He wasn’t them, though, and both Logan and Remus knew that. They could feel that. And when he looked in the mirror, that’s when they fell apart.

Logan and Remus were choking back tears of their own as they held one another, crumpled on the floor of Logan’s room. Remus buried his face into Logan’s neck, grinning wide as he laughed almost hysterically.

“I can’t believe that worked!”

“I can’t believe how that felt.”

The silence stretched on for a moment as they collected themselves until Remus broke it, pulling away from Logan slightly. “I want to do it again.” He said, reaching up to play with Logan’s hair. “Can we do it again, Lolo?”

Logan smiled the softest Remus had ever seen him smile, and he nodded. “Yes, whoever that was, it felt great. I would do it a hundred times or more.”

Remus giggled before leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss to Logan’s lips before they fused once again.

And so, Morbidity was created.

Morbidity stayed hidden for a long while, and Remus and Logan felt strange each time they unfused. They felt lonely, more so than they had before fusing. Remus had correlated it to how Ruby felt when she and Sapphire unfused and Ruby had gone on that adventure. And Logan couldn’t agree more. Being Morbidity was intoxicating, because when he formed, neither felt lonely or unloved anymore. And Morbidity felt more love than when Logan and Remus spent time together unfused.

Morbidity just felt right.

Morbidity didn’t want to unfuse anymore. Logan and Remus didn’t want to be apart, not when they were constantly torn down and ignored. So they stopped unfusing, and Morbidity stayed in his room. His own room! He had been shocked when it had formed but felt overjoyed nonetheless. Because it meant he was a part of Thomas, a true part of him! But with the new room, that meant that the others would start to notice. And they did.

Macabre, the name Morbidity found he liked most when brainstorming, was peacefully watching a documentary about some of the worst crimes ever committed to date. He was fascinated with how the killers had gotten away with it for so long, and how all the evidence from the buckets of blood that had needed cleaning up to the finest of hairs left behind all played a roll in solving the cases. He was writing a novel, a murder mystery, and wanted it to be as exciting and puzzling as possible. So research was needed.

That’s when his door was opened, no one knocking as it slammed against the wall. Macabre flinched at the sound, finally looking away from his television and notebook littered with notes and random, horrific doodles.

Standing there was Roman, stunned when he saw Macabre, dual-colored eyes staring into his green ones. “Um…”

Then Patton peered over his shoulder, confusion flashing across his face. “A new side?”

Macabre laughed, and it sounded like glass shattering. “Not a new side, Patty-cake. Merely an experiment gone extremely well!” Macabre stood, stretching and hearing his bones pop and feeling the pins and needles in his feet creeping up his legs. How long had it been since he last got up? He made a mental note to set a timer so that his limbs wouldn’t fall asleep like this again.

“…. Experiment?”

“Who are you?”

“What are you?”

Macabre frowned only slightly, fixing his glasses. “I’m Morbidity! I would say it’s great to finally introduce myself, but I believe your facial expressions aren’t the proper reactions one would want.

"And I was an experiment. Not one any longer, though! Remus and Logan sure enjoyed doing them. Maybe I should try it out too!”

“You’re behind Logan disappearing?!” Virgil’s voice raised a few octaves as he started on at the fusion. Macabre crossed his arms, now frowning completely.

“I’m not behind anything. And Logan didn’t disappear. Not completely.”

“What does that even mean?”

It seemed Roman knew the answer to Patton’s question, though, because he broke from his daze to answer. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Morbidity, but you’re a fusion.”

Macabre smiled. “Right you are, Roman! Oh, I knew you would remember. Remus didn’t think you would, but I knew you would.” He clapped his hands together, once.

“What’s he talking about Roman?” Virgil asked.

Roman only briefly looked at Virgil, offering a small, half-hearted shrug. “Remus brought up the idea one time that maybe sides could fuse. I just brushed it off, but it was definitely one of his good ideas.” He turned back to Macabre. “So… You’re a fusion of Remus and Logan?”

“Morbid Creativity and Logic sure go quite well together, don’t you think? Both always ignored, finding that they are the outcasts of their supposed families, and finding love in one another. It really shouldn’t be a surprise that they got along so well.”

“Wait wait wait, Logan fused with… With Remus?” Patton looked absolutely horrified.

“Well, they were dating for a year before they made me. But yes.”

“They were together?!”

“It really isn’t hard to believe, Patton.” Macabre glanced at his nails, painted as though they were dipped into blood. “Now, unless you three are interested in watching this documentary with me, can I get back to work?”

“We still have-”

“What are you working on?” Roman cut off Virgil, approaching Macabre. He shot Virgil and Patton a slight glare when they tried to protest. Because he could feel the anger and frustration, and even the panic radiating off the pair. “If you two even think of pushing Morbidity to talk, by the way, I’ll let Thomas know why I actually chose to go to the wedding.”

That sent the pair off, and Roman sat down with Macabre, the door closing. If this is what Remus and Logan wanted, to be together like this, then Roman would support it. He wasn’t in any place to judge though, considering just this morning he and Deceit had attempted to do the same.

It suddenly became very different around the Mind Palace, what with Macabre (or Copypasta’ as Roman and Deceit had taken to calling him after seeing Macabre’s love of creepypasta) having introduced himself to Thomas not long after the others had ventured into his room.

Thomas didn’t really mind Macabre, while he sometimes felt uncomfortable by the insane amount of violent knowledge he had, knowing about certain chemicals and their reactions to drinks was definitely helpful when attending bars. Especially when his drink shifted in color just slightly, and Thomas knew not to drink, because Macabre had remembered a case where someone had drugged their date. And Macabre got along with Deceit and Roman just fine(though the two still hadn’t come out yet).

Patton and Virgil, though? They were furious. They were absolutely livid that Logan would even agree to ever fuse with Remus. Logan deserved better than Remus, in their eyes.

They fueled one another, Virgil and Patton. They fueled the negative thoughts towards Macabre. He shouldn’t exist. He should have never existed in the first place. Logan was too good for Remus. What could Remus possibly offer that Logan would want, anyway, that Logan didn’t already have? The others had been working on showing their appreciation of Logan. Virgil and Patton had worked on not cutting him off, and Virgil had tried listening to him a bit more. Patton had stopped laughing at a few jokes Roman made about Logan.

And then there was Remus. The imbalance of negative and positive ideas was weird. Because Macabre wasn’t intrusive, not to the extent Remus had been. Now, Remus’s gruesome ideas were rationalized or internalized, suppressed in Macabre until he could jot down the idea and either write or draw the thought. Everything just felt wrong.

So they devised a plan, about three weeks after Macabre had been found by them.

Virgil had been horrified by Patton’s idea at first, listening reluctantly as Patton explained to him how to split a side. Because even if Virgil hated Macabre being together, and didn’t like Remus, he still remembered what the split had done to the twins. And he worried how that would affect Remus, going through another split. But Patton persuaded him, claiming that if all the facts that Thomas knew were tainted, were bad, then Thomas was a bad person. And Thomas couldn’t be a bad person, he just couldn’t. So Virgil agreed.

He doesn’t remember it much, though. He purposely forgot Macabre’s scream as he was quite literally torn apart. Virgil blocked the image of Macabre’s agonized face from his mind, keeping it a blurred memory that could have been a dream. He felt sick at the thought that he did it, but the idea that Logan would come back was enough to keep him from stopping.

Patton though was completely unfazed.

However, they didn’t get the outcome they had wanted.

Remus and Logan had indeed been split, that much was clear. But they weren’t Remus and Logan, not the ones that Patton and Virgil wanted.

They were pushed out of the way by Roman and Deceit, who had finally broken into the room that Virgil and Patton had sealed off. It looked so incredibly wrong, and to say Deceit and Roman were angry would be an understatement. They were bursting with rage as Logan and Remus finally stopped whimpering, the pain no longer overwhelming them. They cradled the two sides, all the while having a shouting match with Patton, Virgil making no attempt to defend his actions.

Roman held his brother tightly, though Remus only blinked at him in confusion, and once Deceit and Roman had stopped arguing with Virgil and Patton, they had turned their attention to the two sides, taking them in. The guilty pair sunk out to their own rooms, leaving Roman and Deceit with the new Logan and Remus.

Though they didn’t even know Logan and Remus were their names.

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TS Taglist

@treasureofpriam @theloveliestsweetspongy @tacochippy @anderswrites @romanknite @0beansprout0 @random-fandom-dragon @daflangstlairde @princerhubarb @that-one-ts-artist @heyitsmeimjustkindahere @aromanticandaromatic @deliciouslycrookedme @batpinkstudentpersona @avocados26 @fandomloverangel @red-eyes88 @adarkgreensoul @analogicallythinking @thatreallyawkwardpotato @insanegoldie2 @gothams-lil-sweet-potato-pie @alexkittycat1 @len-art-trash @faithyfander @an-absolute-failure @lexilucacia @o-hello-its-me @fearthesmolpotato @moxiety-my-love @thatonenerdphotographer @diadems-arewornon-capita @morrogirl9024 @thefandomnerd15 @sulphur-and-honey @aroaceagenderfluid @yalltookmyurlideas @sidesareathing @surohsopsisofclouds @dissappropriation @demigodbookdragon @too-many-fandoms89 @a-soul-among-the-stars @croftersgamer @thenaiads @theyluna-womoon  

Intrulogical Taglist

@cress-the-fander @worm-does-shit @enby-ralsei @jadedmidnight @virgilisacinnamonroll @ohgeneralmygeneral @asthmatic-trash-bastard @remusownsmyuwus @alexinthebathroomataparty  @diadems-arewornon-capita @the-bethanista @yalltookmyurlideas @demigodbookdragon @theunknoen @theyluna-womoon  

[the-blind-assassin-12]

This Time Around

Word Count: 2,942  Warnings: anxiety/panic, implied drug use and addiction, death/illness  A/N: The title for this one comes from the song Io by Helen Stellar. I strongly suggest listening to it as an accompanying piece to this. This piece is connected to the Core Drive AU and directly correlates to another one shot for that series. It takes place a little bit ahead of the current storyline, and will come into play in a bigger way soon enough ;) (so sorry for the angsty vibes on SUCH  a stunning piece of art! but it will all make sense i promise) 

(ARTIST APPRECIATION SUBMISSION)  

Oh hi there. It’s 1am EST and I figured now is as good a time as any to gush over @valkblue​ ‘s extraordinary talent. I was lucky enough to commission Angie during her Trick-or-Treat fanart event, and I knew that giving her free-reign to decide what to draw was the right call because literally everything this artist creates is absolute magic. From the color choices to the movement, the little details like the bracelets and Juliet’s Superman shirt and the way that you can hear the laughter coming from this picture... I’m seriously speechless. Real talk? I teared up when I saw it for the first time, not going to lie. 

So Angie, I hope you enjoy this (and I hope you can forgive me for putting a little bit of an angsty twist on this beautiful memory). Thank you so SO much for creating it for me and for sharing your incredible work with all of us. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- You are a stunningly talented gem and you are appreciated!!  

Look how sweet and innocent and gleeful they were are!! 

What did I just read? 

She let out an uneven breath as she lifted one shaking hand up to fix a curl that had fallen loose over her eyes. Two pearl bracelets knocked together on her wrist, clicking softly as she dropped her arm back to her side. Her fingertips swept over the sweaty center of her palms . 

What did I just read? It sounded like… 

Clamping her eyes shut tightly, she swallowed and released another burst of air. 

If this is true it means… It means he was… 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Delos.” 

She gasped and looked up from the marble floor, blinking rapidly to realign her features into a more neutral expression. Managing a tight-lipped smile, she nodded at the member of the estate staff who had greeted her, and the woman went back to work situating a vase filled with peonies in full bloom. The groundskeeper always supplied fresh cuttings to be displayed throughout the house, and the recent change in the weather meant that the garden was bursting with color. 

Juliet’s eyes lingered on the fluffy blossoms as the woman twisted the vase and stepped away from the credenza. “Is there anything I can get for you, ma’am?” She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for a reply. 

“N-” she cleared her throat with a small cough. “No, thank you, I’m fine.” 

That’s a lie. 

But whether it was because she was paid not to ask questions, or because she believed what Juliet said, the woman didn’t hesitate before nodding with a smile. “Well then, have a lovely day, Ms. Delos.” 

With that the young woman hurried off to complete the next task on her agenda, and Juliet released the tension she was holding in her shoulders, chest rising and falling as she tried again to take steady breaths. But the buzzing in her ears came rushing back as soon as she was alone again, and one hand flew out to help her catch her balance as she turned the corner into the back hall. Her footsteps slowed and faltered slightly as she made her way down to the last room, as though the air was so thick and full of memories that it was like trying to run under water. 

The simple, white wooden door was closed, like it always was these days. She hadn’t been able to set foot inside the room in close to a decade, and since Logan had moved out only the housekeepers entered it. Preferring not to feel the things she was feeling now, she’d put her mother’s sitting room out of her mind by putting it out of her sight. But now I… she swallowed, hard. 

“Don’t let him ruin you, Juliet…” 

The last words her mother spoke to her echoed in her mind, as clearly as they had the day that the woman held her daughter’s face between her palms, begging her to remain true to herself. Her heart stalled then, and a chill filled her chest, spreading out into her limbs, into her mind. She sucked in a breath as the rest of her mother’s words came back to her. 

“He’ll do anything for power... Don’t trust him, Jules.”  

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..

It had been the last day of an unexpected visit home before leaving for a semester abroad, and Juliet had been sitting with her mother while the woman recounted what was clearly one of her strongest memories. Although she hadn’t worn her hair in braids since she was eight years old, she relaxed against her mother’s bent knees, closing her eyes as the woman raked her fingernails through her wavy, dark brown locks. Separating it into pieces, she began weaving the strands over and under, hands remembering the motions so her mind wouldn’t have to. 

“Do you remember when you and your brother crash landed in the lilac bush?” Her tone was tinged with an air of mischief, the question finishing with a laugh that had made Juliet smile. 

Of course I do. Her eyes had opened then, flicking across the sitting room to the table by the window seat, where a silver frame held a photo of the very moment that her mother was reminiscing about. In it, a tiny version of herself held the ropes of a swing tightly between clenched fists, her legs extended out in front of herself, shoes just seconds away from becoming projectiles and launching from her feet. Logan stood on the swing’s seat, one brightly colored sneaker planted on either side of her, his own small hands wrapped tightly around the ropes as he swayed his weight to send them swinging higher. 

“You wanted to fly to the moon.” Another little chuckle tumbled from her mother’s lips as she secured an elastic around the bottom of one pigtail. I remember. Juliet wasn’t sure if that was a fact she recalled from the memory itself, or from the many times it had been retold, but it didn’t matter. She remembers. She remembers this. Maybe she… Maybe Logan’s wrong. Maybe she’s getting better. She smiled as her mother started working on the other side of her parted hair. It was a wishful thought and she knew it, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be true. “You always wanted to go higher. My fearless little girl.” 

Juliet closed her eyes again to let the story play out in her head and she could hear her own delighted squeals as she begged her brother to swing them higher and faster, his response nearly drowned out by his gleeful laughter. “Okay, Jules, hold on tight!”  

No one would know it now if they hadn’t grown up with her, but Juliet Delos had been an adventurous, rough and tumble child, always covered head to toe in scrapes and bruises she’d gotten from trying to jump and  climb and do everything that Logan did. He was older, bigger, stronger and quicker, but that never stopped him from including his sister, nor did it hold her back one bit. They were almost inseparable, Juliet idolizing him and Logan seemingly loving every moment of it. Though they’d grown up and grown apart somewhat as teenaged siblings sometimes do, Juliet still looked up to Logan. I’m just not wearing his hand-me-downs anymore. She blinked over at the photo once more, smirking at the grass-stained Superman shirt she was wearing, recalling her absolute disinterest when her parents had told her that she could have a pink Supergirl one instead if she wanted. “Logan’s is Superman,” she’d stubbornly pointed out. “I want to be like Logan.” 

Juliet grinned, looking out the window and into the yard then, where the ropes of the swing still hung from the enormous tree. “We almost got to the moon, mom,” she said, handing her mother a second elastic when she’d tapped her on the shoulder. “Our calculations just didn’t account for your lilacs.” 

The sound of her mother’s laughter then felt like a balm to her heart, smoothing over all the little cracks put there from the times when the woman couldn’t remember things, or worse, when she remembered them incorrectly. She’s still there, she told herself, allowing that thought to put her at ease about leaving the country in the morning. She’ll still be here when I get home.The assurance was all she needed to let herself get lost in the rest of the memory. 

“Okay Jules, ready?” Logan asked confidently as he angled himself to gain more velocity on the swing.

Juliet tilted her head back to look up at him as her pigtails trailed behind in the breeze, small forehead furrowed and chapped bottom lip between her teeth. “Y-yeah…” 

She gave herself away with her nervous laughter though, and Logan didn’t miss it. “C’mon, jump with me, I won’t let you fall.”

The laughter came back but this time it was from excitement. “Okay!” More laughter as their mother snapped a picture from where she and their father were sitting on the veranda. “Okay, Logan!”  

He started counting down from three then, his voice downright giddy with the prospect of flying from the swing. When he got to one he yelled out the word “Jump!”, and on command Juliet flung herself from the seat of the swing, Logan springing off of it right behind her as it hit the height of its trajectory. It took no time at all for the pair of them to realize that they were headed straight into and not over their mother’s precious lilac bush and though Logan tried to wrap his scrawny arms around his sister in midair, hoping to somehow protect her from the impact, they both ended up tangled in the twiggy, broken branches of the massive purple shrub. 

“How’d we walk out of that one scot free? No broken bones?” Juliet mused, laughing as she recalled pulling petals from her hair late into the evening that night. 

“No broken bones.” Her mother confirmed, smoothing back any stray strands that she missed in the braids. Juliet sighed at the feeling of her nails combing over her scalp, relishing the moment. She hasn’t done that in…  “But do you remember how mad your father got?” Her hands dropped down then, landing on Juliet’s back and causing her to turn around to face her mother. 

Furrowing her brow, she cocked her head to one side. “Dad didn’t get mad… he…” she pursed her lips and thought hard, searching her memory for her father’s wrath and coming up short. “Did he?” 

“He did.” Her mother nodded, a solemn look overtaking her face as she picked up one of Juliet’s braids to examine her handiwork. “He screamed at your brother, told him he should have known better; that it was his job to protect you and not to put you in danger.” She sighed and let the braid fall, the tail end of it landing on Juliet’s shoulder. 

He did? Logan never told me that… She was about to ask her mother if she was sure when the woman’s expression changed, the furrows smoothing out and a smile returning to her cheeks. But not her eyes… Juliet frowned, a sudden sense of dread setting in. Maybe she’s not getting better after all…  “Juliet, do you remember the stories I used to tell you and your brother? When we’d sit in the garden? Oh,” she giggled, the sound seeming much smaller and less lifelike than the genuine laughter the two of them had shared only moments before. “The myths! You always wanted to hear the myths.” Her unfocused eyes stuck to the woven strands of her daughter’s hair. “Io and Hermes, Pan, Syrinx and Argos...those were your favorites, do you remember?” 

Juliet took a shuddering breath then, feeling her eyes prick with tears at the way her mother seemed to have slipped into another moment without warning. “Y-yeah, mom… I remember.” She sniffed, swiping her tears with her pointer finger before her mother could notice them. “Pan chased Syrinx into the forest, where she turned into a flower? Or...a bush-” 

“A lilac bush, my Jul,” her mother corrected her. 

“A lilac..? Really? Mom?” Juliet couldn’t remember that part of the story, and she couldn’t tell if it was just something that her mother was adding now. I’ll have to ask Logan if he-

“And Hermes? Do you remember?” Her mother prompted her, reaching down and squeezing her hands. 

“H-Hermes?” Juliet sniffed as her mother nodded. “Yeah...he...rescued Io, right? Tricked Argos into shutting his eyes and...and stole her away?” 

“That’s right,” she gave her daughter a proud smile. “You remembered.” 

Of course I did, those… you loved those stories as much as we did. “Mom, I-” 

But another sudden switch occurred then, and Juliet was silenced as her mother’s thin arms wound tightly around her. “Don’t let him ruin you, Juliet. Stay you, my sweet girl.” 

“Who, mom? Who are you…” She hugged her mother back, turning her head to rest it on the woman’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Who are you afraid of?” 

..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  ..  

She hadn’t gotten an answer from her then, but now, placing a shaking hand on the intricate doorknob, Juliet thought she knew who her mother was referring to.

If what I read was… she meant… Oh, mom… 

Opening the door, she stepped inside and turned slowly as her eyes raked over the contents of the room- the full bookshelf, the empty easel, the chaise lounge with the paisley patterned pillows. But it was the small, silver frame on the side table near the window seat and the photo in it that made the tears that she’d been holding back came spilling out. A few steps brought her close enough to reach out, fingertips brushing the bunch of tiny purple flowers before making contact with the cool metal of the picture frame. A sob broke free of her lungs as she picked up the picture, tracing the edge of the frame with the pointer finger of her free hand. 

He was always trying to protect me. 

She took the frame and crossed the room to sink into the chaise, leaning back into the pillows with the picture in her hands. “I’m sorry, Logan...I’m so…” a sob cut her quiet apology short and she forced her eyes shut, tears slipping from under the closed lids. The stories she told us… When she blinked her eyes open again, she turned her head to look out at where the lilac bush had grown back just as strong and full after the two of them had nearly demolished it with their small bodies and flailing limbs. They were about her and… and Dad and...and me and Logan. She was… another sob wracked her chest. She was trying to warn me. 

“Just like Logan was,” she whispered to the empty room that she’d avoided for so long. 

Setting the frame aside, she glanced over at the door to make sure that it was still closed and that no one had followed her before pulling her phone from her pocket and opening her email. Scrolling through, she found the one that she’d happened upon by accident in her father’s study; one she was certain that he nor her husband wanted her to see, so she had forwarded it to herself to give herself more time to process what it said. What it meant. 

We’ll make it look like a preventative move- come out strong and say that the new QA procedures are being put in place to assure guests that the kinds of things Logan was accusing me of couldn’t happen in our parks. Face it, Jim, neither of us thought he’d pull through from that last bender, but he did and we need to get on the right side of it while the iron is hot. 

She read through the excerpt that had shattered her world, each word that she read making her cringe more than the last. Why are you so hell bent on how you look if you haven’t done anything wrong, William? And… The second question only made her head swim even more. And if Dad...if he knows… then he knows that Logan wasn’t… I need to find out more information. I need to… I- 

She took a deep breath then, and thought of the letter she’d received a few weeks back from her brother, of the way that the elongated letters of his handwriting pleaded with her to reach out to him when she was ready to talk again. He apologized in more words than she could ever recall him using to express how sorry he was for how things fell apart. He asked her to please consider that what he’d told her was the truth. He promised that he’d never stop trying to protect her, even if she couldn’t understand what he meant. He told her that he’d earn her trust again, and that he’d work hard to keep it this time. 

Swallowing the rest of the tears she felt building, Juliet licked at her bottom lip, tasting salt. She looked down at the picture that her mother had cherished for all those years, and picked it up again, deciding then that it shouldn’t stay down here, locked away and out of sight. She decided to make her own promise to Logan- that she’d find a way to prove that her father and William were covering something up- something big, possibly bigger than what had happened to her brother in the park.

 I know I messed up, Logan. 

She wiped at her eyes and turned the frame over to undo the fastenings and pop the picture out. The photo paper was slightly yellowed at the edges, a sign of how much time had passed since things were carefree- for me. They were carefree for me, but he… Dad was always hard on him, wasn’t he? Tucking the photo into her pocket with her phone, Juliet stood and crossed the room to set the empty frame back on the table, next to the fresh cut lilacs that the staff had always brought into their mother’s room. 

That was him too, wasn’t it? Juliet couldn’t be sure, but she knew that she hadn’t said anything to the staff about their mother’s affinity for the soft purple blossoms, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it hadn’t been her father. He always… He always put us first, Mom and I. I...I see that now, and I’ll… I promise, Logan, I’ll find a way to fix this. 

“This time around, Logan, I’ll find a way to help you.”

.

.

.

Thank you a million times to all you fabulous artists! If you are an artist in the Ben Barnes fandom, or if you want to surprise an artist with a quick drabble, send me a message or link me to the piece of artwork that you would like me to write about. Let’s show these talented folks how much we appreciate them and the things that they create!

And if you would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please feel free to drop a line!

General Tags: @something-tofightfor​ @malionnes​ @suchatinyinfinity​ @thesumofmychoices​ @gollyderek​ @pheedraws​ @beautifuldesastre​ @alraedesigns​ @dearmarii​ @fific7​ @traeumerinwitzhelden​ @obscurilicious​ @luminex3​ @bisexual-space-slut​ @vetseras​

Logan Tags: @valkblue​ @belladonnarey​ @ymariejp​ @drinix​ @jigsawlover10​ @nananananananananananabatman​  @qhostboyyy​ @getlostinyourparadise​ @blackbirddaredevil23​ @ofgeneticperfection​ @delosdoll​

[theskyeandsea]

Seal, Interrupted || Erin, Leah, Morgan, & Skylar

Timing: Backdated to January 8th, 2021

Location: Skylar and Rio’s home.

Tagging: @corpse--diem, @phoenixleah, @mor-beck-more-problems, @theskyeandsea

Description: Erin, Morgan, and Leah stage an intervention. It doesn’t go very well.

TWS: Drug use, addiction, slight body horror, discussions of suicide

Leah glanced at the two women who accompanied her outside of Skylar’s house, an awkward tension filling the air as the three of them waited for her eventual arrival.  She had done all the research she could on successful interventions, and her note cards were safely tucked away in her pockets lest anything go wrong.  They needed to be firm in what they were about to present to Skylar, but also let her know how much they loved and cared for her.  It wouldn’t be easy for any of them, and Skylar might take it the wrong way and shut down even further.  This was all to be expected.  But it was worth the risk if it left even a miniscule chance of Skye finally listening and coming around.  “I hope this works”, she said out loud to neither of them in particular. “I’m not sure what else to do if it doesn’t”.

Morgan had been haunted by Skylar’s distress since that day in the woods. She could see with painful dread what kind of places the girl was heading for. So much so, she considered asking Deirdre along, in case there was a vision they all needed to come to terms with sooner rather than later. But Morgan had swallowed the impulse, deciding that this was something she needed to do on her own.

“I dunno,” Morgan deadpanned. “Shove her into her skin and throw her into the ocean? Unless there’s a supernatural rehab we can send her to that I don’t know about.” Her gaze shifted uncomfortably between Leah and Erin. A gathering of people around a girl who wanted to insist ‘nobody cared’ might go great, or it might zig-zag down some other terrifying, bullshit confirmation-bias thought hole. “So, are we knocking first or am I popping the door handle?”

Dread filled Erin as they stood outside of Skylar’s home. It’d only been a few weeks since she’d been here last but the memory of it left a terrible taste in her mouth. The arguing, the hurtful words exchanged, and the pitiful sight of Skylar, who was just a shadow of a person at that point. “You have to prepare yourself in case it doesn’t.” The words felt harsh as soon as they left her lips but it was the truth. These things didn’t always work and some people couldn’t be helped. She hoped against hope that Skylar wouldn’t fall into that statistic but it wasn’t something she could shake. She glanced briefly between the other two women. “Let’s get this over with?” She said, almost as a question, but she leaned in and knocked sharply against the door. 

These days, life was a listless cycle for Skylar. She’d started sleeping in the bathtub, not bothering with the bed because every time she woke up, the sores on her arms and legs would crack and bleed. She didn’t know what caused them and neither did Gabe-- though she wasn’t sure she trusted him much. He didn’t care much about her, now that she’d started paying him in tears. You selkies are so lucky, you don’t even know it. He’d told her when he’d looked at the vial of tears. Look at that. You distill this shit, you get it all mixed with the right herbs and shit? Liquid amnesia. Make you forget your grandma, it could. He’d swapped the vials for a small packet of pills and two more vials of Bliss. And just the sight of the bright red liquid had been enough for her to feel some measure of relief, her body aching for what the drugs would bring. 

When the knock came at the door, Skylar had been listless in her room, coming out of the comforting nothingness of Daverin. Her limbs were stiff as Dundee tugged at her pant leg, dragging her towards the door with more force than the tiny dog should be capable of. Her fingers found the doorknob clumsily and she pulled it open. Immediately, she wanted to slam the door shut-- Erin, Morgan, Leah. Three of the people she didn’t want to see right now, didn’t want to deal with, didn’t want to hear. “You shouldn’t be here. What’s going on?” She asked, staring at them with dull eyes. 

Leah wanted to chuckle at Morgan’s question, but now seemed like the worst time to laugh.  Instead, she sent her a small smile, her mind still heavy with questions of the morality of what they were doing.  Erin’s words confirmed her worries- there was a big possibility here that it wouldn’t work.  And then, they’d still be stuck.  Possibly with Skylar even more opposed to their help and presence.  Erin bit the bullet for them and knocked on the door, and Leah hated how the unfamiliar anxiety danced in her belly. She didn’t know how it was possible, but somehow Skylar looked worse than last time.  More sunken into herself, more sores coating her arms and legs.  She hoped her face didn’t show how heart broken it made her feel.  “Skye”, she breathed out, reaching forward to graze her arm gently.  Would she accept tears for those sores?  “Can we come in?  There are a few things we’d like to talk about.”

She barely waited for an answer, pushing past Skylar into the house and expecting her companions to follow. She hadn’t been there since their Lift adventure on Skylar’s couch, and dread washed over her at the thought of all the feelings they both experienced that day.  But it was good- Skylar could no longer say nobody understood.  “What’s most important for you to know, Skye, is how much we care about you.”

Morgan followed Leah in, though her demeanor was a little less warm. Warm hadn’t been helpful in the woods. Then again, bluntness hadn’t either. Nor had giving Skylar space and listening to what she claimed she wanted and needed. Everything each of them had tried before now was some sick, logic defying guessing game, and here they were: making the biggest, highest stakes guess of all. Might as well go all-in. Morgan gently guided Skylar into the living room with them, taking a seat so they might all have the sense to do the same. “It’s like this, honey: I’ve been worried since the last time we met about what you’re trying to do, exactly, to make the hurt stop. All of us are. And we want the same thing you do, for you to stop hurting, but this whole self-isolation and convincing yourself you’re all alone and uncared for and destroying your body with these heavy doses of drugs isn’t the way. I mean, if it really was, you wouldn’t have to shut yourself up for it to kind of work sometimes, right? So maybe, together, if you’d just tell us something about what you’re really afraid of and running from—” For once. “—as hard and strange and scary as that might be, we can come up with something that really will make everything better. Because you are loved, Skylar. You wouldn’t have old Christmas gifts piled up and people knocking down your door if you weren’t.”

The three women had gone over a brief plan before arriving, but even now staring Skylar down, hearing that sharp resentful tone in her voice was enough to make her bristle. Made the confidence she’d so carefully built up before this falter just a little. It was too late to go back now, with the two other women stepping into the house. Morgan was already monologuing, taking charge and Erin was grateful for it. She found herself lost for words. Skylar looked… bad. Even worse than she’d seen her just a few weeks ago, and certainly not in a way that gave her much hope. “We just want to help. That’s all we want to do--all we’ve ever wanted to do.” She gave a worried glance between the other two women before landing on Skylar again. “This--us barging in like this is because we’re--” she sighed, shaking her head. “We’re scared for you, kid. I’m really scared. All we’re asking is that you listen.”

Blinking as the women stepped through the door, moving her towards the living room, Skylar stared at them in confusion. Shying away from Morgan’s touch, stepping out of the way with unsteady legs. No matter how gentle Morgan was being, she was still pushing Skylar, still trying to make her do something she didn’t want to do. Skylar distanced herself from the other women, eyes wary as she leaned against the back of one of the arm chairs. “I’ve got all the help I need, I don’t need yours.” She said at Erin, shaking her head. She ignored Morgan, she didn’t want to hear what she was saying. It wasn’t true, wasn’t true at all. And it didn’t matter if she told them what was going on, because it wouldn’t change anything. Nothing would change. She would still be left with her pain and nothing would get better. Because it never had before. The harder she tried to accept herself, to love herself, the more the world had torn her apart. 

It was the tone in Leah’s voice that caught Skylar off guard. The oddly practiced sound of what she’d-- “Is this an intervention?” Skylar said abruptly, tired, weary anger growing inside her. How many times would it take for them to leave her alone, to let her be with her sadness and pain and her burdens? “You think that I need-- I don’t. I don’t want your, your pity or whatever this is. Get out of my house, right now.”

Leah shook her head, staring at Skylar intensely.  This was to be expected.  Skylar would lash out, like she always did.  But they couldn’t take no for an answer- she would listen to what they had to say, whether she liked it or not. “This is not, pity, Skye. This is three people here to show you that they care.  You want so badly to believe that no one is here for you- that no one understands, that no one will listen.”  It’d been something she’d heard Skylar claim countless times before, ever since that first time she caught her buying from that creep in the park months ago.  “I-...we don’t pity you.  We love you.  We’re worried about you.  And we want you to know that there are much better, healthier ways to deal with everything you’re feeling than to f-fucking destroy yourself.”  They were all saying the same thing to Skye, essentially, in their own ways.  One of them had to be the key that would break through.  “You can no longer tell me that I don’t understand what you’re feeling”, she added, her eyebrows raised, waiting for Skylar to challenge them again.

Morgan put a hand on Leah’s shoulder. She’d never heard her swear before and it struck her now that there was a whole other anguished side to this story that she had been too swept up in revenge to notice or ask for. Leah didn’t get worked up like this out of duty or for casual acquaintances. She was doing this, Morgan realized, because she was desperate. “Can you at least explain some things to us, Skye?” She asked. “What it is you think your substance use is giving you? What your plan is for yourself? Because there are probably ways to get whatever it is that don’t involve destroying your whole body or hiding away in this place by yourself. You know you deserve more than that, right? This is so small and so little next to what you could have. Should have. And we, as people who love you very much, unconditionally, want to give that to you. So explain the hurt to us. Explain what it is you’re really after. Let’s figure this out.”

Watching Leah with impassive eyes, Skylar let out a sigh. It was a mistake, to have let Leah push her way back into her life. It was a mistake to not have thrown herself out of the car when she’d had the chance to with Morgan. It had been a mistake to not force Erin out of the house the second she’d shown up to toss a bottle of vicodin down the drain. She’d made so many mistakes trying to keep them away. She was done wanting help, done hoping that things would change. Done trying to put words to why she was doing this. She was tired and all she wanted was for them to leave and let her fade away. “This is what I want.” She said, her voice calm and clear. “This is, it’s the only thing. The only thing that’s ever helped me feel really, actually okay with what I am.” Because when she was coasting on her cocktail of drugs, of mushrooms and Bliss, she didn’t feel anything bad at all. The world was a wonderful place from behind that haze. And when she was on Daverin… it was even better, because the world felt like nothing at all.

“What I should have?” Skylar let out a laugh at Morgan’s words, wry and cold and bitter. I never wanted this life for you. Her father's words, still haunting her, still echoing in her ears. It didn’t matter what people wanted for her, that wasn’t reality. Those were just wishes, broken and useless wishes. “This is exactly what I should have. And you know, Morgan. I saw this. I saw me, like this. Months and months and months ago. At the Hall of Mirrors, I saw exactly what was going to happen.” She said, gesturing to herself. “And I tried so hard to run from it. I tried to love what I am. I tried to be better, for all the people who care about me. But that was a mistake,” Skylar said, a twisting smile appearing on her face, “Because here I am anyways.”

Erin couldn’t understand it. Of course she had no idea what it was like to grow up, thinking you were “normal” only to have something like this thrust on you. Skylar was a seal. A selkie, was what she’d called it. But this was what it had all led to? Whatever she’d seen in those mirrors--another fun White Crest adventure, she could only imagine--had stuck with her. “So you’re just... giving up?” She asked from the other side of the couch, too anxious to do anything but sit at the edge of her seat, ready to pop up or pace. “This is how you’re going to cope?” She edged further off the seat, her eyes on Skylar, shaking her head. “Trying is never a mistake, Skylar. I can’t--relate to what you’re going through, but I understand what it’s like getting tossed headfirst into something you can’t control and you can’t change. Fucking up along the way, doing the wrong thing--that’s bound to happen to any of us, you know? The only mistake you’re actually making is giving up. You can’t change what’s going on with you. But you can change how your reaction to it. You’ve--” she paused, shaking her head, hoping she wasn’t completely fucking this up. This pseudo-intervention was a first for her. “It’d be a mistake to turn down all of these people who love you and just want to help you. Turning us away and just giving up is a mistake.”

“Stars above, Skylar, you deserve love. Some of which is right here, begging you to accept it!” Morgan cried, gesturing between the three of them gathered as if it were obvious. Her voice was gentle even as her eyes appealed emphatically for the girl to listen. “It’s in your soul, Skylar. We love you, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take that love, but we aren’t the reason you should love yourself. You are. Because you are you, because you simply are. Yes, here you are, always, no matter how far you run. But so what? What on the blessed earth is so bad about loving Skylar? One good reason? And not something you did, because that’s circumstantial. I mean who you are. Because none of us here can think of any reasons. Explain that, please.”

“We know you’re hurting, Skye”, Leah said earnestly, leaning into Morgan’s touch.  “But this hurt isn’t forever.  And what you’re doing is going to make it last longer, and it’s causing people who love you to hurt, as well.” It was a reiteration, in a way, to what Erin and Morgan were saying- that there was so much more out there than  what she was feeling- better feelings and people who loved her, even a life beyond the pain.  She hated that she was crying- the show of vulnerability was something she wasn’t used to in front of someone she knew so little as she did Erin.  Still, it was important for Skylar to see how much this meant to the people she loved.  She watched the younger woman carefully, genuinely interested in her answer to Morgan’s question.  What did she think about everything they were telling her.  Were they being too overwhelming?  The urge to pull a notecard out of her pocket to check that they were doing this perfectly was strong, and she tapped at her leg to forget about it. 

Skylar’s eyes snapped to Erin, the words coming through with clarity she hadn’t felt in days. Weeks even. “‘Trying isn’t a mistake?’” Skylar echoed, her tone bitter and angry. “Trying has only ever been a mistake. Every time, every single time I tried to, to be okay with what I am, with any of this, it only ever hurt me. It doesn’t matter. Nothing I do matters and I’ve-- at least this helps. At least I don’t have to feel the world when it takes me apart.” She said sullenly, shaking her head. “Love doesn’t help. Love didn’t save me. It didn’t save my dad and it won’t save me. I saw him, you know. My dad. My real one.” She said. The words were spilling out of her like water from a tap, overflowing from her lips. “He loved my mom and he loved me. And then he took a shotgun blast to the chest. And now he’s dead and stuck and a ghost and I’m-- that’s all that’s left for me. Nothing matters. None of this matters, it’s all… dust. Dust and dirt and blood and death.” Skylar said quietly. “And I don’t want to feel it. Is that really so wrong?”

It was clear how much the other two women in the room also cared for Skylar. Their pleas, their attempts to reach her in some capacity, filled with raw emotion and sincerity. Not that Erin ever doubted it, but seeing it play out was moving. And as the words started spilling from Skylar, it was clear something had reached her too. Good or bad, it’d pushed a button. “Skylar, I’m--I’m so sorry,” she managed after she’d finished. It felt like paled in comparison to the emotions she was displaying, and trying to console someone in this capacity often felt like it fell short, but they were here. They were trying. She didn’t know Leah well, and she cast a wary look her way as she tried to find the courage to say what she wanted to in front of this near stranger. “I--I get it though. I had something similar happen with my dad not long ago. And it fucked me up for a while. I’m still probably messed up from it,” she gave a brief, wry smile and shook her head. “I thought my world had ended and I had no hope and I wanted to give up. I really, really did. But if I’d done that, I wouldn’t be here telling you not to do the same. I’m not saying anything gets magically better or perfect but it’s not always going to feel like… this. I promise you there’s more to life than feeling like this. You just have to give yourself that chance to experience it yourself.”

“I know death, Skylar. And blood, and violence. There’s so much of it, and it’s not fair, and you don’t deserve it, you’re right. I even get wanting to not exist over having to put in another day of that pain. But that doesn’t mean that’s all there is or all there will ever be. There is so much more, worlds more beyond this place,” Morgan said. “You’re just stuck right now. And if you keep freezing and numbing and killing yourself, yes, that’s all that’s going to be left. But that is not how it really is, and it is not how you have to live. There is more and better than this.” She gestured to Skylar’s weary, shrunken state.

If anyone in town could relate to the sheer tragedy that sometimes came when living on this Earth, it was Morgan, and Leah’s heart broke for how much they’d both gone through.  Just as Morgan’s path of revenge had seemed logical to her when she was at her lowest, Skylar’s present path seems like the only option to her.  “We are not saying what you’ve gone through isn’t hard or significant, Skylar”, Leah continued what the other two women were saying.  “But not feeling the realness of the world does not make it go away.  While you’re wasting away in here, the rest of the world is still going on outside- the bad and the good and everything in between.  And you’re missing it, Skylar.  And it’s killing you.  You say love doesn’t solve it, but love doesn’t make it worse, either.”

Skylar pursed her lips together, the skin cracked and split as she stared at them dully. Weeks ago, she would have wanted to believe them. Months ago, she might have. But now? As she stared at them and listened to them talk about suffering and pain and things getting better, Skylar shook her head. “There’s so much pain and death and I don’t. I don’t want it, I don’t want any of it.” She said and let out a laugh at Leah’s words. It was a dark sound. Hopeless, joyless. “Love’s only made things worse. You saw, Leah, you felt everything. How can you say that love makes things better? I loved my parents. I loved my siblings. And they left me. They all left me and I don’t--” Skylar paused before staring at Erin. “Things got better for you. And that’s great. I’m glad for you. But, you keep trying to, to help me and you’re not. I don’t want what you’re offering, I don’t want your help.” Her fingers pressed against the skin of her arm, the scabs a painful reminder of her life. “Leave. Just leave.”

“Leave so you can what, go back to your room and die alone?” Morgan snapped. Her voice cracked sharply with pain. “Because that is what you are fucking doing, Skylar! You are killing yourself, your whole life and everything good you have—and you still do, we’re all right here in your fucking living room—and you are murdering it.” Her eyes welled with tears. This was not in Leah’s notecards or anything else they had discussed. She was shooting them off the rails, which meant she should probably excuse herself from the room, but she couldn’t. Not with this hanging over their heads. “Do you think turning your back on all this hard shit you don’t want to die is easy? Do you think it won’t hurt so bad as giving a shit? Do you think it’s gonna be nice? Because I can tell you how hard it is, Skye. If you wanted to know what it really feels like for your lungs to fail and your heart to stop, all you had to to was fucking ask!” Morgan held herself, trying to stuff her bitter frustration inside. “And just so we are very, very clear—” She croaked, her voice thick with water. “Not one of us is saying that it’ll get better anytime soon. Nothing ‘worked out’ for me and Erin, that’s not why we’re here for you and it’s not why we’re still trying in this miserable little town. You don’t live because it feels nice. You live to have a chance of doing something, to break up the hard parts with something that’s just you, and beautiful. And I would give anything, anything, to have the luxury of playing with the idea of whether or not it’s worth the fight instead of having it ripped away from me on the side of the road.”

Even before Morgan snapped, Erin could feel it--the brick wall. They’d come in here, guns blazing but Skylar stood firm. There was absolutely no give. Just a collision at a million miles an hour. “Morgan,” Erin started slowly, soft in comparison to Morgan’s outburst. She grabbed her friend’s arm gently, trying to steady her as much as she could as the feeling of defeat washed over her. She was tired and suddenly realizing she didn’t have anywhere near enough of the strength or tenacity left to knock down that wall. And even if Morgan or Leah continued, they’d exhaust themselves just from trying. This was the worst part of trying to help loved ones with addictions. There came a time when you had to let them fall or allow them to drag you down with them. Her throat tightened and she felt a burn at the back of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she started, glancing between the other two women with a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t want to hear it. I don’t know what else we can do.” Her eyes fell to Skylar’s, and to the visible scabs along her body, the exhaustion paling her skin. She looked like a shadow of the young woman she’d met so many months ago. “We tried. Don’t you ever say we didn’t try or didn’t want to help you, Skylar. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m so scared for you but I can’t help you if you don’t want it.” 

Standing up from the couch felt like accepting a bitter loss and a shame flushed her cheeks. She took one more look over the house, at Dundee sleeping off in the distance, at the other women in the room. She couldn’t look them in the eyes anymore. “I’m sorry guys. I can’t--I gotta go,” she managed as she felt that thickness in her throat tighten even further. Without wasting another moment, she slipped out of the house, her stomach sick, hoping against hope that she was wrong about knowing how this story would end.

As a wave of emotions poured out of Morgan, Leah sat quietly in her own, tear filled eyes boring into Skylar as if she could miraculously force her to take heed to what they were saying.  She placed her hand on the small of Morgan’s back, though she knew the comfort of her touch was unfortunately lost on her friend.  What else was there to say here? How many more times could they cry and plead and beg Skylar to care enough about herself and those she loved to stop this?  Taking a cue from Erin, she grabbed Morgan’s other arm, standing up with the two women in a show of solidarity.  She didn’t blame Erin for leaving, but the silence that she left encompassed them for an uncomfortable beat.  “This isn’t over”, she promised Skylar, her tone as stern as her eyes.  “Do you hear me?  This is not through”.  Despite her words, she slung her bag over her shoulder, trailing out of the house where Erin was waiting outside.  In the pit of her stomach, she felt an ache- a truth urging itself forward whether she liked it or not.  It wasn’t up to her if this was over.  Not to her or Erin or even Morgan.  The decision fell to Skylar, and there weren’t many chances left for her to make the right one.

[scoundrels-in-love]

If I go (if you ask me to), I'm goin' crazy (Let my darlin' take me there)

On the cusp between spring and summer, Jaime and Brienne say goodbye to a house that was never home.

In Winterfell, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

--

Angst | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Pining & Yearning | Hopeful Ending Runaways  | Implied abuse in the past | Implied J/C in the past

Also on AO3.

There are two long knocks, a pause and two knocks again on the door.

Jaime bolts upright from where he's been lying on the lumpy mattress, the Knights of Westeros book falling to the side. (He had been flipping through it, half mindlessly, trying to not think of Tyrion as much as he tried to recall his brother's smile. It's faded, like the picture of Goldenhand the Just that peers up at him. Like the value in the Lannister name.)

There are three knocks now, a brief pause that drags out and boils down to one heartbeat all at once, and four more rapid knocks. That's when the mad scramble begins.

It shouldn't be as haphazard as it is - the little he owns (and even less he is going to take with him) is all carefully stowed away and arranged just for this, but as his knees hit the floor with an impact that sends pain through the limbs, it feels frantic.

Jaime removes the floorboard beneath the bed with too much fervor and it creaks, breaking the silence like whiny thunder and he freezes, wondering if lightning won't strike after, this time. Listens and hopes he won't hear any footsteps, fears Brienne's scream spearing through him if she's been caught.

It never comes and he pulls out the bundle wrapped in rags, peels them away to peer into the contents of the plastic bag beneath, just to double check. Spare, clean clothes to shove in his backpack, some non-perishable foods he has squirreled away from the store he works at part time. (Brienne would disapprove, if he told her. But silence let's her look away from that and also from things Jaime wishes she'd at least steal a glance at. Then he could hope.)

Finally, he dives as deep as he can beneath the bed and fishes for the tin can in the hole. Cuts his shaking hand a little on the sharp edge when he pulls plastic-wrapped money out of it, but instead of that pain, there's a sting in his heart.

To think he has to keep few paper dragons and stags like this, when Lannisters used to...

He stops midthought, reels his attention to more important things. There have been many things that had been true once. There have been even more things that he had thought to be the truth. He thinks it's what you make it, these days. And he has to make his now.

Jaime puts the rags and board back in place, stuffs everything in his bag and moves to take a step, before he backpedals toward the bed and the nightstand beside it, the one that is always leaning away, as if the state of the bed disgusts it and it is any less dingy itself.

He picks up the book (also stolen, from the local library, but no one has even noticed it missing, he's sure) and forces it in the backpack that now won't zip up and hesitates, again. There is a matchbox in the back of the bottom drawer and Jaime knows it'll fizzle in the back of his mind if he leaves it. And it will smolder in his bag if he takes it.

He does it anyway, squishes it in one of the side pockets so it won't get ash and remnants of the photograph all over his stuff, just in case. His twin - them - have left enough marks on him as it is. (And he never did, for her.)

Just a year ago, he would've climbed out through the window, but now there is only searing pain in his right hand that cannot hold his weight and the inevitable loud crash in that direction, so Jaime takes the long road, through the corridor and down the stairs where every floorboard creaks, even when he steps close to the wall where they are less worn, for so many foster kids have used the exact same trick for years now.

But Roose Bolton has not been home for two days, and his wretched son seems to be gone as well. Jaime tries not to think of what Ramsay might be up to or what the Brave lot might attempt to out-trump him in cruelty. He isn't afraid, because he knows the slick warmth of wretched blood already and even the hand they tried to take from him is still strong enough to protect himself or Brienne, but he fears a delay might unravel their plans. (The look she gave him when he asked her to go ahead if he doesn't come to the oak within forty minutes of the signal had branded itself on his heart. Hers, hers not to abandon.)

In the end, he exits the house unnoticed. Still, the tension leaves sharper indents in his shoulders than the straps of his backpack as Jaime slips into the garden that has not known maintenance other than some furious and undiscriminate weeding of anything that grows as punishment for the foster kids.

He sees her peer around the oak tree and suddenly, there's no weight to him at all as he runs toward Brienne and then they are sinking to the ground, half to hide behind the bushes and half in relief that vibrates sharply around the edges. (It's just one step, one step that feels like a mile and hums of all the miles taken before it.)

Brienne's face is lit with bright determination, but even it casts shadows and he almosts asks, but later, later. Instead, he nods to her unspoken question and stands up.

There is just one good bye to say.

Jaime looks at the evenstar carved into the bark and smiles. This house doesn't get to keep anything more of them, only an indent left by hope they made themselves and then made real. His hand had hurt for days afterward, but each line had been a mark of his angry determination, a reminder that they can want more than they've picked up from carelessly thrown, often rotten scraps.

He had tried to add a lion instead of hearts or their initials next to it, but it had been far too complex and so Jaime had scratched the attempt out, furiously. (He tries not to look at it and think how symbolic it really is. Fails.)

Jaime places his palm over the star, asks for guidance one last time, though he's lucky enough to take his guiding star out of here and follow it into the unknown. (Fear of the unknown has nothing on walking the same patterns within your cage until your feet bleed, until the bone scrapes the dirt.)

Brienne's hand comes cover his own, large and warm, and callused, and he has never felt more grounded than in this moment. He tries to memorize this feeling as he meets her eyes, sees it reflected in the blue that has become the criteria to match up all other shades to in the last year.

And then they're off, weaving their way through the edge of the garden and onto the dirt road leading away. He doesn't look back. Everything he wants is walking right next to him, or ahead of her.

---

As they travel toward Winterfell, the cusp between spring and summer trickles through their fingers, leaving hot days and balmy afternoons in its wake.

It's not easy, getting by with less money than all the suspicious stares they earn along the way, though they become less frequent once the school year is over.

He half expects Brienne to eventually explain why that evening, why then and not a month later when high school diplomas, as unalike in their grades as the two of them are, would've been crumpled up at bottoms of their bags. But she never does. After all, there is a fresh start ahead of them. (That's what they say.) At least for her. (That's what he doesn't say.)

In unspoken agreement, they don't call Catelyn Stark the first week or the next, or any afterward. As if having the Starks coming to pick them up from anywhere else than their front door could make them change their minds.

He had thought it to be anger, red hot and tight around his ribcage, when she had told him Catelyn had recognized her as Selwyn's daughter and offered to help. That she had thanked and accepted the number, without jumping on the chance immediately. For coming back to this house for more than her bag.

And it had been that, in a way. Anger and desperation, and ache. To know she is safe and happy, even if on the other side of the country. Especially then, maybe. Because it had scared him, the campfires growing wild on the barren, littered beach inside of him, though even distraught, the oceans of her eyes could put them out.

It was that night that he had realized. Love meant the difference between anger contained and welts on someone's skin. And he had never been loved.

There is more to discover about love, still, and he has done almost every day since then. But never more than on this trip.

Some days, they both go more hungry than full. (He gives up on convincing her to take his share after the third time, but offers nonetheless.) Some nights, he whistles her lullaby under the open sky and curls up next to her, unable to steal minutes dipped in this peaceful warmth away from himself with sleep.

And yet, Brienne is often bright with cautious happiness these days and sometimes, it blows to this pure joy that he would never grow tired of watching, even if it would render him blind like the sun.

He does almost sneak away to call the number he has memorized as well as she has, in Moat Caitlin, ready to preserve that light even if it means their parting will be colored red with her angry blush. They're hungry and tired, and no one seems to want to give them a chance to haul some boxes around for a few stags. Their post-graduation adventure story isn't holding up much anymore, just like his shoes.

(He craves a smoke more than he’s craved it since the first month of quitting, but one implied promise broken is bad enough, so he grits his teeth and bears it.)

But when he enters a small family shop, in hopes to borrow a telephone, a different opportunity presents itself in the shape of Pia. His shaggy appearance doesn't deter her from flirting repeatedly, not even when Brienne follows him in and freezes in the doorway before approaching, and in half an hour, they've got an invite to stay for a while at her place, while her parents are visiting her grandmother.

The implication where he's sleeping are quite clear and he hopes his smile doesn't look as acidic as it burns across his lips. There are worse ways his body has been used in the name of love.

And yet, he cannot look at Brienne through the nice (he thinks, he can hardly taste it) dinner, there is sluggishness in him that spreads breath by breath.

Afterward, the hot water of shower feels too much, too much (like it had been over a year ago, when he had been just out of hospital and almost drowning in the bathtub before Brienne hauled him into her arms and back into life) and when doors of Pia's bedroom close behind him, he is numb and logy like his limbs aren't entirely his own. There may be a smile on his lips, Cersei liked when he smiled through everything she gave him, even when there was blood on his teeth.

She gives him one look and frowns. "No, Jaime, no. This... isn't whatever you think it is. I just thought we could have a bit of fun." Pia pushes him out of the room and into the living room, before hurrying off to bring him a blanket and an extra pillow and he just lets it happen, no witty quip in reach where he's hiding away.

"Does she even know?" Pia asks, lingering in the doorway after she's turned out the lights, and his silence in the darkness is an answer. "Well, she should."

"It's better if she doesn't, she won't get as hurt," He won't be as hurt if he doesn't know. The yes or the no and the very sweet, crushing uncertainty in between, or the softness of her lips and the glimpse of the ocean's taste in the sweatdrops on her neck.

"I doubt it protected her tonight," she says before walking upstairs and Jaime stays, sitting in the middle of the couch, buried neck deep in a blanket cozier than any he has known in years. That's where Brienne finds him the next morning.

"Jaime," she calls him as she kneels in front of him and he guesses, by her drawn expression and hand on his shoulder, not for the first time and he tries pull up a smile from the well reserved just for her, but the bucket falls off the hook, and he cannot do anything but lean forward and rest forehead against her shoulder.

"What happened, Jaime? Are you hurt? Did Pia..." she trails off, but he's already shaking his head. "No, nothing happened," he croaks and it grates on his tongue like the lie it is. But there's nothing that he can define or explain. Yet, she understands somehow and takes him to the kitchen, makes sure he drinks the tea and eats the food that he cannot remember later. And then she brings him to her bed and he thinks it to be so warm from her, though it must've been an hour since she got up, and that's where the rest of the day melts away.

When he wakes the next morning, he is crowded in the wall. She's facing him, her hand holding his in the small space between their bodies on the pillow. Jaime lays there watching her and the sun rises in him as it does beyond the windowpane.

He doesn't think he will ever be completely free of the void placed in him, emptiness that Cersei nurtured for it was endless space that sung in echo of all her desires, but in this moment, he knows he wants to build a fence around it, plant trees and little flowers that look brighter for the darkness that lays beyond them.

And that desire, he thinks, is the start to something that may shrink the void some day.

Maybe then, he can tell Brienne that she threw a falling star in the dark and when it wasn't extinguished, he realized there was an edge to it. Maybe then, he can build a home for her laughter, instead of fearing it'll finally break through the sky and escape him. Maybe then...

A million wishes hum softly when Brienne blinks sleepily at him, smiles faintly. He shifts his hand, to free hers, but her fingers tighten just so and he gives up immediately. (It's not like how he used to know it; she doesn't demand him to and the surrender is only for his own indulgence.)

"Looks like sleep did you some good," she says softly and brushes a few curls away from his face and he has to swallow thickly, not from desire for anything more, but the way the warmth and tenderness of her brings a flood of tears pressing against the dams he's determined to uphold.

"Oh Jaime," she murmurs and scoots closer and there are no more dams, just the ocean of her eyes that blur and overflow, in him and through him.

He buries his face in her neck, shakes apart until he's coughing and heaving and is only held together by her arms wrapped around him. Grieves all that could've been, all that has been broken, all that he will never touch with untainted hands, worships regret and guilt and then casts them out.

In their place, he anchors the weight of her hands on his back, the tickle of her hair against his forehead, the soft tremble of her inhale when he pulls back, breathing still uneven.

There's a tear streak on her cheek that he reaches to wipe away, because of course, she's hurting too and he-- But no, he cannot, will not take a new guilt on immediately. (He does, anyway.)

Brienne releases him then, gets up and brings some paper towels from the bathroom for him, because they're saving the tissues in their bags, and he blows his nose again and again. The silence between them should be uncomfortable, somehow, but instead of being embarrassed, he just feels dull and tired, but better for it.

"Fuck, my head hurts," he finally says.

"I'll bring some painkillers and water," she says, already halfway to the doorway and part of Jaime wants her to stay, wants to sink in sleep with her hand in his again, but instead he goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

"What are you going to do?" he asks the reflection that is familiar and unknown all at once, fingers tight around the sink. "What are you going to do?"

And finds the answer.

They leave Moat Caitlin almost a week later, truly rested and with almost-honestly earned food and necessities in their bags, thankful enough to actually plan to keep the promise to let Pia know how everything pans out in Winterfell when they get there. He knows Brienne will want to repay the money Pia has invested in them, if nothing else. Before they depart, their kind host tucks another "tell her" behind his ear, "because otherwise it's really not fair to the rest of us".

This, he cannot promise still, so he only smiles.

When they reach White Harbor, there is a stone in Jaime's chest, all the more heavy and jagged for the knowledge he will try to toss it out soon. He finds them a cheap trashcan of a motel and leaves Brienne to settle in, moves through the streets like the hounded, as if hesitating could mean he never goes through with it, or he just can't wait to get it done. (It's somewhere in the middle)

He stops only on a bridge over White Knife river, the nearest that he could find. The matchbox trembles briefly in his hand, like a flame about to be blown out, but then he presses close to the railing, and the quiver is gone.

Jaime opens it and dumps the content into the river below. He knows that the frail ash will probably never even reach water, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that he's given them burial in the water and the wind. That maybe with time the photograph in his mind will fade, too. That maybe he'll stop asking if it is his fault there's not a shadow of those two smiling children left.

He stays on the bridge for a while longer, thinking about their childhood (because he still can't think of that part of life in singular), about her smile and Tyrion's laughter, about games - the ones that didn't hurt anyone. The good things you're supposed to speak of at funerals. There hadn't been much good said at Tywin's, but he's seen the proper sort on TV.

When the sun sets and he comes back to the hotel, Brienne greets him almost wary, looking him over as if looking for injury. "Are you okay?" she asks, offering him a sandwich as Jaime plops down on the bed next to her. (They'll be sharing again and he doesn't mind in the slightest. Brienne had not complained either, not that she was one to do so.)

"Yeah, I am," he tells her, honestly, and realizes that there had been no splash when that stone had fallen into the river along with the ash, but it's gone nonetheless. There is empty space now, saved for a smile, and he does so, luring one from Brienne in response.

(When they're falling asleep, he presses the kiss to her forehead that has been aching on his lips.)

---

Winterfell is not as cold and miserable in late summer as he imagined, but it's no dream destination. Still, Jaime tells himself he's glad he won't have to make a home here, because even colorful ads don't bring much life to Wintertown. (What kind of name is that, even?)

It's not a lie that holds up when they're standing in front of a phone booth. They stare at the chipping paint on the door like it holds all answers to questions they don't even know, before Brienne turns to look at him, grabs his hand and pulls him inside.

The booth would barely hold her and the backpack, but with him, quite literally folded into it as well, it becomes absolutely cramped. Still, she finds a way to grab his hand somehow, after she's paid the fee.

"Hello Mrs. Stark? This is Brienne Tarth, daughter of Selwyn Tarth. Last year, you extended an offer - I was wondering if it was still open?" She listens and it's her grip that betrays her emotions, not her steady voice. They had discussed what to say, beforehand, but it had not been revibrating around them in a tiny phone booth then, so real and with the possibility to change their lives.

She looks at him, eyes wide and stormy and nods to not keep him in suspense, before continuing: "Thank you, Mrs. Stark. I am currently on the corner between Builderstreet and Ravenroad in Wintertown. And I have brought a friend with me. This is non-negotiable, though I understand if it changes your mind."

Brienne squeezes his hand, jaw set in challenge that rings clear in her voice and he is felled by it, frozen though he should grab the receiver and shout "no, no, I don't matter, forget about me, just please take her in". But he wouldn't even be able to locate it, he can only see her face and think that it almost glows somehow. He is no match for her in this moment, no one is.

"We will stay there, yes. Thank you again." And just like that, the time resumes, but he is still swept up in the river of her determination, not its flow.

"Breathe, Jaime," she tells him, smiling so brightly that he is suckerpunched by the reality of the sun's gravity and the almost tangible heat of her power, and he thaws, inhales deeply and shakily.

It would be so easy to tangle himself further into her and press a kiss to her mouth, a thank you and worship in one, to brand his lips with hers just so he could always remember I was hers, briefly, brilliantly. Here, in this space still bobbing along independent of everything beyond it.

And it would be the most unfair thing of all. To ask even more of her, to hurt her if Stark kindness runs thin when they learn just who is her companion, to give her only something so brief and not him whole as she deserves. (But will there ever be more of him?)

So, he pulls them back into the sunlight.

They are holding hands still as they wait for the Starks, strings of tension humming the same tune in both of them, but there is fierceness in Brienne's smile. It runs hot enough to light a kindling in him, not the destructive sort he's grown accustomed to, but a more dangerous one. Because like this, she looks like a knight that will champion for him, no matter the odds. And win.

He still wants to kiss her, like a favor given and taken before the battle, and the way she's looking at him right now, defiance melting into reassurance and warmth, something sparkling he can't define within, when their eyes meet, he can almost believe she wouldn't mind. But there is a world between not minding and melting into his touch like it's home. And no time to find out.

So he presses kiss to her forehead instead, breathes her in and swears it's not the last time, knows more than ever he can't let her go, and then they are ready to face the future.

Together.

[thesilkenlair]

(Casey Here!)

As much D&D as I play, you'd imagine I would eventually get around to illustrating some of their most iconic monsters! Which is to say, the ones that I personally find the most iconic. Which is to say, the ones I memorized when I was reading my dad's monster manual at age nine. Purple worm - Sandworms never go out of style. I've seen a lot of rad designs for this bugger over the editions, but I favor the slightly less reptilian older takes for this particular critter. It's kinda basic, but sometimes that's what you want. It's like a shark or a crocodile: Just flat out unchanged across the ages. Hook horror - I've heard it rumored that Gygax used a small Gigan figure to represent this monster. I can't verify that, but it definitely sounds right. Hook horrors are one of the very first things you meet when you play around in the caves, and they kind of remind me of the Father Deep monsters of the Hork Bajir homeworld that way. Mind flayer - Mind flayers! Basically, take all of your Dracula conventions and dip them in a fresh coat of Lovecraft. There's that old "decadent aristocratic upper caste system who literally eats the poor, but still somehow comes across as less evil than the actual real life 1%" setup that will never stop being relevant. Though personally, I see mind flayers as the first alternative for folks who want to play that monster-who-feels-the-urge-to-eat-their-friends-but-refuses-to-do-it shtick but don't want to deal with vampire baggage. You know, the furry option! ... Slimy? Rubbery? Do we have a word for anthro-cephalopods? I'm only a casual furry. Gelatinous cube - I'm not apologizing for giving this one a slot. Froghemoth - So, back when I participated in my very first long-term campaign, I played a druid. You've met Talia before. Naturally, I was chomping at the bit for the day I finally got to turn her into a froghemoth, and celebrated the day my wish was finally granted and she was allowed to chug human-supremacist-cultists like popcorn. Yeah, okay, the froghemoth is one of the classic vore-monsters. But it's a charming design in its own right. Kind of a freaky Hanna Barbara critter, like you'd see Space Ghost fighting. No matter how many artists draw it, they can never shake that inherent goofiness that third edition tried so hard to purge. I would probably cram them somewhere onto Fronterra if I was sure they were public domain. As is, I'm 99% certain that this is what Visser Three turned into when he ate Elfangor. Tarrasque - D&D's original kaiju! Kind of just takes the name and nothing else when it comes to its mythological origins, but I don't mind. The Tarrasque is that endgame "let's test the players" final boss monster... Or at least it's supposed to be. My DM reskinned it for our final Pathfinder session, and one of the PCs still nearly killed it in a single turn. Also, he let Talia turn into one, so maybe Pathfinder is just bullshit? Regardless, the Tarrasque has one of those simple, iconic designs. I've heard rumors it was based on the concept art for Fallout's deathclaws, and like the Gigan-figure, I can't verify this in any way. With its reptilian features, twin horns, spiny carapace and grabby fingies, it has an undeniable lizardlike quality that I can't help but find charming. Kinda feels like a more refined version of Zilla? Though for an insatiable eating machine, I notice a lot of artists give it very little belly to work with. Come on, this guy eats entire cities! Give him somewhere to put it! Rust monster - An icon of icons, the rust monster! Drawing its origin from a bizarre Chinese "dinosaur" toy, later designs have made it more insectoid in appearance, but never feeling QUITE like anything Earthly. It's the four limbs. Between the four limbs and the tail, it's hard to tell if it's an arthropod mimicking a vertebrate or the other way around. I'm pretty sure this is part of what inspired my ossaderm creatures for Fronterra. Also, Ryla can turn into one in our campaign. I have no shortage of havoc to wreak when the opportunity comes. Behir - Dragons in D&D are kind of... extra. Godlike beings, paragons of whatever personality trait they represent. Whenever there's something uber powerful in D&D, it gets compared to dragons. It makes them kind of unapproachable. Behirs provide all the essentials of a dragon - Serpentine body, scaly skin, horns, sapience, breath weapon, taste for human flesh - wrapped up in a smaller, weirder, IMO cooler package. You know, your Lambton Worms. A lot easier to port in and out of adventures, a lot less of an event when they show up, but still a formidable force in their own right. I like the behir. The behir knows how to taunt me just the right amount. Bulette - Another Chinese "dinosaur" figure monster, the bulette is actually another one I associate with Talia. Whenever we faced a problem that didn't have a glaringly and immediately obvious solution, she would turn into a bulette, whether it was for beating up robots, digging through obstacles, trampling smurfs, navigating labyrinths, distracting slashers with cute dog tricks... it was kind of her signature form. But shenanigans aside, the bulette is just an excellent monster. While the "land shark" shtick may be common, there's a lot more going on with the bulette's design. It's rumored to be a mad wizard's creation, as he combined a snapping turtle with an armadillo and mixed in a helping of demon blood to taste. Personally, I always considered that to be a neat little rumor to flesh out the world, but never assumed it to be true. The bulette just feels too naturalistic for that. Like some kind of protomammal or crocodylomorph, or weird triassic monstrosity. Magic and demons and dragons and so on DO affect the ecosystem. I always figured the bulette was just something that evolved to compete in this new biosphere. Owlbear - This one, on the other hand, I fully believe the "mad wizard was bored" explanation. Another chinasaur critter, the owlbear is frequently made fun of. What makes it scarier than a regular bear? It can't fly, so why have owl parts at all? Why trade fangs for a beak in what is at best a latural move? Well, first of all, fuck you, owls are creepy motherfuckers, and that alone is enough to justify it. But secondly, that's part of its charm. Besides some improved vision, the owl DOESN'T make it more dangerous. What makes the owlbear dangerous is that it's an insane, Frankensteinian monstrosity roaming uncontrolled through the wilderness! It doesn't need weaponry, its sheer temperament is enough to make it a worthy opponent. Sure, the practical threat might not be hugely above that of a bear, but storytelling isn't about numbers. Any asshole can go outside and get eaten by a bear. The owlbear is part of this world. The owlbear is a reminder of what magic can do. Someone somewhere actually made this thing, for whatever reason, and now the world is irrevocably changed because of it. Owlbears go beyond practicality. They bring the lore! Also, bears don't have very good eyesight, so the big owl eyes probably make them better hunters. Flumph - Is that a Japanese-style martian? Do we just have aliens in D&D? Dear lord, I love them! Okay, the flumph has got a sizable hatedom. And that hatedom can eat my ass, because the flumph is precious and perfect just the way it is! Flumphs are designed as a sort of sidekick-type creature. They're not very good fighters, but they bring knowledge and lore to the table. Whether they're aliens from some far off star, seeking your aid to prevent catastrophe, or psionic natives of the Underdark eager to bask in your positivity and hopefully stick it to the tyrants they're forced to share real estate with. My group generally treats them as straight up aliens, benevolent but strange. Course, we're all pretty strange, so we get along just fine. Otyugh - Okay so, the aberration creature type implies that this is something from another world that doesn't belong. And yet otyughs, which are aberrations, are an essential part of this world's ecosystem? Okay, I can buy the idea that an alien organism adapted to our world and is now a key part of it. Fronterra's got a TON of that. It just feels like after a point, the otyugh would be considered a beast? Otyughs are great. Every ecosystem needs a decomposer, and every fantasy story needs at least one dive into the sewers. Otyughs provide both, and are intelligent enough to keep the plot moving if it hits a snag. There's always going to be garbage, refuse, carrion, decay, things that need to be broken down and processed. Carrion crawler - The carrion crawler is pretty similar to the otyugh in that it's technically not considered a beast, and therefor must have its origins elsewhere, but feels so integrated into the ecosystem that it just feels like it belongs. They usually can't talk, so they're not just reskinned otyughs, but I still consider them pretty essential. Otyughs find a singular spot where waste is dumped and shovel it down at their leisure, while carrion crawlers skulk through the tunnels, actively seeking their food. The crawler got one of the most radical redesigns on the transition from second to third edition, but I can't really choose a single favorite. The oldschool tentacle-faced cutworm looks like it could be a real animal, while the googly-eyed Halloween decoration feels like it could be from another world, merely having set up shop here. Could there name apply to two wholly different creatures? If so, then I'm not sure which one mine would be considered. I kinda mashed them together into something that doesn't quite feel like either. But I like it for what it is. Maybe I'll sneak it onto Fronterra. Aboleth - Tentacled, telepathic sea creatures who turn humans into slimy minions, who remember everything their race has ever seen, and who are always plotting something behind the scenes. Yeah, the aboleths really crank up the Lovecraft elements. Actually, between the mind flayers, the flumphs and the aboleths, even the most oldschool D&D covered quite a few essential Lovecraftian bases. The flayers are your corrupt yet still recognizable humanoids who can be considered truly evil, the flumphs are benevolent-yet-bizarre guardians who know more than you, and the aboleths are the truly unknowable, sinister intellects. The fact that they can barely function on land honestly only adds to that, IMO. They're inherently difficult for a party to reach, and they offer some nice underwater adventure seeds. Not enough adventures go underwater. There's this perception that the ocean is bad for storytelling because so many writers lack the creativity to make it work. I wanna run an underwater adventure now. Beholder - Icon of icons! THE D&D monster! The beholder! Paranoid, jumpy, always five steps ahead and twenty steps perpendicular! Beholds are fun in just about every way. Between their wacky, diverse designs, their elaborate lairs, their eccentric personalities, their bizarre powers, you're never gonna run out of fun with beholders. Remorhaz - It's always been a thing that bothered me with environment-based monsters. Why does the ice monster who lives in the cold use ice as a weapon? Aren't most of the things it encounters going to be resistant to the cold? Sure, a cone of cold will still kill a polar bear, but a lot of the monsters in the tundra are outright immune to cold. A while dragon's not going to get much use out of its breath weapon fighting frost worms and frost giants. That's one reason the remorhaz sticks out to be. We have an icy tundra beast whose insides are a scorching furnace, which it can intensify and weaponize as it sees fit. Which also conveniently explains why its design - a sort of cobra-esque centipede - invokes warm-weather creatures, despite its icy environment. It's a nice subversion of the usual tropes, plus it's just a memorable, cool looking critter to begin with. On a smaller note, the remorhaz feels like a good loophole for Ryla's "no cold weather morphs" rule. Turning into something elementally affiliated with ice is no good, but a non-magical monster that survives the cold by superheating its insides? That seems perfectly viable to me!

[mwolf0epsilon]

Maybe a story about Norman being a good parent?

Summary: Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was a Polk, and the Polks did not hurt their young, or whatever they perceived as such.

You all knew it was coming inevitably...

---

[[MORE]]

     Norman's and Margarite's marriage had come as a surprise to the entire Polk family. A simple signature on a piece of paper, and a pair of battered rings that had belonged to Nanna and Poppop Polk (gifted to him by the former who always knew he'd be a better fit for them). No fanciful ceremony with pretty dresses or suits, expensive cakes and extensive guest list.

A disappointing waste, his mama had proclaimed over the letter she'd sent as a reply to his own that detailed his status as a married man in a far off city. She'd wanted to witness the event, shed her motherly tears as one of her little ducklings became a real man ready to start a family.

But, to Norman and Maggie, the marriage wasn't a motive of celebration like his mama thought. It was insurance against further discrimination towards them. They were, after all, the black couple that lived in a quaint apartment in New York city.

Already that was a challenge of its own, as said apartment was populated primarily by white hot-blooded tenants, with only one more laying vacant for a (hopefully) friendlier family.

Their downstairs neighbor clearly hated them from sight alone, and the others were unsure how the new additions fit into their "perfect" lives in the Big Apple. If any of them were to discover that they both enjoyed the full spectrum of the gender binary, well... Accidents happened in the big city. Accidents that targeted specific minorities for some "unfathomable" reason.

So yes, as shameful as it may be, their wedding was strictly business. Rings for show, public displays of affection to dispell the gossip, and overall just the usual married life arguments in the grocery store to sell the deal (neither of them could care less about which type of sugar made the best apple pie crust, or what brand of soap was better, but it sure made the couples they passed by smile knowingly at the common domestic disputes). There was just one thing left to do to really make a statement on their relationship status.

  "Three of my coworkers are getting maternity leave. It's been a few months, I think it's time."

Children were a sensitive topic. Both Norman and Maggie wanted kids, had a vague idea of how many they planned to raise, and were quite certain they'd make beautiful and healthy younglings with one another. The question was: Was it fair to bring in chidren into a farce of a matrimony? What if one day they found their actual ideal partner?

  "Yous better be sure it's the right time darlin'..." He'd urged her to think more on the subject. "Don't want to rush things like that now, do we?"

  "I'm ready." She'd stared him in the eye with a certainty and confidence he couldn't begin to imagine. He knew she was, but was he? Was he truly ready to bare such a responsibility?

That night he relented to her wishes and they had finally consummated their marriage. Nine months later, little Nancy was born a small but relatively healthy baby. Upon seeing his firstborn for the first time ever, and then holding her gently in hands that dwarfed her little head greatly, Norman immediately understood he was ready to be a parent. And a loving one at that.

-

     In total, Norman and Maggie had five children. Three boys and two girls. Nancy was their eldest child and the more levelheaded of the bunch. The apple of her mother's eye, and her father's baby girl, she was the perfect balance of their greatest qualities and teachings. A clever and determined young girl with big aspirations for her future. She wanted to be a doctor.

Aaron was the second eldest child and the one most like his father. Clever and with an eye for detail, enough so that he had taken up an interest that fits his perceptive nature: Photography. The walls of the Polk household were filled with his works, at first done with Norman's own old and battered camera, until he'd bought the young lad his very own fancy new model.

Louise was the middle child, and the troublemaker of the bunch. She was a bit of a tomboy, and liked to scrap with the boys in her class, to the point where it wasn't uncommon to see her with several bruises and band-aids, and haphazardly taped wireframed glasses. She kept both Norman and Maggie on their toes.

Albert was the second youngest and the quietest. A little bookworm that appreciated the art of literature over anything else. He wanted to be a novelist, even at a very young age, and often shared ideas for stories at the dinner table. There was no doubt in Norman's heart that his little boy would write a best-seller one day. Maggie fretted for his social life, however, as he was the least sociable of their children. Far too shy.

Finally the youngest child was Willard. An outspoken young toddler that was definitely as confident as his mama. A little tot with a very big personality indeed, that Norman couldn't wait to see grow up into yet another fine young boy. If any of their children was to ever get what he wanted in life, it'd definitely be Will.

Truly there was nothing in this world that Norman loved more than his offsprings, and indulging in their interests was always an adventure. One to be shared with three other members of the family.

The vacant apartment had been occupied by Norman's younger brother, Alfred, and his own two children. By then almost all their neighbors (minus the one that hated them from day one) had warmed up to them. So another set of friendly faces was a good addition to their home life.

Norman absolutely loved watching over his nephew and niece, especially because his children were delighted to have other kids around their age to play with.

It reminded him of being back home in Louisiana, his own brothers and sisters sparring with him and playing whatever games they could come up with on the spot. Watching Louise and Nelson tumbling about fighting as equally dirty as the other, really stirred up some good memories he had of his older sisters.

"Bite her Nelson! Bite her!" Lydia cheered as her older brother pinned their cousin to the ground.

"Louise tug on his ears! Pummel him!" Aaron called out to his little sister, encouraging her to fend off her opponent.

"Lydia and Aaron! What I tell y'all 'bout encouragin' yous's siblings t'fight all nasty?!"

"Not to...?"

"Exactly."

Granted some play-fighting needed to be monitored when most of the audience were enablers, and neither his middle child nor his nephew had any qualms sending each other to the hospital. They were still learning about consequences after all.

Still, there wasn't anything else in the world that built better character than teaching the children that they were equals to one another in all their shared activities. Respect was an important lesson to be learned. One Norman wished every parent taught their child.

The world would be a better place otherwise...

-

Sometimes the Projectionist would inevitably be unable to fend off sleep. The exhaustion would wear it down and give way to the nightmares of a life it could barely remember. Then it would wake up and scream, trying to rid itself of heinous visions of itself ripping its offsprings apart.

Norman Polk would reawaken inside its brutish body and lash out, hoping to either physically fight away his own broken psyche or perhaps cripple the Projectionist so that it could never fulfil these dreamt up acts of violence.

A Polk was all about family, and the thought of becoming the sort to bring harm upon his own children... Well, Norman had heard the stories. Knew why Poppop was such a taboo topic. He did not want to be the man besides his Nanna in the portrait above the fireplace... One he'd resembled if his eye wasn't wrong and he'd grown out his beard...

The Projectionist didn't have the mental faculties to understand this distress however, but it seemed to recognize that what it saw in dreams was bad. That what it did to the vermin, it should never do to those innocent little youngsters that looked at it with love instead of fear and hatred. So... Why did it do it in dreams? Why did it kill when it wanted to be docile? The children were not a threat, so why...?

It made no sense... But it didn't much care for elaborate existential crisis like that. Norman's consciousness would freak it out, but ultimately loosened its grip and go back to being dormant. The lumbering beast resuming its tiring trek through the endless maze. A cycle that would repeat itself the next time it fell asleep.

It was in the aftermath of yet another nightmare that the Projectionist came across something completely new to it. Something small and living, and very much intruding on its space. Something that very vaguely looked like it...

A living being with a body similar to the ones the horrible botched critters that ran around in packs had, yet with no visible imperfections to it. Its head though... It was kind of like a projector, but not. Square in shape, with a lens, a tube, dial and something very round that kind of looked like a big ear. A camera, like the one Aaron had gotten for his birthday.

It seemed to have gloves, shoes and a belt that sort of looked like the speaker lodged in the Projectionist's torso, but it was hard to tell since the strange being was on the ground flailing about like a dying fish.

The towering amalgam stared at the tiny new thing in dumbfounded silence, unsure how to react to such a strange discovery, until it realized why the thing was flailing about to begin with.

One of its legs was pinned under a crate that appeared to have fallen from a nearby stack, and the Projectionist could tell the limb was broken. Nearby lay a series of Ink Hearts that had been resting on the fallen crate.

On any other occasion it would have simply walked over, raised one heavy foot, and crushed the intruder's skull for daring to try to steal from it. This time however, was completely different... Something primal was urging the Projectionist to do something completely alien to its usually aggressive nature. Something instinctive.

The poor creature grew agitated upon finally noticing the Projectionist's presence as it approached, but its broken limb ensured it stayed put even after the crate was picked up and tossed aside. It shook fearfully once the Projectionist knelt down to pick it up by the torso. It stopped shaking once it was brought to rest against the much larger beast's chest, cradled gently like an infant. The Projectionist rumbling softly so as to reassure it that no harm would befall it.

The little creature, with a head that was not a projector but a distant relative of a sort, stared up with its own dark lens before reaching out to gently pat the Projectionist's "face". It seemed to understand its intention to help it, rather than exterminate it.

The lumbering beast carried on in its path, now carrying a most precious cargo. It would find something to help treat the injury and then it would begin teaching this newly adopted offspring to survive in the studio.

Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was still a Polk, and the Polks cared for their younglings. This tiny sentient camera was its child now, and the beast would protect it from the horrors of this horrid studio.

[dr-gearloose]

DuckTales Theory

So, I’m pretty sure you all know about the 1987 (Original) DuckTales, 1990 (Reboot) The Quack Pack and the 2017 (Reboot) DuckTales.

Well, I have a theory that connects all 3 together. Originally, this started with a theory about Gyro Gearloose, so here’s how all 3 connect.

ACT I: The Original

1987: Donald Duck joins the Navy thus leaving Huey, Dewey and Louie in the hands of Scrooge McDuck. 

Scrooge decides to hire some people to... Help around the house (Mrs. Beakley) Be a pilot (Launchpad McQuack) Count money (Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera) and be the Bin’s Security Guard (Gizmo Duck)

(The reason why Gyro and Duckworth aren’t listed is because I’m pretty sure they were already hired. Okay, back to the regularly scheduled theory.)

Mrs. Beakley brought her granddaughter; Webbigail to the mansion.  Webby always went unnoticed. She only made friends with animals because no one else pays attention.

ACT II: The Quack Pack!

1990: The boys were teenagers now, Donald left the Navy and Huey, Dewey, and Louie have moved in with their Uncle, who now has a girlfriend. Daisy Duck. 

Instead of Gyro, they have Dr. Ludwig Von Strangeduck. (Episode 1) With his newest invention they could become ‘T-Squad’ (just realized how much that sounds like T-Series) Also, their voices were probably higher cause of puberty.

[There’s nothing else to really go off of in Huey, Dewey and Louie’s lives other than their outfits. (We’ll come back to this.)]

As for Webby, I’m going to assume that sometime around the first or second episode maybe? is when she started her spy training and Beakley was hired as an agent.

Gyro is currently on a well deserved vacation. Or did he just travel 26 years into the future? (We’ll come back to this.)

ACT III: The Reboot

2017: Now, there’s A LOT to go off of in the new series! So here we go.

Webby’s grown up. She’s now somewhere around 13, she’s basically a professional spy.

Huey, Dewey and Louie’s outfits have changed. I’m gonna say that Huey is 16, Dewey is 15 and Louie is 14, he’s still in that angsty teen era. 

They’ve also forgotten about Scrooge because of all the adventures. Plus, teenagers wouldn’t really care about a rich uncle too much, would they? They just want a girlfriend...or three.

Duckworth is unfortunately dead, which is pretty clever. Donald and Daisy have unfortunately broken up and forgot about each other. Daisy was busy with her job and Donald is just living his best life. Or at least trying to... (We’ll get back to this.)

Scrooge has grown to like his nephews over time. --

[VILLAIN BREAK!] Ma Beagle: No longer wears her hair in a bun, wears makeup and changed her fashion up a bit.

The Beagle Boys: There’s more of them! [The Déjà Vu’s, The 5th Avenue Friendlies, The 5th Avenue Meanies, Black Arts Beagle, The Ugly Failures, etc.] Their home has downgraded to a Junkyard, they changed their shirts. Bouncer Beagle never skipped a day in the Beagle Gym.  Burger Beagle has S T I C K S for limbs.

The Aliens: They like rockets.

Magica De Spell: She has a niece now!  [VILLAIN BREAK: TO BE CONTINUED...]

--

ACT IV: Spies and Broken Hearts

Since Webby’s been in a mansion basically her whole life, she’s a sucker for adventures and magic! (We’ll get back to this.)

As for Della Duck - When she stole The Spear Of Selene in 1987, it was now her mission to get home. She made friends with an alien named Penumbra.

She finally got home, on Earth in maybe 2017 or 2018. Now we continue the love story of Donald and Daisy: In Season 3, Episode 5 - Louie’s Eleven, we see Daisy’s comeback.  Donald doesn’t recognize her, Daisy doesn’t recognize him. (I still ship it tho)

Daisy was fired from her previous job - a news reporter - so now, who knows where she is in her life now. 

ACT V: Project B.O.Y.D.

Gyro hasn’t traveled 26 years into the future, he’s been on a well deserved vacation, he came back and made a new robot. 2-BO, or B.O.Y.D. A definitely real boy. Akita, however, did not like the idea of 2-BO being a ‘real boy’ so he overrode his programming.

A few years later, Mark Beaks found ‘2-BO’ left in the trunk of Gyro’s car. While Gyro was in the store, looking for things to fix up B.O.Y.D,  Beaks thought that he could take B.O.Y.D and pretend he had a child so he could go to Doofus Drake’s birthday party. While B.O.Y.D was living with Doofus, Gyro decided to get a makeover.

--

[VILLAIN BREAK! PART 2]

Magica De Spell: She dyed her feathers!

Mark Beaks: That one kid who’s WAY ahead of his time and confuses everyone.

Flintheart Glomgold: Still wants to be richer! But he’s chubbier.

Goldie O’Gilt (Technically): She doesn’t have gray hair!

(just realized i did magica twice. oops.) [VILLAIN BREAK: TO BE CONTINUED...]

--

New Glasses / His old glasses were broken by B.O.Y.D due to a malfunction in the programming. New Shirt / The previous shirt he owned was not only uncomfortable, but was torn while testing B.O.Y.D for the first time. There was a malfunction, causing B.O.Y.D to attack Gyro. New Hat / The straps were uncomfortable. New Haircut / There’s no real reason for this other than he just wanted to change his style a bit.

ACT VI: Gizmoduck  Fenton had been working on Gizmoduck, improving the suit’s self defense system and stuff. Soon enough, Gizmoduck was everywhere! TV, the News, saving people! 

Also, Fenton’s skin/feathers changed because he probably got a sun-tan. 

[VILLAIN BREAK! PART 3]

Waddleduck (Technically): Gizmoduck but he’s Mark Beaks.

Negaduck: He’s back and also has a double personality!

Magica’s Shadow: ...gone?

Tulpas: THEY ENVY THE POPULARITY THAT THE OTHERS HA-

[VILLAIN BREAK: THE END]

ACT VII: Lena De Spell 

Lena was created by Magica De Spell, you all know this. But how did she learn to do this? Well, in the 1987 series there was an episode in Season 1 named ‘Magica’s Shadow War’ it wasn’t a 2 part episode or anything special. But it was the first appearance the Magica’s ability to create shadows and make a shadow army. 

With this new knowledge, she took it upon herself to first, improve her old outfit and get a more modern look. Less trickery and bribery. She was gonna get that dime...but she needed a puppet. She couldn’t do it herself.

Before she knew it, she was in Scrooge’s dime. The thing she wanted most, she was now shown on... But before this, she performed the same spell from all those years ago... And brought her shadow to life, she swore that if she found a puppet, that shadow would be connected to them for as long as she’s in that dime.

What if I told you... Lena’s not a shadow. She was bribed into being Magica’s puppet. Even though she said ‘No more trickery or bribery’ she had to so she could convince Lena to be her new puppet. 

Whenever she wanted, she could come out and yell at Lena to get the dime so she’d be free. 

When she finally had the dime, I bet you’re wondering how she could be banished to the SHADOW realm if Lena’s not a shadow. Well, that’s just it... She wasn’t in the shadow realm. She was in Limbo. 

The realm between life and death.

Lena was able to help every so often... Thanks to Violet Sabrewing and Webby, she was freed.

ACT IX: The Quack Pack! (2017)

Season 3, Episode 2: The Quack Pack! This is a short one, but remember when I told you to remember their outfits from 1990? 

No? 

Good! ‘Cause I never did. :) I just said ‘...other than their outfits. (We’ll come back to this)’ 

So, the 1990s Quack Pack was slightly different. I mean the outfits. 1. Donald had a Hawaiian type shirt. 2. Louie’s shirt was different and had a hat. 3. Daisy existed.

But anyways, they brought the outfits back! 

ACT X: The End.

TL;DR: ACT 1: Scrooge hires a bunch of people and only cares about money. ACT 2: The nephews and Donald forgot Scrooge and Donald is dating Daisy. ACT 3: Huey is 16, Dewey is 15, and Louie is 14. Duckworth died ACT 4: Webby loves magic and adventure now, Della was stuck on the moon for 20 decades, Donald and Daisy broke up, Daisy was fired from her old job. ACT 5: Gyro invented BOYD and then BOYD was stolen by Mark Beaks. Also, Gyro got a makeover. ACT 6: Fenton improved his Gizmoduck suit. ACT 7: Lena isn’t a shadow, Magica learned how to bring her shadow to life and cursed Lena until she got the dime and then Lena was stuck in Limbo for a while. ACT 8: The Quack Pack made a comeback in Season 3. ACT 9: You’re reading ACT 9, why did I add this one?

Everything here is a theory. Not facts. And I can’t believe this all started with a little theory about Gyro’s change of style!

Just gonna say this now: I totally ship Fenton x Gyro. Don’t @ me.

[evelynsfics]

Flowers on a grave.

Old stories retold under a snowstorm and ghosts of people long dead helping the living? How interesting.

Tw: blood

The man bleeding on the fresh snow watched as the lies effortlessly rolled off the woman's tongue, his hair was matted and dripping with a mix of blood, sweat and rain water. He pressed his rough hand on his stomach, weakly trying to stop the bleeding.

He coughed violently, crimson dripping from his lips and soaking his torn clothes. The soil below him dyed a vibrant red that was as bittersweet as it was sickening.

Quite the disturbing sight was unfolding in front of her, but she paid it to mind, the man's life had exhausted its use by now, so, he was no concern of hers.

He sighed, a sound so loud in his eyes it made the very earth shake, but to her, it sounded like nothing more than a final breath in the cold winter wind.

Deny it as she might, she still sat next to him as he bled out, listening to his regrets and advice, and finally, promising to fulfill his final, dying wish by the end of the night.

It felt like centuries, each minute that passed. They both knew no one would come to rescue them, but that small spark of hope never left, even as each second got colder and colder, the man still held out that he too, would survive.

The dancing flame on the candle flickered, its light dimming ever so slightly. And as the small flame finally died, so did the man. The smoke trailed off in the wind, signaling the end of yet another life.

Ayame did not cry for the man, but she placed a small, golden coin in his hand.

"How long ago was that?"

Her voice was barely a whisper as she watched the snow fall. There was a nagging feeling, a small seed of doubt in her gut, but she still moved onward. She still climbed the mountain, she still barely paid attention to what the other adventurers told her about the climate and the odd ice that wouldn' melt.

She wondered if that's how the man felt all those years ago. Thankfully, she wasn't bleeding, but she was freezing.

Dragonspine was a very intriguing part of Mondstat to Ayame. The howling winds and freezing temperatures pulled at her curiosity with viscous claws, guiding her deeper and deeper into its endless caves and tall mountaintops.

The beautiful, small blue flowers grew all around her in the cave--was it even a cave? Oh who cares, that's not important now--they hugged her body gently, their petals small and soft, but also deadly. They kept pulling and holding her down on the frozen ground with their stillness. The cracked ice above her taunted her, spilling howling lies and invisible puffs of breath in the wind.

The ruin guards all stood broken in pieces, wood and iron littered the arena above her. They where strong, far too strong, but even as they kept coming at her, she beat all of them. But down here, below, sat so many more of them, waiting for some unfortunate soul to find, and wake them.

As the ice gave out underneath her and she fell, some woke up, alerted by her presence, but others didn't move, they sat still, held to the ground by the same flowers that kept her trapped with promises of rest and comfort.

Their steps shake the earth, echoing the ice and splitting the ground. The flowers surrounded her, leaving her in a peaceful calmness.

Ayame's pale pink hair was sprawled on the ground, messy and matted, slightly contrasting with the icy blue of the ice and snow all around her, her chest rose up and down softly as the adrenaline finally wore off after what felt like eons, leaving her exhausted.

There was a warm orange light coming from a warming Seelie that was floating around near her hand, next to her, there was a Scarlet Quartz crystal. Its beautiful color hypnotized her, drawing her eyes away from the dangerously approaching ruin guards. She reached her arm out weakly, hoping to touch the smooth crystal, her fingertips barely reached the odd gem, but she felt a tingling warmth return to her skin for a few fleeting seconds.

There was a violent snowstorm outside, Ayame fell through a hole in the ice, and now she was exhausted, freezing, underground with no way to get back up, and surrounded by ruin guards.

Pity, really. A shame one might say, how she would die.

She knew this was the end, and she was okay with it. Ayame realised her story was coming to an end.

But she didn't want to give up, there was an untold tale she wanted to know, the three boxes she found told a story of a princess, a priest and a scribe, and Ayame wanted to know how it ended, how and why the sky frostnail fell from the skies. There where so many questions in her mind, questions she wanted to know the answer to.

The cold numbed her limbs, freezing her blood and making her eyes feel heavier and heavier by the second.

Ayame smiled sadly, exhaling the deep breath she was struggling to take mere minutes ago. And so, she gave in, closing her eyes and welcoming the cold death that she knew was coming for her.

Hey, at least this isn't the worst way to go, right?

Warm, so, so warm.

Huh?

She groaned, slowly opening her eyes only to be faced by the warm, red light of a fire.

A fire?

There was someone there, someone next to her. But how? How did they find her? Oh, but I guess that didn't really matter to her at that moment over you know, a cold death.

However they where, they saved her, and she had to thank them properly when she could. Her eyes fluttered closed once more, but now, she was sure she wouldn't freeze to death if she stopped for a second to finslly rest.

When she woke up, there was no one there. The fire was still strong and the snow next to her was uneven. That made the doubt in her mind ease.

So it wasn't a dream, huh?

Possibilities of the identity of her saviour danced in her mind.

Maybe it was someone she knew, or maybe it was a fellow adventurer climbing the mountain, perhaps it was someone else completely, someone she sadly wouldn't see again. Atleast, not alive.

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED=ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here. Or start from the beginning.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part Five

[Answer in kind. You are a guest here, after all. Despite your circumstances, you must follow social obligations.]

You hate him. You hate him. Good God, you hate this rapacious, scheming devil. You detest this devil with every fiber of your being, every bone in your body, everything you could ever pour your soul into. You hate this conniving beast of a devil with every last ounce of hatred you could ever muster in your body. Just the sight of him sets you on edge. Here you are, having paid dearly for what must have been a boost in his career. Your partially scarred visage, burned body, and want of a leg can attest to that much. What would have become of your academic ambitions and your father’s empire lies in burnt shambles around you. While you have no solid proof of his role in your father’s death, surely the great wealth and business that he has accrued is more than enough for you. Had it not been for your father’s generous donations -- and events, business dinners, strategic alliances -- you highly doubt that the demon before you would be enjoying the fortune that he possesses now.

And yet here he is, untouched by time or any semblance of guilt. If you were a halfwit, you would have sworn that this devil before you simply stepped out from the fabric of your memories.

Despite the intensity of your hatred for Mr. Diavolo -- and your nagging, incessant urge to scream profanity at him and hurl accusations -- you are a guest. Guests do not act in such a manner.

You grit your teeth. Hopefully it passes for a smile.

Mr. Diavolo begins to descend the stairway, his hand on the banister. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?” he remarks, looking you up and down with interest. “You’ve grown up to be quite a fine young lady, I see. How fares your mother?”

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

“She’s doing well,” you lie. “Much better than she was.”

“Wonderful! That’s good to hear.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairwell much quicker than you had hoped, nearing you with long, easy strides. You nearly fall over when he claps you on the back. Thankfully, you manage to retain your balance. Then there is that great, wide businessman’s grin again on his features, as if you two are truly old friends, and you feel the rage beginning to writhe in your core once more.

You want to burn that face of his to ashes.

The dark-haired man steps forward somewhere in your peripheral vision. You turn slightly to regard him. His gaze flickers towards you once, maybe twice on account of your missing limb, but once more he ignores you. 

“While I appreciate this reunion, I believe the hour is quite late.” He nods respectfully to Mr. Diavolo, as if to signal his leave. “And we’ve quite the number of guests who haven’t arrived yet. Surely such reunions and introductions can be set aside for tomorrow.”

Asmo huffs. “Just because you retire so early doesn’t mean that it applies to the rest of us. You’re no better than an old man!”

“My apologies, I wasn’t aware that simply needing sleep insinuated that --”

Mr. Diavolo claps his hands together once, interrupting the dark-haired one in the middle of what would certainly incite an argument. “Perhaps Lucifer is right,” he concedes. “Even the professor has yet to arrive, and I believe he was set to reach the estate by tonight. We’ll have it all sorted it out by tomorrow.”

And so it is Asmo that insists on leading you to your room, your suitcase in tow. The both of you pass even more vast swathes and stretches of corridors, each one appearing to be more expensively decorated and lavish than the last. When you finally reach what you assume to be your room, your remaining leg throbs from the strain. Asmo sets your suitcase to the side as he knocks on the door -- and then he swings it open with a flourish, revealing the four poster bed and gilded mirror within as he does so.

“Ta-da! One room for one young lady.” Asmo passes the threshold to place the suitcase beside your bed, and you follow him in. “I do hope it is to your liking.”

Again there is that dramatic flourish. and --

You realize that you’ve yet to thank the man for helping you up the stairs, much less for bringing your things to your room. Or for making conversation with you, given the dark-haired man’s -- Lucifer, you recall -- complete refusal to speak to you. You can only imagine why.

A sheepish expression graces your features. “I don’t think you need to mention that,” you say, tring to force down the embarrassment. It proves to be ineffective. “I believe I forgot to say thank you, by the way. For helping me up the stairs and whatnot.”

Asmo simply waves off your attempt at social grace. “There’s no need to thank me. What sort of gentleman would I be if I were to refuse extending aid to a lovely young lady such as yourself?”

Your embarrassment only intensifies. Perhaps it has been much too long since you have dabbled in society.

“Besides, we are friends here, are we not? I take it that you’ve no clue as to whom the others would be.” He leans casually against the frame of the door, overlooking a trinket on the rather massive wardrobe. A sidelong glance. “I know only a few of the others, but I’ve got the slightest inkling that your invitation was a bit, ah, unexpected. That you’ve no idea why you were brought here. Am I  correct?”

He’s rather perceptive, you note.

“You are..”

There is a slight pause as Asmo turns the trinket this way and that, his attention preoccupied with what appears to be a carved bat. Or a winged animal of some sort. His visage is turned away from you for only a moment, breaking his hold on your gaze -- but he regards you once more soon enough.

“Then we’re allies!” he declares. “Or, ah, how would you say it -- we’re in the same boat. I was told that this was an opportunity to meet another of my trade here, but I highly doubt that such an opportunity would include that arrogant peacock of a politician. Or you, Miss Georgine. You don’t seem to be much of an actress, I’m afraid.”

His rather cheery demeanor belies only the slightest hint of the unspoken question. Of his sharp curiosity. You respond in kind.

* * *

You wander the halls of the manor after a quiet, private breakfast. Sleep had evaded you in the long hours of the night, despite your needful attempts, and so it was after a restless battle that you had finally given up on such a notion. If sleep did not consider itself your companion at the moment, you would not chase after it. A butler -- a rather reserved man by the name of Barbatos -- had allowed you to fix your own breakfast at your behest, leaving you alone in the cavernous kitchen. Dawn had broken sometime later, a soft, gray sort of sunlight streaming through the curtains, and you had made sure to draw the curtains before you left the room. A silent thank you to the butler.

You cannot help but be somewhat surprised at the emptiness of the corridors. Surely there should be someone else awake at such an ungodly hour of the morning.

Then again, you are thankful for the respite. The coming days will likely be filled with nothing but blunders in social grace, awkward conversation, and generally unpleasant experiences. While you had looked forward to the taste of your old life, the reality of the situation is a bit more than jarring.

It is not long before a great door looms before you, drawing your attention. Unlike the other doors or corridors that you have passed -- which could very well lead to only more doors and corridors -- this one seems to be of some significance. Two snarling bronze lions are positioned at its center, rings hanging from their teeth. The door itself is much more sizable than the others as well, rivaling even that of the great entrance hall, and you feel almost stifled by the sheer size of it. Its suffocating presence only further serves to indicate the importance of what must lie beyond this door.

That, and the fact that there is an engraved sign that reads LIBRARY beside the door. You decide to step inside.

,Much like the rest of the manor, the library bears an extravagant touch to nearly every aspect of the room. Not an inch of space lies fallow. Bookshelves tower far above you, crammed nearly to bursting with novels, manuals, and encyclopedias of all kinds. An imported rug of rich crimson sits at the center of the room, and upon the crimson rug sits a single desk composed of dark mahogany and brass. Muted sunlight streams from windows that reach the ceiling, and heavy, embroidered curtains line nearly every fingerbreadth of the glass. Aside from the rather impressive skylight above -- which somehow does little in the way of visibility -- there appears to be no other source of light in the room.

There is a sound somewhere out of sight. It is indiscernible, given its brevity -- but you are quite sure that you have not misheard. You squint and peer into the darkness in an attempt to identify its source, but the shadows are far too thick for you to do so. If you desire to find the source, you will have to step further into the library.

Do you venture into the darkness?

[Of course! It could very well be another guest. The curtains here need to be drawn open, besides.]

[Oh, yes, let’s go frolicking in the shadows of that accursed devil’s library. Surely that’s not dangerous at all … No, you’d rather keep your head on your shoulders.]

[Perhaps you should try calling out into the darkness first. If it is truly a guest, they will answer.]

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Beauty and the Witch - Chapter Three

x x x x

Summary: Deep in the dark forest, there’s a castle filled with magic and mystery, where no one would ever go if they could help it. But an adventurer runs from nothing, and she might come to regret it. Sketchbook BatB AU for reasons

Notes: Okay so i’d like to dedicate this chapter to @waddles-ex-machina​. She knows what she did <3

Also I know this chapter is going to get lost in the middle of the Bell guy euphoria, but I hope you guys enjoy it!

Read it on ao3: (chpt1) (chpt2) (chpt3)

Johanna’s heart beat loudly on her chest as she opened the door as quietly as she managed. It was hard to stay calm when she was doing exactly what she was told not to, but she had to try. If her freedom was just waiting for her, hidden on the other side of those obscure stairs, than she had to know, and she had to try. On her right hand, she carried a candle which she had found on her bedside table, and had lit on the fireplace after making sure that it wasn’t alive.

She strained her memory to recall the path to the west wing, but eventually she found herself face to face with the entrance. Taking a deep breath, she put one foot on the first step and then the other, feeling as if the stone might crack under her. Even though her instinct was to run up the stairs as fast as she could so as not to be caught by anyone, she forced herself to go slowly. If she fell on her face, than certainly someone would find her.

On top of the stairs there was a short corridor. More books were stacked on it, and paintings adorned the walls. They looked as if they had been beautiful one day, but now they were cracked by time and lack of care, their golden frames so dirty that one could barely see their colour. It made the artist side of Johanna want to scream, but she had no time to waste with paintings at the moment.

At the end of the corridor, there was a long, blood red piece of cloth hanging from the ceiling, like a curtain. Johanna pushed it aside to reveal a door. As soon as she saw it, she understood the purpose of the cloth: the door was broken, barely hanging on its hinges.

At first, Johanna only surveyed the room that was inside from the gap between the top of the door and the hinges. What she’d been expecting, she didn’t know, but it certainly hadn’t been a bedroom. Only a canopy bed, similar to her own, was in her line of sight, but it was enough to recognize the room as a lived in area; there was a heap on the bed which most likely were rumpled blankets.

It took her another wave of courage to open the door. She put Hilda in the forefront of her mind, repeating to herself that she didn’t want her daughter to grow up without a mother, and then was able to turn the doorknob.

Right away, her attention was brought to the books in the room. They weren’t stacked at random or uncared for like all the others in the castle had been. These were all arranged in a single bookshelf by the wall in front of the bed, with the exception of the one in the bedside table. She wondered for a second why the witch had such a preference for them.

Few things in the room looked out of the ordinary. Aside from the cloth that covered the mirror in the dressing table, and the the dressing table itself seemed to be used for writing and not for its original purpose, only one thing was out of sorts. And if anything at all could help Johanna, that would be it.

In a separate section of the bedroom, made up of a small half-circle of windows with a round table at the center, there was an hourglass. It was likely that Johanna wouldn’t even have noticed it, were it not for the fact that the object seemed to shine. Its light lit up the wall across from the door, in a glow she was sure no candle could produce. It had to be magic, so Johanna squared her shoulders and walked closer.

She considered her options as she approached. Should she steal it? Would it grant her any sort of protection from the witch? Or maybe it was a source of power to the creature, in which case she could smash it to the ground and run away.

The closer she got, the more hypnotic the hourglass’ glow became. There was some sand left at the top, but far less than what had already fallen to the bottom part. It didn’t work at a normal pace, either. Every once in a while, a single grain fell. Johanna couldn’t make sense of what was being counted. She wasn’t even sure if there was anything being counted.

She had raised her hand to touch it when she heard a gasp from behind her, followed by the sound of porcelain breaking and liquid splashing on the floor. Johanna’s eyes widened, and before she could turn around, the creature was already in front of her.

“Don’t touch that!” The witch howled, though she didn’t even look at her. She seemed too worried clutching the hourglass and certifying herself that Johanna hadn’t broken it to even look at the woman.

“Do you know what you could have done?!” Johanna didn’t, but the witch’s tone of voice made it clear that it was not something she wanted to happen. So maybe Johanna had been right. Maybe her powers did come from the hourglass.

“Go away.”

The witch took a step forward, forcing Johanna back.

“Go away! Do not come back to this room, ever again.” Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Johanna did as she was told. But not before leaping forward and grabbing the hourglass with her free hand.

The speed at which she ran out of the room was one she didn’t think she’d be able to reach ever again in her life. Stunned by the woman’s audacity, it took the witch a few seconds to register what had happened and begin running after her. But even with that small advantage, she gained ground on Johanna quickly.

After hopping down the staircase which she had just climbed, Johanna tried to get her mind to work. If she simply threw the hourglass at the ground, it might not break. The glass looked sturdy, and both on top and at the bottom, there were squares of wood for stability, which she supposed would also protect the object. If she threw it at the ground and it didn’t break, she wouldn’t have time to pick it up again before the witch caught her. She’d have to find a window and throw it out, or else it might not break.

On that floor, the only room she’d seen other than the witch’s was her own. She couldn’t be sure that any other had a window, or even that they were open, so she’d have to find her way back to her chambers. To make matters worse, her candle blew out because of her speed, leaving her only with the magical light of the hourglass.

After making a turn she wasn’t too confident had been the right one, she looked over her shoulder to see that the witch was closer than she’d thought, looking at her with a murderous expression.

“Give that to me!” She seethed. “You have no idea of what you’re doing.”

That was when Johanna felt her body hit something. Bringing her gaze forward again, she realized she’d collided with one of the columns of stacked books, and that it was now swinging violently. She was suddenly rendered incapable of movement as she looked at the first books at the top beginning to fall, and realized that there was no way out. The books she’d hit were on a dead end. There was no corridor she could turn to to escape, and behind her was the witch. Her choices were being caught and being caught with a concussion, and her frozen limbs seemed to have chosen the latter.

She’d curled her head and shoulders inward, her body instinctively getting ready for all those heavy tomes to fall on top of her. Instead, a very different sort of impact came. She was hugged inside feathery arms, quickly guided down and only felt the weight of her own body hitting the floor.

The sound of books hitting the floor echoed on the corridor, followed by the witch’s pained moan. When Johanna dared to open her eyes again, she saw the witch on her hands and knees on top of her, her open wings and body having protected Johanna from the books.

It took her longer to realize that the witch had her eyes shut tight in pain, her body shaking with effort. Johanna gasped, sliding away from her, and as soon as she’d done so, the witch collapsed on the floor.

Clutching the hourglass to her chest, Johanna watched in horror as the witch writhed, miserable sounds escaping her. As if that wasn’t bad enough, soon the woman began to notice the scent of smoke in the air, and gasped loudly when she realized that it was coming from the beast. At every place where a book touched her, her feathers caught flames, even through the nightgown she was wearing. It was not enough to be considered a fire, but enough that she could clearly see the dark feathers lighting up in orange and yellow and becoming scorched.

Quickly, she put the hourglass to her side and leaned forward to remove the books from the witch, throwing them aside as the beast continued groaning in pain.

“Mistress!” A voice that Johanna recognized as Albert’s shouted from the other end of the corridor. “The mistress is hurt! Everybody, come quick!”

_#_#_#_

Before long, many of the servants had shown up to see what all that noise had been about, and to help after they understood the situation. In a collective effort which even Johanna took part of, they carried the witch to her bedroom, lowering her as gently as they could to her bed.

Most of them left the room as soon as she was settled, anxious about being in the forbidden wing, and only a few of them remained, standing anxiously around the room. Victoria, who had shown up at the hallway but wheeled away when she realized what had happened, entered the room with many rags on her cart. Stopping by the bed, she leaned forward so that cool water streamed out of her, and Albert picked the wet rags up to begin to tend the witch’s wounds. Though she tried to remain still as he pressed them to her burns, she couldn’t help but twitch and whimper.

“There is a broken teacup by the doorway, mistress…” Corbeau said, standing at her bedside table.

“I felt like drinking some.” She groaned. “Dropped it when I saw her here.”

No one had to ask what the her she was talking about had been doing in the room. Focused as she’d been in carrying the witch back to her room, Johanna had forgotten all about the hourglass. But now, she saw the hourglass back in its spot. One of the servants had brought it back, so they clearly knew something about what had happened.

“Would you like some more, perhaps?”

Victoria wet the cloth again when Albert handed it to her, and then began coming at Johanna’s direction. She was sitting in the dressing table’s seat, as she found it wiser to watch the servants nurse the witch from afar. They probably knew what they were doing better than her.

“I’m not feeling like anything warm, Corbeau. But I do need something strong.”

The clock nodded and hopped down from the bedside table, running out of the room to do as he was told. As Johanna watched him, she noticed a broomstick cleaning the broken teacup. As she watched it twist a rag over itself to dry the spilled tea, she didn’t notice how close Victoria was until she spoke.

“Poor mistress.” The teapot crooned, bringing Johanna’s attention to her. “She hadn’t gotten burns like that since the first year of the curse. It used to be awful, she’d try everything to touch the books. After she gave up, we haven’t had anything worse than accidental singes, and never too bad.”

The woman blinked, tilting her head to the side.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?” She asked with a frown. “What curse?”

Victoria’s mouth formed a perfect “o” shape. She seemed to have genuinely forgotten that it was impossible for Johanna to know what she was talking about.

“Well, you’d find out eventually, so I don’t think there’s any harm in telling you.” She took a deep breath, making Johanna stand up taller with anticipation. “You see, the mistress isn’t like this naturally, and obviously, nor are we. We were cursed to be like this.”

Johanna gasped, but tried to stifle the sound when she remembered that the witch was not very far from her at all.

“Why? Why would someone do that?”

Victoria’s eyes were suddenly glassy. It was easy to know that she was lost in thought.

“She used to be the apprentice of a powerful enchantress. But then, she did something that displeased her mistress terribly, and in return she was turned into this. But this wasn’t what hurt her the most. We were forced to move into this castle, where the enchantress stored all her knowledge which she has acquired over the centuries, and she was forbidden from touching the books she so dearly longed to study. If she does touch… you saw what happened. Our mistress was stripped of all her magic and from everything she loved the most.”

“You mean she doesn’t have magic?” More than anything, this caught Johanna’s attention. After Victoria nodded, she had a brief moment of euphoria before realizing that if the witch had captured Hilda without magic, then she would have no problem keeping johanna in the castle regardless. Immediately after that thought, a wave of guilt struck her. Prisoner or not, the beast had just sacrificed herself for her.

“Then… what is that hourglass for?” Having believed that the object was the source of the witch’s power, Johanna was confused to learn that this couldn’t be the case. What else could explain the beast’s reaction?

Victoria’s expression changed, and Johanna could clearly see that she wasn’t very pleased with her.

“The hourglass was tied to the mistress’s life by the curse. When it runs out of sand, everything that makes her human will disappear, and she will truly become a monster. A similar fate awaits us. We will become nothing more than objects. What you were trying to do could have brought us all the end, madmoiselle. Please, don’t try it again.”

Johanna blushed, trying not to think that she almost had been responsible for the death of all those innocent people in the castle. The witch might have done something to anger the enchantress, but if those objects were all innocent…

Then why were they there?

“What about you?” She asked, hoping that she wasn’t being indelicate. “Why did you guys end up cursed?”

Victoria pursed her lips, though she seemed pleased that Johanna had apparently agreed to not bringing harm to the hourglass again.

“We were her personal servants at the enchantress’s castle, Corbeau, Albert and I. I don’t think we did anything to anger her, but it seemed to be part of the mistress’s punishment to be responsible for our misery.”

Bitterly, Johanna wondered why the enchantress had assumed she would care. Surely, a woman who would lock up a child for stealing a map would not give two thoughts about her servants. Her feelings must have shown on her face, for Victoria closed her eyes and sighed.

“I know what you’re thinking.” She said. “But she is more caring than she lets on. When she hired me, she didn’t need a maid. Corbeau already did most of the work a maid should. But she’d heard that I had been marked as insane by my village, a result of some experiments I’d attempted.”

Johanna perked up. “You do experiments?”

“Yes, I used to do many. But you know how this world treats women. The tailor I worked for fired me when she learned of my interests, and that’s when the mistress invited me to come work for her. I was ready for a boring life at her side, but it turned out that she didn’t want a maid at all. I considered myself her assistant more than anything, helping her organize her books and notes and conduct her researches. Magic is not what I know best, but it was a better chance than I’d find anywhere else.”

And look at where it got you, Johanna was tempted to say. She was then chastised, however, by the voice in her head which reminded her once again that she’d probably be fainted if it wasn’t for the witch. Slowly, the puzzle that was this mysterious castle began to make more sense as she was handed the pieces she needed in order to complete it.

“But if only the three of you worked for her, who are all those other objects?”

The spout and handle of Victoria’s body lifted up slightly, in a gesture that Johanna took as a teapot’s version of shrugging. “They were already here when we came. That is their story to tell. But the enchantress said that if we manage to break the mistress’s curse, then they will be free as well.”

“There’s a way to break the curse?” Johanna exclaimed.

“Well of course there is. Otherwise, what would be the point of leaving us conscious before the hourglass ran out? As long as there is sand falling, we can break it.”

“How?!” She pressed for more. Especially after learning that the servants had done nothing wrong, she felt like she couldn’t just let them die. “I want to help.”

Victoria smiled, a glint on her eyes. She wished she could tell, but as little as she knew about love, she was sure that it shouldn’t be forced. No part should feel obliged to feel it. So she couldn’t let her know, not yet.

“That’s not for you to worry about, dear. It is our problem. Now, why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“OW!” A gasp coming from the bed stopped Johanna from answering. “Albert, this is not helping at all!”

“Sorry, mistress!” The candelabra answered, holding up the candles he used as hands, currently unlit. “These really aren’t as sensitive as human hands.”

The witch turned to her side, facing away from him with what Johanna could swear was a pout.

“Just leave it.” She said. “Go to sleep, I’ll be fine.”

The room had emptied down. All the servants that hadn’t been given a task had already left, but the faces of the two that remained told Johanna everything she needed to know. As bad as the witch seemed to her, those people cared enough to be concerned about her well being. Besides that, Johanna felt like she owed her.

Sighing, she got up from her chair and walked to the bed. Having her head turned to the other side, the witch couldn’t see her approach, but Johanna was certain that she’d heard her steps because of the way she curled in on herself only slightly.

“Why don’t you let me do that?” She told Albert, who was looking at the witch with a look of resignation on his face. He seemed very surprised when she made the offer.

“Are you sure?” He asked her, glancing back and forth between her and her captor.

“It’s easier for me to do it than you, I reckon. Besides, it would be better if you could go and try to find some salve for the burns.”

A glimpse of a smile passed through Albert’s face, and he nodded before hopping down from the bed, ready to begin on his task. Johanna didn’t miss the engrossed way which Victoria was looking at them.

“Seems like you found your way out of the dungeons.” The witch said suddenly, making Johanna turn to her. She was lying on her back again, looking at her with her unnatural eyes through her untamed hair.

Johanna stopped herself from fidgeting by folding the cloth Albert had been using, and gesturing for Victoria to come close so she could wet it again.

“I was told I could have a room and walk through the castle.” She said, then remembering that she couldn’t let the blame fall to the servants for what had happened that night. “Except for this wing.”

“Oh, so you were just being purposefully dense?” Johanna tried not to roll her eyes as she gestured for the witch to roll onto her belly, so she could tend to the burns properly. To her surprise, she obeyed.

“I didn’t mean for anyone to end up hurt.”

At the first touch of the cloth to one of the burns, the witch twitched away from her.

“Intent is meaningless.” She growled through clenched teeth.

“Look, I need you to help me here!” Johanna snapped. At no point had she ever imagined that one day she’d be scolding a cursed, magicless witch about acting like a child, trapped in a castle with talking objects. She was not mentally prepared for any of this and it was beginning to chip away at her patience.

“I need to help you?!” She flashed right back. She didn’t speak loudly, but there was still something sharp about her voice, something dangerous. “This is your fault.”

Johanna blushed, feeling affronted by receiving all the guilt.

“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d just explained me why I couldn’t touch it!”

“How could I? You ran away!”

“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t locked my child up!”

“She stole from me!”

“She’s a child!”

The witch bared her teeth at her, but otherwise remained silent. She seemed to know that Johanna had made a point, which struck her as odd since she had captured Hilda without a mind to her age. So much mystery surrounded this woman, Johanna wondered if she’d ever understand all of it.

Some time passed with them in silence. The atmosphere was heavy, but at least Johanna could pretend she wasn’t talking because she was concentrating on her task of soothing the burns. The worst ones had managed to burn all the way to her skin, and the witch was not always successful in containing her reactions. Still, she tried to allow Johanna to tell her as best as she could. Or maybe she just had run out of strength to resist.

“My servants never told me your name.” She mentioned, much more calmly, after a while. She didn’t look look at Johanna, instead focusing on the goblet of wine which Corbeau had returned with.

“Nor did they mention yours. I’m Johanna.”

The witch took a sip of her drink. She was now sitting on the bed, and Johanna had put the cloth aside, letting Victoria take it away with her. They were just waiting for Albert to return either with some salve or empty hands.

It was a beautiful name, the witch thought. Fitting, fierce yet somewhat gentle. It took her a moment to realize she was waiting for her to answer the same question.

“Maven.” She said, and somewhy Johanna smiled. The woman felt that having a name made the creature front of her feel more real. She had been just like her one day, a person like everyone else. Johanna couldn’t forget what the witch had done to her, but still it felt good to know she wasn’t a beast, a being of pure evil that Johanna would never be able to comprehend. In front of her was Maven, not a monster.

“Well, Maven, I still haven’t thanked you for saving me. So thank you.”

Though she tried to hide her face behind her hair and her goblet, Johanna could still notice the witch’s face heating up around her cheeks.

“I meant to save the hourglass.” She mumbled, making Johanna smirk. “You know now what could have happened if you had broken it.”

“Intent is meaningless.” Mentally congratulating herself, Johanna threw her words back at her, watching her eyes narrow in annoyance. “But how did you know that I learned about the hourglass?”

The look Maven gave her clearly conveyed a ‘do you think I’m deaf?’ message. Since she and Victoria hadn’t been too close to the head of the bed, and had both kept their voices down, Johanna figured that this bird-like form caused by the curse must give her heightened senses. Or heightened hearing, at least.

Watching this exchange with a smile on his face, Albert stood by the door with a small pot of salve in his hands. He waited until they stopped talking to enter the room, not wanting to break through whatever civility the two of them had mustered up for the moment. Even when he did get in to offer the balm, his smile refused to go away. Maybe the situation wasn’t as hopeless as it seemed.

[cupcakemolotov]

A Wild Ride

Klaroline AU Week: Day Three (October 9th - Wednesday): All Human 

This is totally a bit rushed and I will probably have to do sneaky edits later, but I managed to get this done. I’ll take it.

The carriage wheels bounced painful over a screaming Damon Salvatore. For a single heartbeat, Caroline considered regretting her impulsive choice of shoving him out the door. But he had been bleeding and she refused to let him ruin this dress after everything else he’d left in shambles in her life. Thankfully, her companion had realized her intention and his firm grip kept her from tumbling out of the carriage with Damon. 

Glancing across the carriage once the door was firmly shut, Caroline righted herself and glared at her remaining companion. “Your brother is a menace.”

Sir Klaus Mikaelson’s brow lifted as his gaze swept her disheveled figure, and Caroline arranged her skirts, pointedly ignoring the heat in his eyes. “You’ll find no disagreement from me, love. Still, I cannot imagine even he thought you’d reduce Salvatore to carrion pickings in such a dramatic fashion when we are driving at such… speed.”

She scoffed, refusing to let his words, the glint of admiration in his gaze, affect her. The hint of dimple in his cheek said he might have seen something anyway. “Should I have waited for you to deal with the situation? Difficult, with one arm.”

His mouth tightened in displeasure at the reminder of his injury. Since he’d received the stab wound unnecessarily defending her only a few weeks ago, she supposed she could stop needling him about it. Particularly when their acquaintance had become quite profitable. Or it would, as long as they’d stayed just out of the reach of the local Sheriff.

Damon being the last bit of a plot that had taken them the better part of a month to execute. But now their last enemy was dead, and all their plans had all come to fruition. Caroline wiggled back against the hard bench, and tried not to wince at another hard bounce of the carriage. 

While her numerous skirts added a layer of cushion, but Kol was driving at breakneck speeds. And while she approved of putting a fair amount of distance between them and the body they’d left behind, she hardly wished for a broken bone to go along with their escape. It would be weeks before a Marshall was brought in to hunt them, and they would all be long gone by then.

The tight set to Klaus’ jaw said the jolts also hurt his arm, but she’d learned he’d only allow so much fussing, as he rudely insisted on calling her concern. Since she’d already pointed out his limitations once and preferred to fight with him when she wasn’t in danger of losing teeth, she supposed she could keep from mentioning his injury. Again.

“Besides,” she dared after a moment. “He deserved a far more ignoble death. It’s a pity we couldn’t provide one.”

A tip of his head, as Klaus agreed with her. She’d been quite clear about her reasons for wanting Damon’s death. His murder had been a very firm requirement in her bargain. Thankfully, the Mikaelson brothers were far from squeamish. 

Underneath them, the carriage finally slowed a hair and they were no longer in quite so much danger of being tossed about. Relaxing now that she no longer needed to brace herself so firmly, Caroline glanced out the window, wondering what lay before them.

She hadn’t expected to feel so… disappointed once the adventure had ended. Oh, they still had a far but to go before they went their separate ways. Klaus had been dropping unsubtle hints about escorting her as far as Boston should she wish it. Kol has minutes far to many innuendos, but she had long since learned how to tune him out. 

Sir Klaus and Sir Kol Mikaelson has been an unexpected addition to her life. The night they'd interceded when they’d thought she’d needed their help, they’d claimed they were looking for their brother. A Duke who had left the family in dire straights with his abandonment. They’d apparently done a fine job of faking his death in good old England, but wanted to confirm the job done. 

She’d been quite surprised when it turned out that the brother was a Duke in truth, off plotting the downfall of his family with his American mistress. Somehow she allowed them to tangle her in their schemes, and in turn they’d provided the aid in hunting she’d been lacking. 

Not quite a month later, and Finn lay cooling in his grave. Damon Salvatore would be a meal to whatever creature found him first. And as an added bonus, the gold they had stored beneath their benches would make them quite wealthy.

“An unfortunate ending,” Klaus said finally into the growing silence between them. “but an ending nonetheless. But tell me, Caroline. With our scheme coming to an end, what are your plans?”

She turned and frowned. “What do you mean?”

Klaus’ brow tilted, amusement in his eyes. “You’ve been rather quiet about your intentions now that you’ve had your revenge, love. Surely a quiet life back East doesn’t appeal to you after you’ve tasted so much freedom.”

Caroline studied him with narrowed eyes. She did not believe that Klaus intended to betray her now. Not after everything else this past month. Their uneasy alliance hadn’t truly developed into something like trust, but she saw where it could become a partnership. If she wanted it too. 

“Perhaps,” she agreed easily enough. “Home would be a bit… sedate. But far less likely that my brand new wealth will lead to bloodshed or my neck in a noose.”

His mouth tightened. “It is unlikely anyone left alive could give a good description of you.”

She laughed. “I am hardly the only pretty blonde, though my sudden blessing of money could be a bit difficult to explain. Though a dead husband is something many wives have in common with me so far west. And you? Back to the chill of your English Hills?”

“There is unfinished business yet,” Klaus agreed. “A few more promises to keep.”

She nodded. “And then back to the boring life of a gentleman, I imagine.”

He made a low noise. “I doubt Elijah would allow either of us to be so underfoot. And neither Kol nor myself are likely to settle. While we should perhaps make ourselves scarce from your most charming of continents for some time, there are other fortunes in different cities to find.”

It was a strain to keep her jealousy off her face at his words. She spoke a smattering of French, had gleaned a fair bit of Spanish during her hunt for Damon. But the life he spoke of, moving from city to city and plundering what they found, that was far more difficult for her. There would be no cover of a mail order bride to aid her as she moved about once she left the west.

Though being a supposed widow would help.

Klaus’ lips curved, something tempting and coaxing about his gaze. “You could come with us.”

Her brows rose as she didn’t try to hide her surprise. “Why on earth would you want that?”

“Your clever,” he said immediately. “Quick on your feet and mean, when the mood takes you. I’d much rather have you on my side than find myself working against you one day.”

“Have you thought this through?” Caroline asked in exasperation. “The West is a bit more… lax, about certain matters, but there is no good reason for a single woman to be traveling with two brothers. Whatever would we tell people?”

A lift of his good shoulder. “That’s easily fixed with a minister, love.”

Her expression turned scandalized. “You want to pretend to be married? We already tried that and it was a full disaster.”

Caroline was extremely particular about her space and having Klaus invade it had been… daunting. Twice, they’d been forced to share a room and it’d been an experience. She’d never been so close to a man before. Waking to Klaus, sleep-warm and long limbed, the firmness of his body taking up most of the space on a mattress that hadn’t been nearly large enough…

Keeping to herself had been far more difficult than she have through. The temptation to touch him, to see what the steady strength of him, injured or not, had felt like beneath her fingers had been heady. That he was deviously clever had been a delightful bonus.

Klaus’ laugh was deep chested, but the gleam behind his eyes was intent. “I didn't plan on it being fake.”

Her spine stiffened. “And this is your idea of a proposal?”

The crease of his dimple deepened. “So it is the manner of my asking that offends you, but not the offer?”

Caroline glared at him. “Why would I marry you? I haven’t even decided if I like you yet.”

“Now, Caroline. We know that isn’t entirely true.”

She refused to blush at the dip in his voice. The reminder of those moments where the air between them had grown warm and filled with tension she’d had no words for.  Not wanting to discuss any of it just then, she lifted her chin. 

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why would you marry me?” Klaus repeated. The curve of his smile turned wicked. “I can think of a number of reasons. But to start, it gives you a way off this continent.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t need you for that. I’m certain I’d find a way on my own, eventually.”

Loud laughter from the front of the carriage told her that Kol was avidly listening. She was amazed he hadn’t butted in with his two cents. Kol enjoyed little more than needling everyone. 

“That,” she said in exasperation and with mostly false irritation while she glanced towards where Kol would sitting. “Is quite the detriment.”

“You know you adore me!”

Caroline rolled her eyes and leaned back. Klaus wore the familiar expression of exasperation and the low simmer of his temper. It was a look she knew he wore most frequently around Kol. But for all of her exaggerated complaining, the younger of the two had become something like a friend. Albeit a very annoying one. 

Still. 

She wasn’t sure she was ready to let this go. Running her teeth along her lip, she made an impulsive decision. Damon was dead, her mother’s ghost put to rest. For once, her future was about her. 

And maybe that could include Sir Klaus Mikaelson. 

“You have until we reach Boston.”

Klaus’ brows creased with a hint of confusion. “To do what, love?”

“To convince me that I want to marry you.” She narrowed her eyes in warning. “And to plan a far better proposal than your last attempt.”

The sound of Kol’s uproarious laughter did nothing to stop the rising flush in her cheeks at the sudden glean behind Klays’ gaze. The way his gaze dipped to trace her mouth before returning to her wide eyes. 

“With pleasure, Caroline.”

[out-of-this-town]

The will to protect

Inuyasha AU, InuKag, romance & adventure

Before dying, Kikyo ties Inuyasha’s life to her little sister, Kagome, in order to ensure her safety.

Inuyasha is not too pleased about getting dragged into this mess and demands that Kagome undo the spell. Unfortunately for him, she has no idea how to do that. As danger draws near, Inuyasha has to find the willingness to keep Kagome out of harm’s way as Kagome tries to find a way to release Inuyasha from the spell.

Chapter 4 (ao3) (ff)

“Could you slow down?” Kagome snapped for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The sun had barely been up when Inuyasha had demanded that they leave for Mushin’s temple. He had wanted to go last night, but Kagome absolutely refused to travel when the sun had already been setting. From the speed he was traveling with now, Kagome assumed he was either trying to catch up on the lost time or trying to take revenge on her. Probably both. 

Every time she had asked, Inuyasha refused to slow down. If Kagome tried to sit down to take a break, he would grab her arm and drag her after him until she agreed to continue. Now she was tired, hungry and mad. And it was all Inuyasha’s fault. 

“Pick up the pace! I’m already going at a crawling speed because of you and I ain’t about to slow down any more,” came the shout from a half-demon that was nothing but a red silhouette in the distance. Thanks to his hearing, she didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard whereas Inuyasha had to yell out his replies, making it sound like he was mad... he probably was. 

“I’m just a human you know! I can’t run all day in order to keep up with you.” Kagome kicked a small rock in frustration. They had been traveling less than half a day and she was already done with this, never mind that the journey should take at least three more days. There was no chance that they were both coming out of this experience alive, one of them would end up murdered by the roadside during the next few days. Maybe even by the end of this day.

“Ain’t my fault that you’re just a lousy human, and I sure as fuck ain’t suffering the consequences of it. Now, pick. Up. The fucking. Pace!”

“No! And stop cursing at me!” Kagome stopped her walking and glared at the reason for her bad mood. 

She could see Inuyasha turning around and heading back towards her. Kagome rolled her eyes and sat down on a rock next to the dirt road. She set down her bow and quiver, before starting to dig through the sack in which she carried food as well as other things she might need for this trip.

She was just about to take a bite out of her peach when Inuyasha came to a stop in front of her and grabbed her wrist. “No you don’t. No breaks until I say so, and there won’t be one until the sun starts setting. And that’s only if I’m feeling generous.”

Kagome tried to tuck her wrist -and her food- free from his grip while giving him her best stink eye. “If I don’t eat and rest, I will pass out. And if that keeps happening, I won’t be in good enough shape to undo the spell.”

She could see his jaw tensing as he mulled her words, and then -at last- he relented. With an angry sigh, Inuyasha let go of her and drop down to sit on the ground, legs grossed and chin resting on his hand. Kagome could practically feel the annoyance radiating off of him. 

She might have been a little pleased about that.

“You better be quick about it, were wasting time whenever were not moving,” he grumbled. Kagome hummed as if in agreement, but in her mind she decided to take all the time she wanted just to spite him.

“What’s your hurry anyway? It’s not like the temple will disappear if were not there in the next few days.” She took a careful bite out of the fruit and made a little noise of delight when the juice hit her mouth. Gods, she was thirsty but she had run out of water by the fourth hour of this trip. She’d have to convince Inuyasha to find her a stream soon... or she could just die of dehydration, which honestly seemed like a more pleasant thing to do.

“This mess has already take far too long to clean up. I ain’t spending any more time on this than I have to,” he scoffed.

Kagome snorted and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you have some urgent half-demon things to take care of? Not enough villagers getting scared without your presence? A rabbit you have to hurry home to kill? Maybe there are some trees in your territory that you haven’t pissed on yet?”

He whirled around to face her, looking a little murderous. “What the fuck do you think you know about my life?”

“Nothing,” She shrugged. “That’s why I asked.” She did her best to adopt an innocent look on her face.

“Listen here you bitch,” Inuyasha barked. “we’re going to get to that temple and you ain’t gonna open you mouth again until we get there. Got that?”

“Or what, you’ll kill me? I thought you said yesterday that you weren’t suicidal.”

“I swear to the fucking Gods, I’m going to break your goddamn legs and drag you to that temple. See if that shut you up.”

“So, your plan is to drop a half-dead, severely injured priestess to a temple inhabited by powerful monks?” She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, that does sound like a great idea. I’m sure they will welcome you with open arms.”

Inuyasha’s lips started to peel back, revealing a set of sharp canines accompanied by the sound of a bone-chilling growl. The show of aggression would have probably freaked her out if she hadn’t known he couldn’t risk harming her. Also, her own anger and frustration did wonders in pushing down her natural instincts of ‘don’t piss him off, he can kill you in a blink of an eye’.

When, instead of answering, he just kept snarling at her, Kagome rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I want to talk to you either. Just let me rest and eat when I need to and we don’t have a problem.” 

He didn’t ease up. 

Kagome took an angry bite out of her peach and shook her head while swallowing, beyond annoyed with his attitude. “You seriously think I want to be here? I just found out my sister died and instead of dealing with that, I’m traveling with a complete jerk. I’m not planning on spending any unnecessary time with you, but I’m not going to get myself killed from sheer exhaustion just to keep you happy. So quit your growling and calm down, your the one wasting time arguing about this.” She grabbed her empty waterskin and threw it at him. “If you wan’t to be productive with your time, find water and fill that while I finish eating.”

To her surprise, Inuyasha did take the waterskin without another word and got up to head for the forest. He was, of course, glaring at her and muttering some less-than-kind words as he went, but that didn’t surprise her. 

Dumb jerk, was what she was thinking about while watching him go.

Trying to calm her anger, Kagome ate her food and watched as the clouds rolled past in the sky. She was really starting to regret deciding to help Inuyasha. He had said that, according to Kikyo, Kagome was the only one who could break the spell. And yet, he treated her like dirt. She should have just told him to get comfortable with his new way of life and to leave her be.

She was in the process of stretching out her legs and dreading the amount of blisters she would have by the end of this day, when she felt the shift in the air. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and a cold feeling of dread pool at the pit of her stomach.

Something bad was closing in. And that something wasn’t alone, there was a whole horde of them. 

Kagome slung the quiver over her shoulder and picked up her bow, ready to shoot as she felt the horde of demons coming to a stop as they reached the edge of the forest. She felt the mass of demon energy splitting up, no doubt they were planning to surround her before attacking from all sides.

Kagome kept herself facing towards the direction where the demonic energy was the strongest. Her accuracy was good, but unless these demons were extraordinarily slow she didn’t stand a chance against so many coming from all around her. Not to mention the limited amount of arrows she had. 

Even though she was sure Inuyasha had sensed the demons by now, and -unless he wanted to die- was on his way to make sure she survived this, she was still a little nervous. Kagome had never seen him fight, she didn’t know how well he would handle this. Add in the fact that they weren’t exactly on friendly terms, he probably wouldn’t mind if she lost a limb or two during this, as long as she remained alive.

As soon as she saw the first glimpse of a demon, Kagome let loose an arrow. It sunk into it’s target, the sacred light purifying the demon and a few others that were close enough to be affected by it. She was quick to turn to the side where another demon was trying to catch her off guard. The arrow did it’s duty, but Kagome cursed the fact that no other demon was close enough to be purified by the light. By her estimation there was at least forty different demonic auras, and her quiver could only hold 24 arrows -currently 22, so the more demons she took out in one shot the better.

Quickly, she took aim again, this time towards a grouping of demons, hoping to take out them all at once. Her concentration was broken when a loud, pained screech startled her. A fast glance told her that Inuyasha had arrived and was ripping off a demon’s arm and using it to skewer another. Charming.

Kagome returned to her earlier targets and cursed out loud when she noticed that they’d scattered and were running for her from three different directions. She let loose two arrows in quick succession, but the third demon was too close by the time she yanked out a new arrow. She gripped the arrow in her fist, preparing to duck from the demon’s claws and trying to spot a soft place on the demon that she’d be strong enough to stab her weapon into.

Just as the demon reached her, it collapsed to the ground as the result of a half-demon dropping down on it’s back.

“What the fuck are you standing there for!?” Inuyasha yelled as he ripped off the offending demon’s head. 

Kagome chose to ignore him in order to step away from the blood splatter and shoot down another group of demons.

“Put the fucking bow down! I’m getting us out of here.” Kagome yelped as pair of arms came around her, ready to whisk her away.

“No!” she yelled and let her powers flare a little. Inuyasha cursed and jumped away from her, shaking out his hands that had touched the purifying light.

“Did you already get hit on the head in the five fucking seconds I was away?” he growled at her while turning around and using his claws to slash at a demon that had tried to sneak up on him. “Or did you forget that you’ll get me killed too with your stupidity.” As soon as he was done with his opponent, he whirled back towards Kagome, who had gone back to aiming her bow.

“I didn’t forget, but if we run they’ll just follow us. Or they might move on to the nearest village. We can’t let that happen.” Kagome avoided looking at him, keeping her focus on her targets.

“What the hell do I care about some human village.” He stomped over to her and wrapped his fingers around her arm. “Now, put a fucking leash on your powers and quit being stupid. I’m getting us out of here.”

Kagome tried to free herself from him but he wasn’t letting up. “No! If you don’t want to fight then leave, but I’m not going anywhere until these demons are dead.” The demons in question were getting close, screeching and trying to find the best angle to attack from. Kagome was a little surprised at how smart they were being. Usually, a low-level demons like these would attack without much of a strategy, but these ones were taking their time, waiting until her focus was somewhere else before trying to charge at her from behind. 

She had a bad feeling on exactly who was responsible for teaching these demons.

“I’d get all of three steps away before keeling over because you got yourself gutted.” He was forced to let go of her so he could attack another demon that had dared to come too close. Kagome wasted no time before aiming again, now that her arm was free.

“Then I guess you’ll have to stay and help.” The only response she got was a string of insults and curses, as Inuyasha did just that.

It took a while and a few close calls, but they managed to kill all the demons. Neither of them were celebrating though, since they were busy glaring at each other.

“What the hell was that, wench? You nearly fucking shot me!” Inuyasha yelled and stomped towards her.

“I told you to get out of the way!” she snapped back while trying to shake off the demon goo from her sleeve. “Besides, I nearly got squashed by that demon corpse you threw!”

“If you don’t see a massive, dead demon flying your way, maybe you have no business being on the battlefield.”

“I shouldn’t have to worry about getting hurt by the person whose fighting on the same side as me!”

The arguing continued for a while longer until they had exhausted all their insults and accusations. After a long moment filled with more glaring, Kagome finally had enough and marched off, declaring that she needed wash off the demon blood from her hair. 

Surprisingly, Inuyasha didn’t fight her on that. Probably because he too was covered in demon entrails. He even showed her the way towards the river he had found earlier. Kagome had started to think that maybe they could get along, but as he walked past her, he made a comment about how awful she smelled.

Unsurprisingly, they argued some more after that.

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Allegiances || Chapter 21 || Chapter 22 || Chapter 23 || From the Beginning >>

Chapter 22

Mistyfoot lashed out with her claws. “Back!” she hissed. “Get back you mange-pelts!”

One of the foxes tried to dart closer, but Mistyfoot’s paw flashed out. She felt her claws connect, and the fox yelped as it pulled its bleeding muzzle away. Mistyfoot let out another snarl of fury.

Adrenaline was coursing through her body like white-hot energy. Her mind was focused on a single goal – protecting Nightpaw. The thud of Shrewpaw’s body against the stones of Snakerocks kept playing over and over in her ears, and it made Mistyfoot’s limbs plant hard as stone where she stood.

But one cat could only be so intimidating for so long.

“Nightpaw!” Shadepaw cried. “Get up here!”

“Mistyfoot!” Stoneheart wailed. “What are you doing?”

Mistyfoot could barely hear them. A fox would test its boundaries, and Mistyfoot would retaliate, quick as an adder. She felt Nightpaw behind her, his breath hot on her ankles. She could smell his fear-scent, same as it had been back at Snakerocks. As adventurous as the young tom was, he couldn’t face three foxes.

Neither can I. Mistyfoot heard the small voice somewhere in the back of her mind, but there was too much noise to listen.

She felt something brush her side, and she flinched in shock. Had a fox broken through? No – it was Crowpaw.

The leggy apprentice was bristling, snarling at the foxes. He moved forward and lashed his claws at one, making it stagger back. Another fox retaliated with snapping jaws. Mistyfoot’s muscles lurched as she swiped at the creature, only managing to catch whiskers with her claws.

“Get back up there, Crowpaw!” Mistyfoot hissed. “This is too dangerous!” I can’t bear to lose either of you! You’re the only cat that came from WindClan!

Crowpaw’s blue eyes burned. “You’re not expendable,” he snapped. “And you’re not my mentor! So stop acting like it!”

“You’re not expendable either, mouse-brain!” Nightpaw gasped, finding his voice.

“Shut up!” Crowpaw shot back, not looking at Nightpaw.

The foxes were riled, bleeding, and very upset. Mistyfoot saw them bunch their haunches. If all three sprang, there would be no hope of getting out without serious injuries. She planted her paws, eyes darting between the three foxes. Which one would attack first?

Something whizzed through the air, suddenly. It struck one of the foxes on the hip, making them buckle and yelp in pain. A chestunut clattered to the earth as the other two foxes froze, confused.

Just as confused, Mistyfoot looked up. A big tabby shape was in one of the branches of a nearby chestnut tree – and it jumped down, landing with a grunt just beyond the foxes. The tabby tom turned to the foxes and snarled.

Furious, the foxes turned away.

“Git goin’!” the tabby tom yowled. “I got these narrow-nosed varmints!”

The smell of fresh prey overrode the stink of fox. The foxes smelled it, too; they licked their lips and yipped in excitement as the big tabby tom tore off through the grass. The three foxes followed, barking eagerly.

Mistyfoot’s adrenaline left, and her legs felt like water. She did everything she could not to fall over – only when Stormfur put his shoulder against hers did she feel even the least bit stable.

The other cats were scrambling down their trees. Mistyfoot did a quick head count, and felt a lot better. Shadepaw immediately went about chastising Crowpaw and Nightpaw. Stoneheart sniffed every inch of Mistyfoot to make sure she was okay. Feathertail fretted over every cat, her pretty eyes sparkling with worry. Everyone was safe. Only thanks to that tabby.

“We need to move, now,” insisted Stoneheart. “I saw an old barn from my branch. Let’s go.”

———————————————————-

The barn was made of stone, and had a door that was easy for a cat to push open with their muzzle. It was smaller than the other barns the traveling cats had stayed in, but it felt cozier – it smelled of soft moss and hay, and there were nests made here and there already. There was a small ladder leading up to a loft that was shrouded in darkness. No prey-smell, but there weren’t foxes here, and there was another scent overtop of it all…

Mistyfoot’s nose twitched. “Smells like that tabby in here,” she determined. “Is this his den?”

“I hope he doesn’t mind,” Stormfur commented. “Where else could we go?”

“Lay down here,” Shadepaw instructed.

Mistyfoot watched the young tortoiseshell guide Nightpaw to one of the newer nests. The young tom’s back leg was bleeding, and Shadepaw stooped over it to examine. Worry shot through Mistyfoot – was Nightpaw going to be okay?

“Crowpaw, lick the wound clean,” Shadepaw instructed.

Crowpaw didn’t protest, to Mistyfoot’s surprise. The lean gray tom bent his head and began to clean Nightpaw’s wound. Feathertail helped, wrapping her plumy tail around the small apprentice to soothe him when he winced.

Mistyfoot spotted cobwebs glistening in a corner. She wound them around her paw and limped over to Shadepaw. “Will these help?”

Shadepaw blinked gratefully. “Always,” she breathed. “Thanks.”

She unwound the cobwebs carefully from Mistyfoot’s paw, and then laid them gently on Nightpaw’s leg. Mistyfoot winced. The gashes were huge compared to the rest of Nightpaw. They weren’t horribly deep, but the risk of infection had to be high.

“I need herbs,” Shadepaw fretted. “Marigold, horsetail, something.”

“I doubt we’re going to find any around here,” Stoneheart grunted. “But we’ll look as soon as we’re sure the foxes are gone.”

The door to the barn creaked, scraping against the stone floor. Mistyfoot tensed, unsheathing her claws. Stormfur and Stoneheart bristled, squaring their shoulders and forming a wall around Nightpaw. Crowpaw joined them, lashing his tail.

“Hol’ up, youngsters,” called a voice. The plump tabby from before waddled in to the barn, kicking the door shut behind him with a hind leg. “S’just me.”

“And who are you?” snarled Crowpaw.

The brown tabby tilted his head. “Friendly lot, you are,” he grunted.

“We’re sorry,” Mistyfoot offered. “Thank you for helping us with the foxes. I’m Mistyfoot – these are Crowpaw, Stormfur, Stoneheart, Feathertail, Shadepaw and Nightpaw.” She pointed at each cat with her tail.

The tabby tom blinked, taking in all the names. His eyes darted between them all. “The heck kinda names are those?” he wondered.

“Clan names,” Stoneheart responded.

“Clans?” the tabby tom frowned. “Ain’t no Clans ‘round these parts. Never heard of ‘em.”

“We’re not from around here,” Crowpaw pointed out.

The tabby tom blinked at them. “Clearly!” he huffed. “Every cat ‘round here knows those foxes nest up out there! Y’all got cotton for brains?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Shadepaw mewed, “but… do you know where we can find any marigold? Horsetail or even chervil or dock would do, too.” Her eyes were round. “One of the foxes hurt my brother, and he needs something before it gets infected!”

The tabby blinked, as if Shadepaw had unloaded too much information onto him. “I, ah… I dunno off-paw, young gal, but… maybe? I can go look.”

Shadepaw’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, thank you!” she breathed. “Marigold would be best – it’s a yellow flower, with long, thin petals. Dock has big, big leaves, and chervil is…”

The tom’s whiskers twitched. “S’all right, youngin; I think I know where a bit’a marigold grows. Y’all sit tight!”

“Let me go with you,” Stoneheart grunted.

“Nah,” the tabby sighed. “Don’ worry; you’ll just git in the way. Stay put, y’hear? I’ll be back before ya know it.”

As quick as the tabby had arrived, he left, kicking the door shut behind him. The Clan cats shuffled in the barn. Darkness was beginning to strengthen inside, with only a few shafts of sunlight pouring through the stones.

“Can we even trust him?” Stoneheart wondered, staring at the barn door. “We don’t even know his name!”

“He saved us, and he knows where things grow around here,” Shadepaw pointed out. “That’s all I need right now.”

Stoneheart frowned. He turned his gaze to Mistyfoot. “And what were you thinking? You’re part of this prophecy, too; we can’t afford to lose any of us, and you pull a mouse-brained stunt like that? Have you got bees in your brain, Mistyfoot?”

Mistyfoot bristled, indignation bubbling in her. She stared at her brother incredulously. “I will not let another apprentice die on my watch!” she snapped at him. Why didn’t he understand? She pushed past the other Clan cats, ignoring their shocked expressions, and jumped onto the wooden slats of the ladder leading upwards to the loft.

Up here it was quiet, and Mistyfoot could only hear gentle murmuring below her. She flopped down onto the hay and sighed, feeling exhausted and drained to her toes.

I told Stoneheart about Shrewpaw – why doesn’t he understand? Mistyfoot stared at her paws. I feel like a failure, even after all this time. Even after all I’ve accomplished with these cats. When will it be enough?

Mistyfoot was only alone for a few minutes. Soon enough she heard the ladder creak with the weight of a cat, and a pelt brushed against her in the dark. Mistyfoot tensed until she recognized Stormfur’s amber eyes in the gloom.

“Room for one more?” he asked gently.

Mistyfoot only nodded. There was no point in sending him away. She wasn’t angry at the others, anyway – just furious with herself, especially for snapping at Stoneheart. She felt like a petulant kit.

Stormfur settled down beside her, tucking his paws underneath him. “Comfy up here,” he commented. “A nice place for a chat, if you’re willing.”

Mistyfoot shifted. “I’m… willing,” she admitted.

“Then can I ask what that was about down there?”

Mistyfoot didn’t meet his gaze as she told Stormfur about Shrewpaw. She stared out through one of the holes in the barn wall, at the world darkening all around her. When she was done the sun was set, and an owl hooted in the distance.

“I don’t even feel like a proper warrior anymore,” she finished. “And, honestly… I don’t even know if Tinystar will let me back into ThunderClan when we come back.”

Stormfur twitched his whiskers. “Well, Tinystar must think a lot of you – I’m still waiting on my first apprentice!”

“But that’s just it!” Mistyfoot insisted, lashing her tail. “Was he sure of me, or did he set me up to fail? Tinystar was so angry with me before we all left. I have no idea why but I can only assume he thinks I’m some danger to ThunderClan!”

Stormfur’s gaze softened, and he rested his tail on her shoulders. “Leaders often have a lot more on their minds than we know,” he reasoned. “Shrewpaw’s death was really unfortunate; but it’s not an indication of your abilities as a mentor. It was out of your control! You’ll get another chance, if you let it happen.”

Mistyfoot blinked. How many times was she going to let the cats around her tell her the same thing before it sank in? ‘If I let it happen,’ she repeated in her mind. That meant letting go of her guilt. Was she ready to do that?

“I’m sorry for snapping,” she breathed.

Stormfur purred gently. “I know. And you have a good reason – but it was a really mouse-brained thing to do, Mistyfoot. You’ve got cats that care about you on this journey. Think of how you feel when you think of Shrewpaw’s death – don’t you think we’d all feel the same way if we had to watch you die?”

Mistyfoot swallowed, a lump forming in her throat. Did they all really feel so strongly about her? The thought threatened to sweep her off her paws.

“I’ll do better,” she promised, her voice cracking.

Stormfur touched his muzzle to her cheek, and Mistyfoot breathed in his warm scent. The RiverClan tom barely smelled like RiverClan anymore, and something about that made the gesture even more comforting. Sitting with him, like this… it felt like every worry was melting away.

“Excuse me…” a small voice mewed.

Mistyfoot’s head shot up, her heart racing. Shadepaw was peering at them from the top of the ladder. Her eyes were round, and Mistyfoot wondered just how much of their conversation she had heard.

“The loner is back,” Shadepaw meowed.

“Thanks,” Stormfur offered.

Shadepaw nodded and disappeared back down the ladder.

“We should go, then,” Stormfur decided.

No, I want to stay! Mistyfoot cried inside. The space beside her filled with cold air as Stormfur got to his paws. With you, up here, and nothing else to worry about. Just for a little while!

But she couldn’t say that. Though it was a powerful feeling, now wasn’t the right time. Mistyfoot got to her own paws, shaking off a bit of stray hay. Had Stoneheart told the others about Shrewpaw? Would Stormfur? She couldn’t worry about that anymore.

All she could do was look forward – to the journey ahead, and wherever it led.

[carrion-carry-on]

Whumptober 2020 (Running Out of Time) - Collapsed Building

Time for a D&D fic! I’ve been working with my friends (aka writing buddies) to help develop things, so now I feel a ton more confident in writing my characters. Hopefully it shows some.

Main characters (focus for the fic) are Valyk Shender, a fallen aasimar rogue, and Cub, a baby androsphinx the group was tasked with returning to his mother.

@whumptober2020

Warnings: Vague depiction of injuries

When the day started out, Valyk had hoped for another uneventful period of traveling. She’d have to remind herself to never again curse herself that way. The first hours of morning were fine, she and her companions had spent the time trekking through the forest which separated them from the next town. Around noon is when things had gone sideways.

The man was a pain in a rear - and another ghost from Wicker’s past, it seemed. The tiefling’s dark eyes widened slightly in some recognition, but, as always, he had remained quiet. Thinking back on the encounter, though, Valyk recalled an added ferocity in the warlock’s spell-speech. That would be something to ask him about; assuming she didn’t die here and now.

Their scuffling had left the group few choices. They’d hoped to gain an advantage by forcing the stranger to fight in close combat. Thus, they had taken the fight indoors - if the crumbling, nature-claimed castle could really be called “indoors.” With the help of the vines which grew around the vicinity, an advantage of having a druid amongst them, the man was forced to withdraw. They had had little time to recover.

The damned walls had started to crumble inwards before they could catch a breath. All tumbling rocks and shattered after-battle silence, individuals separated to find exits. Before finding herself buried, as present, Valyk had seen Wicker disappear in a cloud of smoke and Grant, the druid, lift himself clear of the wreck. She was unsure whether Jarod had escaped. Perhaps he, too, was trapped underneath the castle’s remains. Although she hated to admit it, that prospect soured her stomach. Despite the elf’s sarcastic quips and jaded outlook, she had grown used to his company. Now, though, she has her own problems to worry about.

Not just my problems, Valyk reminds herself as she feels beneath her cloak.

In the darkness, she can feel, and better, glimpse, little bright eyes peering out at her from underneath the cradle of her arms. Their charge, an Androsphinx cub, whom they’d befittingly dubbed “Cub,” had been closest to Valyk when hell had torn open. Thus, she now finds herself buried under heaven knows how much rubble with the very object of the group’s journey.

Casting her spell of light, Valyk thought, I can’t think of anything else that might help. At least this will give us something to see by.

In his wrappings of leather cloak and adventurer, Cub blinks in the sudden, blinding brightness. He growls and grumbles about it and Valyk allows herself some semblance of a smile behind the mask she wears.

“You find time to grouse about light whilst trapped beneath a building?” she asks humorously. She can’t let him know how it hurts, and how the pricking of blood frightens her.

Valyk begins her self-assessment over again, having been interrupted by the spell. But, in the back of her mind, she continues to focus on the ethereal glow. The last thing she’d like is for complete darkness to swallow them both up once again. This would make it easier for the other to discover them.

I still cannot feel my legs, Valyk realized, and, knowing luck, they��re likely broken… Damn. I hope Grant can fix them. Still odd, though, to have someone who can mend bones so easily - focus! Her head shakes vigorously, as though the motion would clear her mind.

There’s stone digging into my ribs and back both, though it doesn’t feel like either have been punctured. Then what about the blood?

Valyk’s thoughts trail to a halt when she spots a part of one leg. It’s definitely hers - she can barely see the top half of the scarred leather boot. She still cannot feel anything in it, but, looking at it now, that was for the better. There’s blood flowing from gashes, it’s near cut to the bone in places. Valyk clenches her teeth as fear and panic lace their way down her whole body. By the rate blood is draining, she might not have long enough. She cannot even hear traces of digging.

Cub, perhaps sensing her growing distress, whines and pushes his lightly-whiskered face against her wooden mask. Valyk recognizes the gesture as an attempt at comfort, though it could mean something different to a sphinx. Just another one of the group’s many shortcomings; few of them knew what to do with an infant, even less an immortal, magical beast-infant.

One of her gloved hands strokes along Cub’s back, ruffling between his flightless wings and rests there. With the other, Valyk tries to pull herself into a different position, hopefully one with better access to her leg. No success. She’s discovered that she is trapped, stuck on her left side and staring at the bloody limb. The movement has also aggravated the stuff digging into her ribs. She doesn’t dare to move another inch.

Damn everything, her mind hisses.

Cub, for his part, crawls forward on his belly to wrap his forepaws around Valyk’s pendant. She pays him little mind until he begins to gnaw and chew on the black gem. It’s a habit they’ve been trying for two weeks to break; not only that, the item is magical, and she’s not so sure they want to find out what’d happen if it were swallowed. After pulling the gem away from Cub, ignoring his disappointed whine and pleading expression, Valyk tries to think of how to go about ameliorating her position.

It’s not like I can just lift an entire building off my shoulders, even if I had full use of my legs.

There’s the sound of rock against rock, and rock against metal somewhere around Valyk, bringing a smirk unbidden to her lips. It’s taken them long enough. But her body is cold, and her eyesight is growing weary. The light, tied to her mind and magic both, dims, flickers, and fades. She doesn’t know how long she’s been down here, trapped beneath the ruins, but this dawning fatigue does not bode well.

I can’t… I can’t fall asleep.

Then Cub is pawing at her clasped hand, the one holding her pendant, and he’s whining more.

Aw, what the hell. If it’ll give him something to do, Valyk thinks, surrendering the gem, magical or not. It’s not like he’ll have to worry about stomach problems if he’s not- the thought shudders to a grinding stop.

She can’t allow herself to think this way. The others are searching, they will find her, and they will find Cub. Both of them have got to live. She needs to get back her glory, and he needs to be with his mother.

“I refuse to die disgraced,” Valyk growls, ignoring the growing pain in her ribs. There’ll definitely be a bruise forming.

Valyk felt Cub tugging on the chain of her pendant, bringing her attention back to the sphinx. He has it in his mouth again, but this time, he’s not quite chewing it as maneuvering it. Seemingly with all the force his tiny body can muster, Cub strikes the black gem against a rock. Clack. He raises up as far as he can and hits the rock again. Clack.

The motive finally dawns on Valyk as he goes down for another blow.

Clack!

“Good, good idea, Cub,” Valyk acknowledges, “but, maybe, you oughtn’t use that.” She takes the stone from him again. This earns a frustrated growl, yet Cub’s complaints are quickly satisfied when it is replaced by a different rock. Better still, the rock is much bigger.

Taking the old stone between his paws, Cub continues to make noise. This time, the clack of stones is succeeded by a yowl they have all learned means “Help!” Above them, there’s a quick silence, then the frantic scratching and scrambling resumes much closer.

When light, real sunlight, broke through the gloom, Cub began growling again. He is ecstatic to see everyone again. Valyk tilts her head backwards a bit, enough to just barely see them through the slits of her mask, then lowers her head to the floor. The other three are all there, everyone was searching for her and Cub. In that briefest of looks, Valyk had had time to note the general dishevelment of the remaining party members. Were she in the mood and able to laugh, she might have. Now, though, with massive stones still weighing down on her, she chose not to. There would come time for that later. After all, she’s alive.