#*HEART POUNDS* I MUST NOT RUIN THE TYRANT

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Thirty-Night

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.7k

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Mihawk’s ship glides smoothly through the waters, drawing closer to Kuraigana Island. You stand at the bow, watching the dark, gloomy landscape emerge from the mist. The ruins of the Shikkearu Kingdom loom in the distance, and a shiver runs down your spine despite the warm cloak Mihawk had lent you.

He stands beside you, his presence a silent assurance. “Perona is waiting for you,” he says, his voice cutting through the quiet. “She will help you prepare.”

"I assume that Benn will keep Shanks from sneaking off to see me?"

Mihawk gives a slight nod, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Benn knows his duties well. Shanks won't be able to slip away easily."

The path opens up to reveal the castle, its stone walls weathered and overgrown with ivy. Mihawk pushes open the creaky gate, and you step inside, the change in atmosphere immediate. The castle's atrium is a stark contrast to the island’s gloom—bright and full of colorful plants and birds that Perona carefully tends to.

Perona flits around the atrium like one of her beloved birds, her pink hair trailing behind her. She spots you and rushes over, her big round eyes sparkling with excitement.

“There you are!” she exclaims, grabbing your hands. “Come on, we have so much to do!”

Mihawk gives a slight nod and turns to leave. “I’ll be in my quarters,” he says, more to Perona than to you.

“Thank you,” you manage to say before he disappears into the castle's depths.

Perona’s grip on your hand is firm but gentle as she pulls you through the bright atrium. You glance around, taking in the lush greenery and vibrant flowers, their colors almost too vivid against the backdrop of the gray stone walls. Birds chirp merrily, fluttering from branch to branch, oblivious to the whirlwind of preparations about to ensue.

Perona leads you up a winding staircase, her excitement palpable. “We’ve got everything ready,” she chatters, her voice echoing slightly in the narrow corridor. “The dress, the flowers, even some makeup if you want it!”

Your heart pounds with a mix of nerves and anticipation. It’s been a long journey to get here, and now that the moment is so close, you begin to feel nervous. The last time you had been in this position you had felt like you were walking towards one prison to another. Perona pushes open a heavy wooden door, revealing a cozy room bathed in soft sunlight streaming through tall windows. A gown draped over a chair catches your eye—simple yet elegant, with delicate lace and flowing fabric that seems to shimmer faintly.

“Sit here,” Perona instructs, guiding you to a cushioned stool in front of a large mirror. She busies herself gathering various items from around the room—combs, brushes, small pots of makeup.

You sit quietly, hands resting in your lap as Perona works. Her fingers are deft and sure as she braids sections of your lavender hair, weaving in tiny flowers that she must have picked herself. “You look beautiful,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Shanks won’t know what hit him.”

A smile tugs at your lips despite the butterflies in your stomach. “Thank you, Perona,” you whisper.

Perona hums a soft tune as she works, her nimble fingers working tirelessly your hair. The gentle tug and pull are almost soothing, but your mind races, filled with memories of another time, another wedding.

Perona pauses, her dark eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “You’re nervous,” she states more than asks, her voice gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “It’s just... the last time I was about to get married, it didn’t go so well.”

Perona tilts her head slightly, curiosity evident in her expression. “What happened?”

You look down at your hands, the memory still raw despite the time that’s passed. “I was supposed to marry a Commodore,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “It was an arranged marriage. My parents forced me into it for political reasons.”

Perona’s hands still for a moment before she continues braiding your hair, slower this time. “That sounds awful,” she murmurs.

“It was,” you agree, the words spilling out now that you’ve started. “He was much older and not a kind man. I ran away the morning of the wedding. That’s how I ended up with Shanks and his crew.”

Perona’s eyes soften with understanding as she finishes the last braid and secures it with a tiny flower. “And now you’re worried about getting cold feet again?”

You nod, biting your lip. “What if... what if this is all too much? What if I’m not ready?”

Perona places her hands on your shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “This is different,” she says firmly. “This time, you’re marrying someone you love, not someone chosen for you.”

Perona helps you slip into the simple, flowing wedding dress. The fabric feels cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the corsets and heavy gowns of your past. She tightens the laces just enough to give the dress shape without making you feel trapped. Each tug of the strings reminds you that this is different, this is your choice.

She then hands you a pair of heels, delicate and understated. You step into them, feeling the slight elevation they provide. The mirror in front of you reflects a version of yourself that feels both familiar and new. The dress flows around you, light and unrestrictive, a stark contrast to the stifling garments of your previous life.

Perona steps back, her eyes shining with pride. “What do you think?” she asks, her voice filled with anticipation.

You take a deep breath, letting your gaze wander over your reflection. The dress fits perfectly, the braids in your hair adorned with tiny flowers add a touch of whimsy, but most importantly, you still look like yourself. Not the doll your mother portrayed you to be.

“I still look like me,” you say softly, almost in disbelief.

Perona’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Of course you do! That was the whole point.” She places her hands on your shoulders again, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “This is about you and Shanks, no one else.”

You nod, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. The woman in the mirror is strong and free, ready to face whatever comes next with the man she loves.

Perona takes a step back, admiring her work one last time before she grabs a small bouquet from a nearby table. “Here,” she says, handing it to you. “A little something extra.”

The bouquet is simple yet beautiful, just like the rest of your ensemble. You hold it gently, feeling the soft petals beneath your fingers.

“Thank you,” you whisper again, emotion choking your voice.

Perona waves off your gratitude with a dismissive hand but her eyes are warm and kind. “Come on,” she says with a wink. “There’s someone very special waiting to see you.”

Perona takes your hand, leading you through the bright atrium. The colors of the flowers and the cheerful chirping of the birds offer a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You clutch the bouquet tighter, feeling each step bring you closer to a new beginning.

Benn stands waiting, his presence a steady anchor amidst the sea of uncertainty. His gray hair is slicked back, and his rifle is conspicuously absent, leaving him looking almost out of place in such a serene setting. As you approach, his eyes soften, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice low and reassuring.

You nod, but your nerves betray you. “I’m... I’m nervous,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “The last time I was in a wedding dress...”

Benn’s expression turns serious. He places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “That was then. This is now. And this time, it’s different.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I know,” you say, offering a weak smile. “I’ll be okay.”

Benn studies your face for a moment longer before nodding. “Alright then,” he says, but his eyes still hold a hint of concern.

A thought strikes you suddenly, and you pull back the light skirts of your dress to look down at your heels. The memory of running through the town barefoot on that fateful day rushes back. You met Shanks in a wedding dress and barefoot; it feels only right to marry him that way too.

“Hold on,” you say, bending down to slip off your heels. The cool stone floor feels grounding beneath your feet as you stand back up.

Benn raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. Instead, he offers his arm to you with a knowing smile. “Shall we?”

Benn’s arm is solid and reassuring as you walk down the makeshift aisle. The rough stone beneath your bare feet feels grounding, a tangible connection to the reality of this moment. The crew of the Red Force stands on either side, their faces a mixture of joy and pride. They’re dressed in their best, but there’s still an air of ruggedness about them that makes you feel at home.

You catch glimpses of familiar faces—Yasopp with his unruly hair tamed just enough for the occasion, Lucky Roux grinning widely with a piece of meat still in hand, and Beckman giving you a nod of encouragement. Bonk Punch with Monster perched on his shoulders. Each step brings you closer to the end of the aisle, closer to Shanks.

But as your eyes finally find him, your breath catches in your throat. Shanks stands tall, his broad shoulders squared, but his attention isn’t on you. Instead, he’s glaring at Mihawk, his single arm clenched tightly at his side. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

Mihawk’s eyes flick to you briefly before he speaks. “Shanks,” he says, his voice calm and authoritative. “Your bride is walking down the aisle.”

Shanks’ gaze snaps to you, and the transformation is immediate. The anger melts away, replaced by an expression so tender it makes your heart ache. He takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours.

Benn gives your arm a gentle squeeze before letting go, signaling that it’s time for you to take those final steps on your own. You walk towards Shanks, each step bringing you closer to him and further from the past that tried to bind you.

As you reach Shanks, he holds out his hand to you. You take it, feeling the roughness of his palm against your own. There’s a moment of silence where everything seems to fall away—the past, the fears, the uncertainties—leaving just the two of you standing there together.

Shanks leans in slightly, his voice low and filled with emotion. “You look beautiful,” he says.

You smile up at him, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “So do you,” you reply softly. Then Shanks' nose scrunches and his eyes drop.

"Are you barefoot?"

"You are most observant, my love," you comment dryly, your lips twitching as you see the gears rotating behind his eyes. The tension in his shoulders disappears, and he shakes his head with a laugh.

“Only you would, Treasure,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. Mihawk steps forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the assembled crew. He adjusts his hat with a casual flick of his wrist, his red eyes sweeping over the gathered pirates before settling on you and Shanks. His expression is as unruffled as ever, a picture of calm detachment.

"Shall we begin?" Mihawk’s voice is deep and resonant, carrying easily over the soft murmur of the wind and the distant cries of seabirds. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, as if he finds the whole affair mildly entertaining.

Shanks squeezes your hand gently, drawing your attention back to him. The warmth in his gaze is undeniable, and it sends a rush of reassurance through you. You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the words that will bind you to him.

Mihawk clears his throat, an almost theatrical gesture that draws everyone's focus. "We are gathered here today," he begins, his voice steady but with a hint of wryness, "to witness the union of two individuals who have somehow found each other in this chaotic world."

The crew chuckles softly at his words, their affection for you and Shanks evident in their smiles and nods. Even Perona giggles behind her hand, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mihawk continues, seemingly unfazed by the reactions around him. "Marriage is a bond forged by choice," he says, "and it requires courage to commit oneself fully to another person." He glances at Shanks then at you, his gaze piercing but not unkind. "I trust both of you possess that courage."

Shanks’ thumb brushes over your knuckles in a silent promise. You look up at him, finding strength in the unwavering love reflected in his eyes.

Mihawk’s lips twitch slightly, perhaps the closest he’ll come to a smile. "Do you, Shanks, take Linaria Bonn to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," Shanks replies without hesitation, his voice strong and sure.

Mihawk nods approvingly before turning to you. "And do you, Linaria Bonn, take Shanks to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," you answer, your voice steady despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

With an air of finality, Mihawk declares, "Then by the power vested in me by... well, myself," he says with a faint smirk that earns another round of chuckles from the crew, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Shanks doesn’t wait for further instruction; he pulls you into a kiss that feels like coming home. The eruption of cheers from your crew is near deafening, but all you can think of is Shanks' lips pressing against yours.

As Shanks’ lips press against yours, the world around you fades away. The warmth of his kiss fills you with a sense of belonging you’ve never known before. The cheers and laughter of the crew become a distant hum, a background to this moment of pure connection.

When you finally pull away, your eyes meet his, and you see your own joy reflected in his gaze. Shanks' hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “You are my treasure, Aria,” he whispers, the words meant only for you. "And I love you so much."

“Not as much as I love you,” you reply, your voice trembling with emotion.

The crew’s celebration surrounds you like a warm embrace. Yasopp claps Shanks on the back with a hearty laugh, while Lucky Roux lifts a tankard in your honor. Perona dabs at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief, her usually stern demeanor softened by genuine happiness.

Benn steps forward, offering his congratulations with a firm handshake for Shanks and a gentle squeeze of your shoulder. “Welcome to the family,” he says warmly. "Though one could argue that you already were one of us."

“Thank you,” you manage to say, still feeling overwhelmed by the sheer joy of the moment.

Perona pulls you into a tight hug. “You’re one of us now,” she says fiercely. “And we take care of our own.”

You smile through the tears that threaten to spill over. “I know,” you whisper back, hugging her just as tightly.

The celebrations continue around you, but it’s Shanks’ presence that grounds you. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close as he steers you towards the heart of the gathering. The crew has set up tables laden with food and drink, a makeshift feast in honor of this special day.

Shanks leads you to a seat at the head of one table, his eyes never straying far from yours. As everyone begins to eat and drink, laughter and stories filling the air, Shanks leans in close. “Are you happy?” he asks softly.

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Good,” he says, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before standing up and raising his tankard high.

��To Aria!” he shouts, his voice carrying over the noise of the gathering. “My wife!”

The cheer that follows is deafening but all you can think of his how proud Shanks looks to call you his wife.

Date Published: 8/26/24

Last Edit: 8/26/24

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[immanueldid]

Citadel Finecast is exactly as horrifying as everyone said it was.

There are so many gussets and so much flash and so so so so so many bubbles. I am... I should have bought liquid greenstuff.  Huron how could they do this tO YOU. THIS DISRESPECT. I have been cleaning his backpack and only his backpack this whole time and I’m only just ‘finishing’.  Have not even started on mold lines. CAN’T start on bubbles yet. His axe-arm pauldron is miscast and so so thin that I can see inbetween the chaosy arrow details where there should be solid pauldron. 

halp.

[andrewmoocow]

Steven Universe Alternate Future chapter 24: Fragments (originally published on August 23, 2021)

AN: The end of the Alternate Future begins here! Or this story at least, I've got a few follow-ups planned after finishing this one, one of which I might set up here. But regardless, here we are at the end of Part 3 and from here on out, things will go downhill for our heroes & uphill for our villains. Can Steven be saved from both himself and Black Rutile? Who knows? Except for me that is, and a very select few as well. But I've had enough keeping you in suspense, let's get straight to the action.

Synopsis: Steven's condition gets worse and he seeks help from Jasper.

Cast:

Zach Callison as Steven

Estelle as Garnet

Michaela Dietz as Amethyst

Deedee Magno-Hall as Pearl

Kimberly Brooks as Jasper

Noël Wells as Black Rutile

Lauren Ash as White Topaz

Della Saba as Aquamarine

Charlyne Yi as Eyeball

Tom Scharpling as Greg

Uzo Aduba as Bismuth

Dee Bradley Baker as Lion

Ron Perlman as ?

--

"Hear me my followers and rejoice!" Black Rutile declared, with Aquamarine perched on her shoulder, as she recorded herself making a grand speech to her remaining minions in her cave lair. "Our day of revengeance is at hand! No more shall that sanctimonious half-breed tyrant enforce his iron-fisted rule over our people! Because despite claiming to be a pure-hearted child, recent intel has confirmed he is far from it."

As an example, Black Rutile played the footage of Steven crashing his father's van that her satellite had gathered. "Look at this absolutely abhorrent act." She stated. "What kind of child would ever dare murder their father without any rhyme or reason?"

"Actually, there have been a few throughout this planet's history that have done just that." White Topaz leaned into view to point out.

"SHUT IT TOPAZ!" Black Rutile angrily commanded before turning back to her viewers. "Anyways, soon he will be exposed as the monster he truly is, and with the army we have regrown from the colonies some of my subordinates have retaken, we shall lay siege to the tyrannical Crystal Gems and strike them at our weakest!"

"You sure about that my Rutile?" Black Rutile's Topaz bodyguard leaned back in, much to her master's anger. "'Cause I've gotten word from Cinnabar's faction that some of your former Black Pearls have formed, like, a little squadron to fight back against her."

"Can you not ruin my speech, you ignoramus?!" Black Rutile shoved her Topaz away. Just as she was about to make a grand conclusion to her speech, Black Rutile quickly declared "End transmission." and shut off the recording. "Now look what you did, I was making a motivational speech to my allies, but you had to keep getting in the way just like you always do!"

"Always?" White Topaz replied while making shadow puppets against the cave wall. "Look, I may spoil your plans some of the time, but your ego is just as much to blame the rest of the time."

"That is indeed true Topaz, but now I must ask," Black Rutile said. "what is with this attitude? Where's the overly polite idiot that always followed my orders without question, no matter how horrible they are?"

"I'm betting she's already having second thoughts about your plans." Aquamarine advised her superior.

"You mind if I," Eyeball suggested before making a slashing noise with her mouth and pulling her chisel from her gem. "put her to rest?"

"I'm being serious you guys!" White Topaz said. "The three of you may think you're Gems of the people, but I don't think Gems like those would ever hyperfocus on ruining the life of one person instead of just focusing on something healthier!"

"Like what, forcing ourselves to join those ingrates and deprive ourselves of our way of life in favor of becoming part of a hive-mind?" Black Rutile asked, menacingly pulling out her bowie knife to threaten her Topaz with. "I have been plotting against the Crystal Gems ever since Steven brainwashed the Diamonds, and I refuse to abandon those plans just because you don't like them! Now, are you going to be a good little bodyguard, or do you want to ditch your best friend in favor of the hypocrite?"

Although White Topaz showed tons of reluctance, she nervously got down on one knee and bowed her head to her three teammates. "No, my Rutile. I am at your beck and call, whenever you need me."

"Very good my Topaz." Black Rutile put away her knife to pat White Topaz on the head with an evil smile, before turning away to tap at her visor. "Now if we have nothing else to discuss, it seems the seeds of doubt I have planted in Steven's mind that fateful night have finally begun to grow." She stated before her visor created a holographic chessboard with pieces resembling herself & her minions on one side, and the Crystal Gems & the Diamonds on the other. "Now all we need is just one last push." On that last word, Black Rutile then spawned a chess piece resembling Jasper that she put squarely in the middle of the board.

--

Far from Black Rutile's lair in the woods, Steven and Greg had finally returned home to Beach City after a father-son outing that turned rather disastrous. Fortunately, the Crystal Gems were already home to be told of what happened and as Steven gazed out over the deck, Bismuth asked Greg what happened.

"So Steven just flew off the handle because of a song?" Bismuth asked while helping Greg put his van back together. "Frankly, I could think of weirder reasons to get angry."

"No, it wasn't because of the song." Greg admitted to the blacksmith. "It was because we drove off to my childhood home in Keystone and he learned that my upbringing wasn't too different from his mom's."

"I don't think you ever told anyone about when you were a kid." Bismuth replied.

"Not that I wanted to until now." Greg stated. "But after that crash, I don't think I ever want to bring them up again. Steven started ranting about how he wished the Gems never found Earth and he had a normal human life like I had."

"Whoa whoa whoa, where did all this come from?!" Bismuth yelled in alarm, raising her hands towards the former rock star.

"That's what I said!" Greg exclaimed before turning to his despondent son. "And now that I think about it, maybe he had good reason for those wishes after all he's been through."

Steven looked down in utter shame and regret before he walked back inside the beach house, clearly avoiding a chance to speak with his father about the incident.

--

As soon as Steven got inside, the other Crystal Gems were there to greet him, but the looks on their faces told Steven things weren't going to be good.

"Sit down on the couch Steven, we need to talk." Pearl commanded the son of her deceased lover, who did as he was told before Pearl began pacing around. "I just can't believe you, Steven! Crashing the van with Greg inside?! You know how fragile humans are, young man! These pink outbursts need to be dealt with!"

"It's not an outburst!" Steven yelled, briefly inflating himself as he turned pink.

"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about!" Pearl exclaimed before Steven got back up and started walking away. "What is happening to you?!"

"It's nothing, just puberty, honest!" Steven cried as he struggled to keep his pink form at bay.

"Whoa no little dude, I've seen enough sitcoms to know that is not what puberty is like!" Amethyst declared. "Right, Garnet?"

"I can confirm, this is not regular puberty." Garnet nodded before Steven put up a literal wall between him and his guardians.

"Steven, drop the wall this instant!" Pearl ordered as she pressed against the pink, hexagonal dome.

"I'm sorry Pearl!" Steven gasped in apology before the wall disappeared. "I just need some space, okay? I'll be in my room." But as Steven walked upstairs, Amethyst rushed to keep him from going any further.

"Not so fast, my dude!" Amethyst declared. "You gotta tell us what's going on!"

"It seems like Steven wants to avoid a serious discussion altogether." Garnet analyzed.

"No, I'M NOT!" Steven yelled, dropping to his knees and pounding his fist on the stairs, creating a shockwave that shook the entire room.

"Steven, either you talk to us about what's going on, or you're grounded until you're able to explain." Garnet firmly declared.

"She's right man, you gotta chill!" Amethyst exclaimed.

"We need to do something about this before anyone else gets hurt!" Pearl stated as Steven continued struggling where he stood.

"Don't let these strange powers control you." Garnet tried desperately to calm the half-Gem down. "You're better than this."

"LEAVE ME ALOOONE!" Steven finally roared, causing a pink shockwave to burst from his body and seemingly force the Gems to move in slow motion. Or rather, he was moving faster than everyone else. "I'm speeding up again!" he muttered while gazing at his equally pink hands. "I gotta get out of here!"

Steven ran out of the house and far away from the Crystal Gems. There was barely anywhere he could go right now. Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl kept enabling these strange new powers, yet Peridot, Lapis, and Bismuth probably barely knew what to do about things. Thus, there was only one Gem left he knew could help him in his time of need.

--

"The Gems tried to help me, but they just kept making things worse." Steven explained to Jasper later that night while the two sat around a campfire in front of her cave. "And that's why I refuse to go back."

"So what you're saying is," Jasper answered before dramatically removing the cloak she was wearing. "you want a rematch?!"

"What?! No!" Steven exclaimed. "I just told you why I came here in the first place. I think my Diamond powers are coming out, and I have no idea how to control them. I just want to be alone so I can't hurt anyone or be super toxic and controlling."

"So, you finally admitted it, eh?" Jasper rolled her eyes as she got up and walked away. "If you want to be alone, your definition of it is horribly wrong!"

"But Jasper, this is the last place anyone would look for me!" Steven explained before running after Jasper. "Wait, don't leave me here!" he begged the bigger Gem. "This thing with my powers is the real problem."

"The only problem you have is your friends." Jasper declared, much to Steven's confusion. "Just like how you keep holding everyone back, they're doing the same to you!"

"Are you sure?" Steven asked. "I definitely believe I'm getting them all worried."

"That's because they're afraid of you." Jasper responded. "And not just of your powers, but your control over others. And you are too! You came out here to hide, but I'm not one to hide myself. I don't need to hide my power or try to stifle it, I let everything out by training!"

"Like this forest?" Steven wondered, looking around the patch of destroyed trees he and Jasper have stumbled upon.

"Exactly." Jasper answered, walking up to a tree and making it fall over with a single punch. "And to control that power, I have to use it. Those so-called friends of yours don't understand because they always want to make you feel bad for being yourself!"

"Yeah, I do feel bad." Steven muttered to himself, gazing at his fist before walking over to punch another tree, turning pink as he landed a blow that created massive cracks on the bark and wounded his hand.

"Yeah, crush that weakling tree!" Jasper cheered Steven on.

"No!" Steven exclaimed before kissing the tree to fix the damage he did.

"Are you kidding me?! That's disgusting!" Jasper gagged at the sight when she looked down to discover that Steven's kiss caused some grass to grow around them. "No, the grass!" she yelled and rapidly pulled out the grass beneath her. "Get out of here!" Jasper then angrily turned to Steven and picked him up by the collar of his jacket. "Quit helping this planet's ecosystem and show me! Show me your power!"

Jasper harshly threw Steven to the ground, causing him to groan in pain. "No way Jasper!" Steven coughed as he got up from the toss. "I can handle myself!"

"Shut up!" Jasper yelled and lunged at Steven, who turned pink on reflex and created a barrier to defend himself from the Quartz's ruthless attack, but it proved ineffective as Jasper punched straight through it, causing Steven to fall to the ground. "This is it; this is all you were worried about?! What a rip-off!"

As Steven helped himself off the dirt, Jasper just kept on yelling. "I am way stronger than everyone you hold back and are holding you back in return!" she bellowed while pointing at Steven. "Because I'm not afraid of this, and you shouldn't be either!"

In response, Steven turned pink again and created another shield to launch at his opponent. "Yeah, that's more like it!" Jasper declared eagerly and prepared to defend herself, smashing the shield with just her arm. "Now tell me, was it good to let your anger out that way?"

"Y-yeah." Steven realized how good it felt to vent his rage on someone who could be a match for him, allowing Jasper to let out a loud laugh. "If I stay here, will you teach me how to control all this?"

"I won't teach you until you fight me!" Jasper refused the offer.

"Well, I won't fight you unless you teach me!" Steven replied.

"Ugh, fine!" Jasper groaned in resignation.

"Really?!" Steven smiled as he returned to his normal color.

"Here's lesson number one," Jasper responded. "No smiling."

"But I've seen you smile." Steven pointed out the goofy smile Jasper wore when he agreed to fight her not too long ago.

"Lesson two, shut up!" Jasper yelled before she kicked Steven into the air, and the boy landed far from where she could see him with a thud.

"Guess my training starts now." Steven declared to himself before he heard footsteps behind him and turned around to find who was behind him. "YOU!"

"Training with Jasper, Steven?" Black Rutile snickered disdainfully. "Wow kid, you're not just one Spinel, you're an entire circus of them!"

"What do you want with me now Black Rutile?" Steven asked his new archenemy as Black Rutile's three minions appeared behind her.

"We just came here to talk." Aquamarine answered. "As much as we would love to kidnap you and hold you for ransom, or maybe even kill you right here and now, we think hanging with a brute like her is much more fitting."

"Besides, we all know you'll just drive her away like you did to everyone else." Eyeball laughed. "Or maybe even something worse!"

"Look, what we're trying to say is that you should just give up now and get the help you really need." White Topaz cautioned Steven, unaware of how angry she made her teammates. "We only want what's best for you, so you won't get in the way of my Rutile's plan!"

"Are you seriously trying to help our enemy here?" Black Rutile growled with eyelids lowered at White Topaz. "I thought you were at my beck and call whenever I needed you!"

"If you're trying to ruin my life again, it won't work." Steven firmly declared as he got up to face the four insurgent Gems. "I know what you really are, Black Rutile. You're no hero to Homeworld, you're just a callous bully who will do anything to get her way."

"GROW UP STEVEN, GROW UP!" Black Rutile abruptly yelled at Steven's face. "Sociopath, hypocrite! Refusing to save a dying pet because of the natural order when he refuses to accept everyone is leaving him! Who's the real villain between us two, my boy, hm?"

"Still you." Steven remained resolute against the Rutile.

"You can't even begin to comprehend my current plans." Black Rutile replied just as resolutely. "Soon, everyone on this accursed rock will see you for the monster you truly are."

"Hey, where are you?!" Jasper bellowed from afar, and Black Rutile saw this as her cue to leave.

"Wouldn't want to keep a certain someone waiting." Black Rutile smirked. "But at least the three of us agree the Crystal Gems are the real problem."

"Aw, but I wanna turn Jasper against Steven too!" Eyeball complained. "Plus it would be an honor to see her in person again. The real deal, not an Amethyst shapeshifting into her."

"Oh, shut up, and let's get out of here." Aquamarine slapped her Ruby partner and dragged her away by the hand.

"Hey, no hard feelings kid?" White Topaz asked Steven, causing Black Rutile to slap her mouth shut.

"We'll see each other again Steven." Black Rutile declared. "But until then, I'll be watching you, just like I've always had since our last fight."

As the four rogue Gems left, Steven was left alone with his thoughts once more. And with those thoughts, a certain voice in his head re-emerged. "You know, she does raise a few good points."

"You again!" Steven said to the voice. "What do you want now? Are you another Gem working for Black Rutile?!"

"Well, kind of." The voice answered. "I'm not directly working for her, but it's thanks to her that I'm even speaking to you now. Remember that night while the Gems were out in Los Diego? She helped me grow."

"I thought so." Steven muttered in a moment of clarity. "But please, just leave me alone!"

"Maybe I'll just sit back and watch while you worry your so-called friends sick." The voice laughed deeply. "Don't you worry, we'll be seeing each other again very soon."

With that foreboding goodbye, the voice once again vanished from Steven's thoughts. Was it true, was that voice even haunting Steven because of what Black Rutile said to him? Or could it perhaps be even older than that?

"Are you dead or something?!" Jasper yelled for Steven. "Come back over here if you aren't, we got training to do tomorrow!"

"I'm coming!" Steven cried and raced back to Jasper's cave. As soon as he got there, Jasper threw her cloak at his face. "What was that for?"

"Think you might need this." Jasper stated while peering out from her cave. "Humans need to sleep, right?"

"Aw, you really do care for me." Steven blushed at the seemingly kind gesture, but Jasper just scoffed and retreated into the darkness of her home. Steven then just shrugged and laid down on the ground with the cloak covering him like a blanket, gazing up at the stars and wondering how the Crystal Gems must be doing.

--

The next morning, the Crystal Gems were now searching across Beach City for the missing Steven. Pearl had placed posters all over town while Greg helped Lion and Amethyst sniff around for him, but so far they found nothing that would help them.

"Whoa, easy Amethyst!" Greg yelled as he tugged on the leash of a purple-furred Dalmatian with an amethyst gemstone on her chest, which then turned into an exhausted Amethyst.

"We're getting nowhere with this!" Amethyst complained. "I mean, I learned how he could slow down time through Smoky Quartz, and even I don't have a clue!"

"I hope we find him soon, I'm getting worried." Pearl whimpered before she found Garnet walking up to them. "Anything from Little Homeworld, Garnet?"

"Nothing, Peridot and Lapis told me they didn't see Steven recently." Garnet answered. "However, Zuli said she did see a pink blur zoom past yesterday."

"That's the same one I saw with Bismuth while we were fixing the van!" Greg declared. "Could that be Steven?"

"It probably is." Pearl said before she began to break down into tears and hug Greg tightly. "I miss my baby!"

"We all do Pearl." Greg sniffed and returned the hug, followed by Garnet, Amethyst, and Lion joining in to comfort the Pearl. "We all do."

However, little did the Gems know, Steven was perfectly fine. But not the kind of fine they want him to be.

--

Far off in the woods, Steven had fallen fast asleep underneath the blanket Jasper had lent him. But his rest wouldn't last long as Jasper emerged from her cave and smashed a wall, shocking him awake.

"Rise and shine, your training begins today!" Jasper barked as she walked up to the half-Gem boy and picked him up by the neck. "Now tell me, what are you here for again?"

"Uh, to get a better control of my powers?" Steven answered.

"Not enough energy." Jasper shook her head in disdain. "Why don't we start with the only way you can talk to people?" she suggested and then cleared her throat. "So you're here because of your mother, kid? Well, whoop-de-doo!" the big Quartz began singing while circling Steven. "You still haven't realized more have suffered than just you! If you wanna get tougher kid, here's a tip. I got three little words for you: get a grip!"

"Shouldn't that apply to you too?" Steven asked his new mentor.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Jasper growled while walking towards some boulders and picked one up.

"I mean, you're stuck here because of me." Steven continued, much to Jasper's anger. "Not to mention closets full of-"

"Do you want my help or not?!" Jasper roared.

"Yes ma'am!" Steven nervously complied before Jasper threw him a boulder.

"That's better." Jasper grinned smugly as she hoisted up more boulders on her back and walked away. "Follow me."

--

"You've been through a lot brat, but let me say something about that." Jasper began singing again as Steven followed her up the mountain with boulders in hand. "As a veteran, I've seen far messier, you should've seen the Clash at the Theater."

"I don't think I've heard of that before." Steven stated while setting the boulders down nearby.

"Doesn't matter, just giving an example." Jasper replied as she dropped her boulders too. "Now come on, throw me some shields!" Steven nodded before he turned pink and summoned multiple barriers to unleash on Jasper, who managed to break through all of them. "The fusion's all high and mighty. Amethyst can be pretty flighty. And the Pearl, wow, she's nuts, you see! They all got experience, but none like mine!"

--

"Maybe when you're done, you'll be feeling just fine." The next day, Steven continued training via splitting logs in half on a stump, while Jasper demonstrated her superior strength by knocking down a tree with just a push. In the meantime, Black Rutile whispered something into Jasper's ear without her knowing the Rutile was even there.

--

"If you wanna get tougher kid, here's a tip." As night began to fall, Jasper challenged Steven to a race, her spin-dash against his pink form's speed. "I got three little words for you: get a grip! Ya hear me!"

"Yeah, those three little words are 'Get a Grip!'" Steven joined in on the song as he began catching up to Jasper.

"Now we're talking!" Jasper cheered triumphantly.

--

"No time for healing!" As the training went on to the day after that, Steven had grown slightly taller and more muscular, and even began growing a beard as he threw another barrier at Jasper. "Who needs feeling?!"

--

"You're still reeling?" Steven caught a fish in the river with a more polygonal bubble that he cooked up to eat, while Black Rutile loomed behind him with another lie to tell him. "Well, my tips are quite appealing! Let's say it again!"

--

"If you wanna get tougher kid, here's a tip." Steven and Jasper harmonized while clashing fists in a forest clearing. "I got three little words for you: get a grip!"

"Yes, for everything to go as planned, get a grip." Black Rutile muttered while watching the two train with an evil smile, eager to see how far Steven has come and how far he'll fall.

--

The next day, thunder began rumbling far from Steven, who knelt in front of a campfire with a more muscular body that made him as tall as Jasper and a wildly different hairstyle.

"I found more rocks!" Jasper called out to her student while tossing over some more rocks for him to train with. "You won't believe how hard it is to find a good rock around here, especially since we broke most of them."

"I'm done with rocks Jasper." Steven declared while getting up to face Jasper. "I'm finally ready. For our rematch." He then put out the fire behind him with one stomp, showing the other Gem how serious he was.

"Took you long enough!" Jasper cackled as she cracked her knuckles and prepared for her long-awaited round 2. "Then come on, show me what you got!"

Steven responded by creating another hexagonal shield to launch at Jasper. However, Jasper jumped over the shield and attempted to punch Steven, but suddenly, she got punched instead. As Steven let out a gasp, Jasper summoned her horned crash helmet and slammed it into Steven's head, sending him tumbling backwards into the ground.

"What are you holding back for Steven?!" Jasper yelled while the resulting smoke began to clear. "You think you can't take it, that I'm just going to coddle you the whole way through, just like the Gems?! You still want to go back to them?"

"No!" Steven coughed from the smoke.

"You still afraid to be strong?!" Jasper continued taunting her foe. "Are you dull?! ARE YOU PITIFUL?!"

"I AM NOT!" Steven bellowed out loud, causing a shockwave that knocked Jasper back, and nearly shook a certain Rutile from a tree she was hiding in as he lunged at Jasper with fury in his eyes.

"Is that all?!" Jasper cackled arrogantly, forcing Steven to create more barriers to strike at her with, which finally landed a hit on Jasper and slammed her into a tree. "That's more like it!"

Steven let out a sadistic giggle before he lunged again, far faster than normal as he started repeatedly punching Jasper while the two soared through the forest and into the air.

"Come on, come on!" Jasper beckoned Steven as their brawl took to the skies. "Show your master what you can really do!"

Steven's maniacal laughter grew louder and louder with each punch before kicking Jasper to the ground. "You were right Jasper!" he declared while summoning more shields to trap Jasper with before forming an even larger one in front of him. "I HAVE BEEN HOLDING BACK!"

With a murderous smile and white diamonds in his eyes, Steven made his barrier grow razor-sharp spikes before launching it at his captive opponent. And for the first time in what felt like ages, as the spiked shield rocketed towards her, Jasper felt one emotion that she barely showed to anyone else.

Pure, unadulterated terror.

What had she done?

--

The cloudy skies gave way to a loud thunderstorm as Black Rutile climbed up to the top of another tree to watch the outcome of the fight, and she was more than happy with what she was seeing.

"Bravo Steven, I never knew you had it in you!" Black Rutile clapped loud enough for Steven to hear as he returned to his senses to realize what he had just done. "If I hadn't planned for that, she would've made a great bodyguard!"

With tears and raindrops staining his face, Steven hid whatever he was hiding in his balled-up fist while glaring at Black Rutile before he raced back to Jasper's cave. When Black Rutile decided to climb down the tree, she was greeted by the nervous look on her Topaz's face. "So, who were you betting on to win?"

"I was betting on Steven to curb his problems more healthily, and you just kept stringing him along!" White Topaz accused her superior, but her accusations were shut down by a bowie knife pointed straight at her face. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! Would a shadow puppet make you feel better?!"

"No need." Black Rutile frowned, hiding behind the tree to watch as Steven, now wearing his jacket again, hid his fist in one of the pockets while running out of the woods. "Nothing makes me happier than seeing him squirm."

"Oh yeah, it's funny how pathetic he is." White Topaz laughed nervously in agreement. "Come on, let's head back to the cave. Don't wanna get wet."

"Indeed," Black Rutile agreed and strolled back to their lair with her arms behind her back. "wouldn't want anyone knowing what we did to him."

--

"I sent so many messages, but he hasn't replied!" Pearl fretted while pacing around the beach house as the storm continued. "Do you think he even had his phone when he ran away?! What if something horrible happened and it's all our fault because he wanted to stay away from us?! What if-" Pearl's panicking soon turned to hyperventilating as she curled up into a ball on the floor and began rocking back and forth when Amethyst stepped in to calm her down.

"Pearl, chill out!" Amethyst literally shook Pearl out of her traumatized state and picked her up off the floor. "Panting and sweating over everything won't bring Steven back! It's not like he's going to just barge in as soon as I finish talking!"

Just then, Steven finally returned home, much to the Crystal Gems' delight and worry. However, he had no time to tell them where he's been as he gunned for the bathroom.

"Steven, where have you been?!" Pearl cried out in fright for her surrogate son.

"No time to talk!" Steven exclaimed before ducking into the bathroom.

"Seriously man, we've been looking everywhere!" Amethyst added just as the door closed in front of her. "Hey, what was that in your hand?"

"Nothing important!" Steven replied, peeking out the door one last time before going back.

"The way he said that makes me get a bad feeling about this." Garnet declared ominously.

--

'This has been a horrible day.' Steven thought to himself while filling up the bathtub and snatching the three Diamond essence bottles from the mirror, taking a moment to find a dark shadow in the exact shape of his muscular self from earlier standing behind his reflection.

"I never knew you had it in you either." The shadow growled before Steven turned to dump all the Diamonds' essences in the bathwater and pulled his fist out of his pocket, unfolding it to reveal Jasper's shattered remains in his palms.

"Please work, you gotta work!" Steven muttered in total panic while piecing Jasper's broken gemstone the best he could and submerging it in the water. "Please Jasper, I'm sorry!" he began sobbing for the deceased Gem, his hot tears streaking against his face and dropping into the water.

"I'm sorry."

END OF PART 3: FRAGMENTED MIND

TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 4: WE WILL ALWAYS BE YOUR FAMILY

--

Wow. Great googly moogly, it's all gone to shit, just the kind of shit that Black Rutile likes. Is Jasper truly gone? Okay, definitely not since next chapter after the break will be Homeworld Bound. Has Black Rutile won? Maybe. Will the voice in Steven's head take the wheel? Who knows? Find out on the epic final part of Steven Universe: Alternate Future, to perhaps begin after the usual two-month hiatus. Or maybe I should go for a shorter hiatus this time. Or maybe longer? What do you guys think? I mean, by the time I publish this, I'll be getting ready for sophomore year of college so my time will most definitely be filled up. But regardless, there are now only eight chapters left of laughs, tears and adrenaline rush, so don't even try to miss the next arc! Okay, peace!

[autistic-singer515]

Pinky and the Brain’s argument and the Brain’s capture.

Here’s another scene I want in Animaniacs season 2 or 3. That’s when Pinky and the Brain argued about Julia and then about their feelings and then Julia captured Brain to tie and gag him up and then try to drown him.

Transcript:

The Brain opened the window to try to escape Julia’s tree house with Pinky. Snow bursted out of the window inside the house.

The Brain: “Come on, Pinky! Let’s get back to the lab! We have to get out of here before Julia sees us!”

But the Brain noticed that Pinky just stood there. Looking worried. He wondered what was going on with him.

Why was he standing there?

Pinky: “But Brain, what about Julia? You promised you would help her! A promise is a promise is a promise! Remember?”

The Brain couldn’t believe what Pinky was saying.

Why does he still have feelings for an abusing jerk like Julia?

The Brain thought Pinky would change his views on Julia after she abused him badly.

The Brain slammed the window shut in frustration.

The Brain: “Pinky, she abused you! She’s pure evil! You’re bruised and you’re bleeding! She captured you to try to lure me in! To kill me! Heck! Even kill you too! Sometimes promises aren’t meant to keep! This is Stockholm syndrome! Are you more insane?! You can’t trust her! Why would you trust someone so evil and untrustworthy?!”

Pinky’s anger flared at the Brain’s hypocrisy.

Pinky: “But you abused me too! You started this whole mess! Doesn’t that make you evil too, Brain? Julia’s hurt and sad!”

The Brain’s anger grew larger and he growled.

How could Pinky say things like that to him?

Does he want him to get killed by Julia so badly after finding out what he did to her?

Now the Brain realized that Pinky wasn’t a simple simpleton. He’s stupid for trusting abusive jerks like Julia. He would have believed Julia’s phony pleas. He doesn’t even understand his desire for world conquest. He was just pretending to do so to make him feel helpless by making him fail on purpose and then betray him after that. He doesn’t even care about him.

That traitor!......

“He’s never even confessed his love for me either!....” thought the Brain, feeling betrayed.

The Brain: “Well if Julia is more important than me.... Then stay here! Stay with your old girlfriend!”

The Brain turned his back on Pinky sadly and angrily. He remembered what his future self had told him about Pinky being a traitor at every turn. He failed at world domination because of him. He should’ve known better not to trust anyone. He would eventually get hurt and betrayed because of this. The scientists, Snowball, Julia and now Pinky.

The Brain: “I don’t really need you anyway! You’re too stupid! You’re just here to ruin my plans and then betray me! Do you really hate me? Maybe my future self was right! You are just using me!”

Pinky’s eyes filled with tears.

How could Brain say such a thing?

Pinky thought the Brain was more trusting of him than that.

Pinky: “Brain, it’s not true! I may not be as smart as you.... But I know that you have been a lot meaner lately! Anger is all you’re feeling!”

Pinky’s heart hurts while saying that.

Pinky: “You’re hiding your true feelings for me! It’s making you worse!”

Pinky sobbed his heart out very noisily. Tears spilled out of his blue eyes like a little fountain.

Where was the kinder Brain he knew and loved?

Pinky could tell that the Brain isn’t okay. He just knew it.

How Pinky wished he knew how to fix the Brain’s broken heart even if he’s not that smart.

The Brain’s eyes widened at the realization that Pinky was right. He was holding back his feelings for Pinky. He watched his friends tears dropping on the floor one by one. Deep down, the Brain regretted saying those mean things to Pinky. He didn’t really mean it. He was conditioned into thinking that his friend would betray him like teaming up with Julia. Then the Brain realized that every time he blocked himself, his behaviour grew worse and worse for 2 decades. Why can’t he show enough love?!

Could Pinky be telling the truth?

Pinky was so tired of the Brain hiding his true feelings. He was tired of being abused and neglected because of it. He was tired of letting the Brain getting away with his behaviour for so long that he felt good telling him off.

Pinky: “Your little game of pretend is really getting old fast!”

But the Brain knew not to get over sentimental. Pinky must be setting him up. He just knew it! He remembered that terrible feeling of helplessness and hurt from long ago. He just couldn’t go through that again. His change of behaviour must mean he grew smarter. Pinky must have gone stupider! He doesn’t even know which way was left and right even if his life depended on it. ‘Pinky must be toying with my emotions to lure me to Julia! thought the Brain. Like a helpless fish! My emotions are the bait!”

The Brain: “Pinky, what do you know about my feelings? What do you know about love?”

Pinky: “A lot more than you’ll ever know! The one who doesn’t understand love is you! I know you’re here to save me! Not because of food pellets! It’s because you have feelings for me! I just want to fix your broken soul just like you fixed my toy!”

Pinky looked at the Brain’s stoic expression. He’s still concealing his feelings. Could Julia be right about him all along? Maybe the Brain doesn’t love him. Maybe he was pretending to be nice to him just so he could use him for world domination until he has no use of him anymore. Maybe he was here for the food pellets. Or could Julia be wrong? So Pinky decided to ask him this.

Pinky: “Or do you even love me to begin with? Do you hate me, Brain? Are you just using me? Did you really meant to hurt people? Like Julia said?”

Pinky turned his back on the Brain tearfully. He was feeling doubtful he would answer something he wanted to hear. He knew he was too stubborn. Maybe it would be best that they weren’t friends after all. But at the same time, he couldn’t leave the Brain alone, angry and possibly sad. But he knew he was doing the right thing.

The Brain’s eyes widened again after he saw Pinky’s seemingly truthful and tearful eyes.

How could Pinky ask him this?

The Brain was so confused. He didn’t know what to do. He was still as a statue. He knew that saying I tolerate you wouldn’t be enough to get Pinky back. It’s either saying I love you and then help Julia or saying I hate you and not help Julia and let his friend stay with her and then hurt more peoples feelings.

The Brain’s heart started to pound intensely. His hand shook. He sweated profusely. He gulped nervously. He was speechless. He didn’t know how to answer Pinky. He didn’t want to be alone and let Pinky suffer alone with Julia. He never meant to hurt people. But at the same time, he still didn’t want to feel helpless and weak if he told Pinky his true feelings. That could lead to betrayal and hurt. But at the same time, he had to try to confess as he saw love and concern for him in Pinky’s eyes.

The pain from concealing his emotions and from loneliness was starting to get more intense for the Brain that he couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“I must try....” thought the Brain desperately.

The Brain: “Pinky.... I.... I....

Pinky turned to his friend and noticed that his eyes were very confused and anxious but loving and concerning for him. He was struggling to confess to him. But it was still difficult for him. He’s trying to overcome his trauma. Pinky’s eyes widened and gasped in his mind.

“Brain’s eyes is still telling me that he loves me!” thought Pinky. “That same concerned expression he once showed me is really coming back!”

Then Pinky saw a shadow lurking behind the Brain.

Julia!

The Brain: “I.... well you see, Pinky..... I....”

Pinky gasped fearfully.

Pinky: “Brain, look out!”

The Brain wondered what his friend was yelling about. Then he felt someone’s breath in his ear. He turned and realized too late that Julia was too close behind him. She had a cloth on her hand. She was chuckling. She placed the cloth to his mouth and nose.

The Brain: “ He-!”

Julia: “Time for your little nap, monster! You won’t escape me! Neither of you will.... I refuse to let you hurt Pinky again!”

The Brain’s mind became fuzzy and lightheaded. His eyes began to swirl. Everything was spinning around him. He smiled idiotically.

Julia: “Just as I thought..... Brain doesn’t love you, Pinky! He’s using you like you are his mindless slave!”

Pinky realized that Julia saw him and Brain arguing with her camera tv.

How could he forget that?

The Brain moved around as if he was drunk and then collapsed on the floor heavily.

Pinky rushed to the dizzy and tired Brain’s side. He shook him desperately to snap him out of his trance.

Pinky: “Brain! Don’t fall asleep right now! Julia’s after you!”

The woozy Brain moaned and groaned as he continued to see everything spinning around him, including Pinky and Julia.

Julia: “Too late, Pinky! He’s mine now! He won’t harm you, use you or hate you anymore! We’ll take over the world together! Together without Brain!”

Pinky continued shaking the Brain desperately.

Pinky: “Brain! Brain! Brain! Brain! This is no time for nappy wappy’s! Brain! Brain!”

Julia grabbed the rope from the hook on the wall. She slowly walked towards the Brain with a nasty and scary smile. Her defective chip on her left ear electricuted her mind. But she ignored the pain. She was too pleased at finally getting even with the Brain. She looked at Pinky reassuringly.

Julia: “We can get rid of all the bad people and animals and toons in the world! Only the good survives! After that, we’ll make the world a better place for all!”

Then she looked down at the dizzy Brain. He was on the verge of sleeping.

Julia: “As for you, Brain, you tyrant! You will drown in your own sorrows just like I did in mine! But literally! Very literally!

The Brain couldn’t make out what everyone was saying about him. Their words were too jumbled. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Julia laughed evilly. Pinky continued shaking the Brain to try to wake him up.

[thesquireinvictus]

The Deserted Village BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed, Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove! These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please; These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed, These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to oppulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; These, far departing seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and God has given my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to shew my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening groupe to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns, in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from the gate, But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was layed, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain transitory splendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes. But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped—What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts?���Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others woe. But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose; And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excell, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and O where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether were equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

[the-madame21]

In the Heart of the Storm

Sooooo I wanted to do some raunchy little Karlheinz smut but it ended up into this dark angsty oneshot instead lol. Also I guess I have a new DL OC woops XD Meet Ananke Krone, the original First Blood Demon. She can see the future and manipulate time, and she’s stronger than Karlheinz. I guess the vibe I was going for here was star-crossed lovers lol. Enjoy!

Karlheinz threw open the door, shocked to find nothing in her room. The balcony doors had been left open, the curtains rolling in the gentle breeze of the rising sun. He stepped towards it, glancing over at the large bed that seemed untouched, reaching out to bring the curtains towards his nose.

It still smelled like her. And this balcony still looked over the rolling mountains, and the sun still shone through the leftmost corner.

“I knew you’d come, today.”

He let the curtain slip from between his fingers, Karlheinz turning to meet a golden gaze framed by silver locks. Like a grey sky caught alive by lightning. How long had it been, since he’d heard that siren’s song of a voice?

“I assumed you would,” he returned, fingering the curtains again. “No storm for me?”

“You’ve yet to excite me,” she declared.

Karlheinz smiled, stepping up to her. “Is that a new dress?” He took it between his fingers, the fabric thin against his palm.

“About two centuries old. You’d know if you came more often.”

“You know precisely why I can’t,” he whispered, placing his hand over her slim stomach. She inhaled, straightening, her eyes finally meeting his own. A shadow fell over the room, and Karlheinz knew the sun had slipped between the clouds. She gripped at his wrist, finally releasing her breath, “Don’t speak of such taboos—”

“But the thought excites you, doesn’t it? Bearing a child that would destroy everything,” he dropped his lips to her ear, “until there’s nothing left in this world but us.”

“It’d destroy us as well,” she replied coldly, her eyes starting to glow.

Karlheinz had always quite liked the way those golden eyes glowed. “Ah,” he smiled, brushing his knuckles against her cheek, “are you seeing it now?”

She blinked rapidly, a faint smile spreading along her lips. “Destruction. And agony. A future without an ounce of hope.”

“So beautifully depressing,” he murmured, breath fanning over her red lips. “There’s nothing beautiful in it,” she returned, sucking in his breath and batting her lashes once more.

“There’s beauty in you,”  he said, and finally, he kissed her. A soft press of his lips to hers. “Naturally, there’d be beauty in that child. Even if they do bring an end to it all.”

“Two centuries we’re kept apart,” she scoffed, voice small and eyes shining with tears, the sky grower darker and darker, “and you come to me with talk of the end, and nothing more than a chaste kiss to my parched lips?”

“Is that not enough to please you, my love?”

Lightning flashed, and Karlheinz counted the almost comical length of time before the thunder finally rolled. “Not in the least,” her lips trembled.

“Then command me,” he breathed, wrapping one arm around her waist, his other hand bringing her palm up to his lips. “For I am, and always will be, your humble servant.”

“How many women have you coaxed with such sweet words?”

“How many men have you entranced with those bewitching eyes?”

Gold flashed again, a soft drizzle beginning to patter on the balcony behind them. She smiled, “Two centuries is a long time, Karlheinz.”

He cupped her face, “Far too long.” This kiss was not nearly as humble as the last, thunder rolling one more time as the rain got stronger. He lifted her easily, as though she weighed nothing, and Karlheinz reveled in the way she gasped into his mouth, her delicately cold fingers stretched out across his cheeks.

Carrying her to the bed, and then draping her carefully across it, he drank in the sight of her, let the sound of rain drown out any other thoughts that weren’t her. “Karlheinz,” she purred, not quite panting, but her chest rising and falling just the same, the fabric tight against her skin.

“Yes, my love?”  Already, he was lowering his lips to her chest, peppering kisses over the soft mounds of her breasts.

“I like this dress,” she fingered through his hair, long nails titillating his scalp. He licked along her collarbone, nibbling without piercing the skin.

“And yet you wore it, today.”

“I wanted you to see it.”

Again, he kissed the tops of her breasts, before pulling away, so that he might gaze upon her. “It looks lovely on you, my dear.”

“Do you mean it?”

He kissed her, tongue rolling over her lips, silently asking for permission to bite. “To you, I’ve never lied.”

Her hands were on his cheeks again, sharp nails poking at his skin, “Because you can’t.”

Sliding his hands down her waist he chuckled, rising over the bumps of her curves to squeeze at her thighs. “Might I ruin this dress of yours?”

“Two centuries I’ve waited for you to see it, and now you’ll ruin it with nothing more than a tired glance.”

He entwined his fingers with hers, bringing them up to kiss, and to tug at her skin with his fangs, “Patience has never been my virtue.”

“Have you anything you can call a virtue? Lord Karlheinz Sakamaki, Demon Tyrant of the Underworld?”

He stared into her eyes, feeling the sting of her words and the truth that they held, the ever present truth that she held, because she was truth, and lie, and virtue and vice, and everything that fell in between.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’m looking at her.”

The sky darkened, and the rain stopped. Because she wept instead.

“To be so beautiful when you cry,” Karlheinz smiled, wiping her tears, “you should have been born an angel.”

“What difference is there between angels and demons,” she scoffed, blinking them away. “You should have been born a mortal.”

“You’d curse me with such a fate?”

“I’d bless myself with that fate. Having to watch you destroy everything I’ve built—”

“You know I must. You know more than anyone—”

“Do not attempt to tell me what I do and do not know. Since we last parted—”

“Scold me as you wish, my love, but do not deny me what we’ve both waited so long for.”

Golden eyes sharpened, the rain hard and sudden outside as she lifted her hands to his face, her eyes practically flashing as she spoke, “Come.”

Karlheinz lowered himself on top of her once more, so that she could kiss him, and drink from his lips.

Her bite would always, and forever be, the only thing sharp enough to provide him with pain.

She drank, and she kissed, and she folded her legs over his, the fabric of her dress tangling with his robes. When she’d had her fill, she pulled away with a satisfied sigh, and the rain outside began to pour.

“As decadent as ever.”

“My love,” Karlheinz squeezed at her sides, dragging his hands back up to her breasts, “might I indulge—”

“Karlheinz,” she placed her hand over his, pressing down against her chest, “Enough. You’ve my permission.”

He tore at the front of her dress, ripping it all the way down to her belly button, finally able to suck on her supple breasts, biting down with aching fangs. She laughed, and lightning struck, Karlheinz counting, one, two, three, four beats before the thunder hit—biting again, and again the lightning flashed, one, two, three beats—and he tore what was left of the dress, spreading her legs and tearing at the front of his own robes.

“I’ve missed you—“

Thunder shook the room and she silenced him with her mouth, digging her nails into the back of his neck as she pulled him in, gasping as he rubbed against her, skin sliding over skin and lips falling prey to desperate fangs.

“Give me all of you,” she bid, sliding her hands over his shoulders, helping him discard what was left of their disheveled clothing.

“As you wish, my love,” Karlheinz groaned, rubbing himself against her, gasping into her mouth and feeling himself start to drown, “as you wish.”

With a bite to her neck he entered her, and she screamed, lightning and thunder clapping all around them, the rain pouring so hard he wondered if these old castle walls would be enough to withstand it.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d be enough to withstand her.

To have such heat from skin so cold—he’d never understood it—would never understand, the rain pounding in his ears and the pleasure swimming in his stomach.

Two hundred years, and not a thing had changed. She was eternal.

With measured softness he bit into her neck again, watching the blood drip down her pale skin, staining it red.

Again, she laughed.

She’d always loved his bites. Because he was the only one brave enough to do so. Because they stung in the most delicious way, and because her blood now ran through his veins.

Her darling beloved.

“Karlheinz,” she called, entrapping him in another kiss, taking blood from his tongue, licking it tenderly in soft apology, “call my name.”

“Ananke,” she swallowed his words, tightening her legs around him as he spoke. “Ananke,” he repeated, slowly falling prisoner to a strong, golden gaze.

…

He’d always loved the way those eyes glazed over, shining from the remnants of their pleasure.

“You need to stop this, Karlheinz.”

The rain continued outside, soft and lulling, like a hushed melody only they could hear.

“It’s the only way,” he replied, gently, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

Her eyes flashed, and they were no longer in her room, his robes on as usual, a simple dress covering her own form. He smiled, “Where are we?”

She sat up, slowly, as though the room itself were unfamiliar to her, heading towards the window to look down below. “The moment that child is born, you won’t ever see me again.”

He followed her, hugging her from behind, so that he, too, could gaze down into what looked to be a garden. “We’ve eons before that occurs.”

“An eon is not as long as you’d like it to be.”

From down beneath them, a young girl emerged, blonde and beautiful, stumbling over herself while she tended to the roses. “Ah,” Karlheinz exhaled, “that’s her.”

“There are other ways, Karlheinz,” Ananke whispered, and he tightened his hold on her hands. “You and I both know there isn’t.”

“You’ll die,” she said, with the knowledge of one who knew.

“That is my fate,” he kissed her cheek.

“Then what is mine?”

“To ensure I die at the precise moment.”

She scoffed, looking down at the garden before she waved her hand, dispelling the enchantment, the room once again her own.

The rain outside continued.

“With her blood, your sons will be strong enough to kill you.”

“Which one, however, has yet to be decided.”

“It is up to that girl to decide. Whichever son is chosen, it won’t matter. The result is still the same.”

“My death,” Karlheinz affirmed, “and the salvation of everything you’ve created.”

“Everything I’ve created…” she repeated, the rain starting to pour, her palm falling over her stomach.

“Ananke,” he took her wrists, kissing the top of her head. “If you wish for it…”

She laughed, and lightning flashed, the First Blood shaking her head. “The destruction of everything for one, selfish wish…” she pushed him away, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “Go,” she instructed. “Your wives are waiting.”

This time, it was Karlheinz who chuckled, “I’ve at least another seven centuries before I meet them—”

“And it’ll be at least ten more before it’s safe for us to meet again,” she kissed his cheek. “Go.”

“Won’t you clear the skies for my journey home?” he cupped her face, stealing another kiss.

She shook her head, “This is your punishment.”

“Then I’ll graciously accept it.”

“Karlheinz,” she exhaled, placing her hand over his, kissing the bottom of his palm, “I’ll have a new dress, next you see me. Please look forward to it.”

“My love,” he smiled, pressing their heads together, “there will be nothing else I wait for.”

[everypoemanepitaph]

Ashen Stories

for Eliot and Whitman

I.  I want to write of beauty

an amber-tipped oak leaf

twirling in an autumn wind

the slant of August sunlight

warming half-puffed dandelions

the slow subtle process

of another’s hand

filling the emptiness of yours

the soft and pillowed silence

of a city street

blanketed in snow

but none of that is lovely

until the snow melts

and the leaves crumble, fall, decay

and the lovers leave

and the sunlight fades away

and in the darkness

the dandelion surrenders

its last seeds

to a child’s breath

and in the endings, oh, there’s beauty.

––––––––––

II.  For our last trick

we will make ourselves disappear

into the swamps and deserts

we designed by hand

as graveyards

for our grandchildren.

As the seas swell, spill over coastlines,

as the smog suffocates

and the heat smothers,

we drink from paper straws

and sign online petitions

and send our thoughts and prayers

to the starving polar bears

slumped weakly on the shrinking ice

while CEOs burn forests.

We do what we can,

we tell ourselves

(and know that’s fiction).

It’s exhausting,

lifting grain after grain of sand

back into the hourglass

that men behind desks around the world

cracked when we weren’t looking.

The earth must ache

for quiet,

for the pounding thunder of our feet

to fade

to silence.

Soon, we say.

Soon, and it is sad

and furious and fevered

and, underneath, resigned.

We are convicted killers

and the chemicals are coming,

sodium thiopental

pancuronium bromide

potassium chloride

gliding toward us in plastic tubes

to blend with our infectious blood

and we have waited so, so long

for what we’ve earned

that the slowing of our hearts

and the cooling

of our veins

will feel

more natural

than one

more

breath.

––––––––––

III.  There’s beauty in the endings,

the Prince’s glooming peace,

the tyrant’s severed head, the coronation,

when the Chorus falls silent

just before the applause,

in the exhale,

the falling of curtain and lifting of hands.

There will be beauty

in the wasteland we’re creating,

in the boiling seas of bottles and brimstone

in the radiation sickness

in the bullets and the bombs

in the sallow, slipping skin, the sores,

the sunken cheeks and starving eyes

that fall, flatten, become food,

there is beauty:

unseen by any of us, yes, but

sung of by the spirits

that will inherit this world

when it can no longer sustain

the cancerous burden of us.

––––––––––

IV.  Spirits slip silversoft over sand dunes,

dancing into deadeyed cities,

draping themselves over

dried-up riverbeds

rotten with sun-bleached fish bones.

Without keys,

they let themselves in

to the banks

and the bunkers

and the museums

(touch the braille brushstrokes,

chill the ancient marbles)

and the libraries

(speak the antique stories,

stroke the dusty spines)

and everything we guarded

is theirs, now,

and all that we created –

hoping for truth, for connection,

for meaningful epitaphs,

for immortality –

has become their playground.

They slide silently down monuments

skip blindly over narratives

swing from soundless speakers

in cavernous concert halls

and have no memory of us.

––––––––––

V.  A child said What is the grass? pointing to

a picture in a book;

How could I answer the child?  I had not seen a blade in years.

I guess it must be rotten now, above the bunker.

Or I guess it is breakfast, lunch, and dinner

for the desperate animals

who drag their heat-blistered bodies

across the charred surface of our earth.

Or I guess it is a subtle poison,

radioactive roots under mutated leaves

sickening all creatures that eat it.

Or I guess it is the undertaker’s fingers,

soothing the cheeks of the dead,

brushing their hair, closing their eyes

as they rest where they fell

in fields and parks and backyards

they thought they owned.

And now it seems to me the first tentative brushstroke

on an ancient, sanded, reused canvas.

––––––––––

VI.  Our deafness is not new.

Tiresias gave Creon a choice –

a sign from the gods,

two birds tearing each other apart

ripping feathers and flesh

until both lay dead in piles of wreckage,

You should be able to yield for your own good,

bury the dead, exhume the living –

and Creon called him a false prophet

and then watched his world fall to ruin

in his hesitant hands.

We know the clock is ticking.

We stand on Thebes,

on Carthage and Pompeii,

on Babylonia,

fit our feet

into the footprints of emperors,

dust off ruins, piece together pottery,

reconstruct and translate

the stories of the ancient dead

and read them to our children

(watch your wax wings)

but we are human.

We will mourn a car crash victim,

leave the cemetery, start the car,

and speed away without a seatbelt on.

(the sun feels so good

on pale, thin, human skin)

At this rate

we will leave no one behind

to salvage our wrecked cities,

breathe life back into the stories of us.

We must tell them to each other now.

We cannot wait for time to give them value.

Tell everyone you meet

the story of the warming oceans

and the melting ice sheets

and the disappearing bees

and the 100-degree days in Paris

and the rising of the acid seas

and the falling of the flooding rains.

Tell them how we stoked the fires

of hatred for the other, any other,

until every finger rested on a trigger.

Tell them how the Amazon is burning;

tell them how we struck the match

and charred the planet’s lungs.

Tell them all is not yet lost.

Tell them to walk into the forest,

to press their young, fleshy fingertips

to 100-year-old rough and living bark.

Tell them to imagine setting it on fire

as an offering, laying the burnt body

on the altar of greed.

Tell them our stories are important

but the ones held by the trees

deep inside their rings

are the ones we must protect.

We cannot accept our status as antagonist,

our inevitable, earned destruction

at the climax of this narrative

if it means losing the forests

and all that lives in trees.

The time has come for revision.

There is beauty in the endings

because of the space they leave behind

for green beginnings.

Under the glassy gaze of the tyrant’s head,

Scotland crowned a healing king.

Melting snow nourishes hyacinth bulbs,

whispering the start of Spring.

But nothing can come after

the ending we are writing now.

Now is the time for atonement,

for us to earn our right

to stay alive

on this bright planet.

Rip the poisoned tubes from your bare arms.

(You put them there;

no one will stop you.)

We may deserve an ending

but the animals

the children

these flowers and this earth

do not.

We have had our fill of endings.

Now is the time to begin,

to teach our children

(remind ourselves)

to say “thank you” when we step

on bowing blades of glass,

to reach for each other’s hands,

to wish on dandelions

with worshipful breaths,

to watch in awe

when the last seed of this summer

is caught and carried gently

to the neighbor’s verdant yard

to lie dormant under winter’s blanket.

It will come to life,

a golden explosion,

some sunny day next summer

if we can bring the birds to peace with words,

revise away the ruin,

tell each other truer tales

of humans who heard warnings

and listened

and stopped writing themselves into waste lands.

Note: Section V is patterned after Section 6

          of Whitman’s Song of Myself.

[warsofasoiaf]

We're tomorrow I believe, so I shall repeat the question, as requested : what are your thoughts on Graven Ashe, the Great General of the Disfavored in Obsidian Entertainment and Paradox's Tyranny?

Graven Ashe is a well-done villain, but the writing of him as a general suffers a bit. In some ways this is a good thing, a flawed general whose flaws logically derive from the character makes sense, and some of those flaws are a natural part of Graven Ashe’s character progression from capable rebel general to where we see him at the start of the Tiers campaign, as well as an exploration of the setting of Terratus. Under a cut because spoilers.

Ashe as a rebel general is every bit the heroic mythos of a rebel commander. Outnumbered by Kyros’s hordes, unwilling to surrender, Ashe took to the mountains, where he fought an impressive campaign. The rough mountain terrain reduces the force multiplier of large numbers by preventing those numbers from being deployed effectively, reducing or eliminating the ability for flank attacks in warfare techinques that are as ancient as they are timeless. Similarly, Ashe using terrain that he and his forces knew by heart gave them a tremendous tactical advantage, local knowledge has been one way that insurgency forces from Persian rebels to modern jihadists have attacked numerically and technologically superior foes. Ashe used pragmatic tactics shaped by natural talent and cunning (he was illiterate before his magical awakening) and his campaign is really nothing short of brilliant from what little we understand of it. Ashe is capable of adapting quickly to the various magics that the Archons arrayed against him. When the Archon of Entropy used magic to destroy Ashe’s weapons and armor, his forces used wooden weapons and other natural tools to continue the fight. When the Archon of Sorrow tried to break the morale of Ashe’s troops, they countered using Northern honor songs and other methods of espirit de corps to maintain unit cohesion. 

These victories awakened Ashe’s own unique exarch powers: his troops fought harder, stayed on the march longer, and fought with a unity of purpose that made them, pound for pound, one of the greatest fighting forces of that era. Ashe credited his legion and his legion credited Ashe, and in the world of Tyranny, that collective belief becomes a magical force. First Ashe simply shoulders the doubts of his men, and they fight harder knowing they can believe in their general. This belief strengthened his soldiers to the point where they began to fight past the point of other types of failure, including physical. This feedback loop gave Ashe the ability to shoulder the burdens of his troops from battle fatigue to actual chest wounds, sustaining his campaign far longer than any thought possible and certainly longer than any other had resisted the armies of Kyros. Ashe’s magic is a compassionate one, his regard for his men allows them to fight. 

Ultimately though, the resources that Kyros could provide outweighed even Ashe’s dogged resistance, an often overlooked facet of warfare is that the ability to sustain a campaign often can be a bigger determinant than battlefield victory, despite the allure of the latter over the former as discussed in Cathal Nolan’s The Allure of Battle. Ashe was able to delay every action that Blood Ruin, then the Archon of War, could muster, even defeating him in combat and slaying him, taking the mantle for his own. Every loss that Ashe’s army took couldn’t be replaced, and even a legion magically protected by an Archon’s power became too much. Ashe could nearly obliterate the Scarlet Chorus, but even he ended up in chains, and there Ashe elected to serve Kyros over the deaths of he and his legion. Kyros took the Northern pride by co-opting the legion and removing their name, marking them as the Disfavored and sending them into the field to win the favor of their cruel Overlord.

Here we see Ashe start to be corrupted from his heroic ideal to a dark mirror. Ashe’s regard for his troops meant that he was unwilling to sacrifice them to prove a point. This in itself is a reflection of his pragmatism that he emphasized from the early days fighting in the mountains, but other aspects of himself darkened as he became the next new tool for Kyros. Regard for his men and a love of their culture through their songs which shepherded them through magical sorrow grew the foul fruit of outright bigotry and supremacism, Ashe and the Disfavored are unapologetic in their assertion that their superior breeding, training, and culture make them inherently elite in every conceivable sense, and they relish taking to the field to ‘prove’ that supremacy against all those who would oppose them. Kyros, throughout the game, routinely disregards the Disfavored despite their elite self-conception. When the Disfavored do not conquer the Unbroken quickly enough, the Edict of Storms is dropped upon them for their inability to subject Stalwart quickly enough to suit the whims of the Overlord. When the bickering of the Voices of Nerat and Graven Ashe hamper putting down the Apex rebellion, Kyros drops the Edict of Swords on the entire valley, killing them all. Ashe’s magics are compassionate but that compassion is used in an engine of great cruelty. 

Ashe in the game, however, is far from the great general that he was in his origin story. Equipped with the rings that the Empire can provide, with a cabal of Earthshaker mages at his back, and the strength of his Aegis only mightier, Graven Ashe might be completely unstoppable, but he isn’t. The Vendrian Guard outfight him much the same way he outfought Blood Ruin. Part of it is the disunity between the Scarlet Chorus and the Disfavored, and the Voices of Nerat is actively hostile, aiding the enemy to hamper the Disfavored and devouring Ashe’s son to discover a weakness is unquestionably going to hamper their effectiveness, but Ashe himself acts in bad faith for the coalition, refusing to work with Chorus. After the Tiers would be subdued, Ashe would no longer have any wars to fight, mere rebellions at best, and the Disfavored would never have the chance to earn back their legion insignia and moniker. 

Sometimes the mistakes made are simply too much, too impractical to make much sense from an outside perspective. Starving Azure, sending Cairne to Edgering, all of it is Ashe serving himself, and through that believing he serves Kyros. That too, is part of the themes of the game. Kyros’s lieutenants have such differing visions that they are drawn to, increasingly, open hostility over their differences of what Kyros’s will and Kyros’s Peace mean.At times, Ashe picks tactics with nothing short of Odysseus-level hubris rather than pragmatism, the self-regard of his legion dulls the tactical mind he used to have at a razor’s edge him to deploy suboptimally, such as his inability to take Duskwatch. He listens to his councilors, but even so at times he makes poor decisions. Even his compassion for his men becomes secondary to his desire to prove himself victorious, he marches on Sentinel Stand even though the Edict of Storms was imminent. If this was Ashe simply changing, trading regard for his men for obedience to Kyros, this would be one thing, but that isn’t backed by the game’s internal logic. Ashe disobeys Kyros regularly for personal gain, sending scouts into the forbidden Oldwalls, making unsanctioned peace deals to secure his son in a transfer, and so on. Similarly, the player character becomes an Archon over the course of the game but never becomes slavish to Kyros’s will, even raising a flag in rebellion if that’s what the player wants to do. 

Perhaps some of it is a natural reaction to the story of Ashe’s myth over time. One of the central themes of magic in the world of Tyranny is that legends grow over time, the Edicts being a prime example as illustrated by Lantry. Ashe’s own victories over Kyros might have been exaggerated just as his Aegis was. His origin story is romantic, the real Ashe may have made his own set of mistakes, but Blood Ruin still had to die and the other Archons still had to expend a lot of effort; those may have been exaggerated so those events still had to happen. 

Muddling things somewhat is the nature of the medium. Video games require the protagonist to be capable in a fashion that NPC’s cannot be, in order to give the player something to do. It’s not simply a power fantasy of being the only competent person surrounded by fools, even if plenty of games default to this as a means of easy (read: lazy) writing, it’s a reality of the medium. Ashe must be incapable of some things otherwise the player has no reason to be there. Giving the protagonist room in the story is not a mistake, but I think I would have liked to see more tactical brilliance shown instead to told. Perhaps part of that is the limitations of the isometric storytelling grid. That setup is better suited to telling the actions and exploits of a single hero or party of heroes instead of a full army. The Conquest mechanic is another one it must emphasize Ashe’s mistakes in order to allow the player to favor or oppose him in chargen.

It’s the campaign in Azure that ends up clinching it for Ashe. Ashe wants to use blight Azure, the breadbasket of the Tiers, to starve out the survivors and the Scarlet Chorus both. From a military perspective, it’s exacerbates the occupation of the Tiers. It seems almost excessive for Ashe, but it is logical from his perspective where his Disfavored count for almost everything. He has a logistical slave corps that can move materials in, it will affect only those who are lesser beings in his eyes. It’s also a logical progression in the game’s structure, where when you ally with the Disfavored you slowly commit atrocities with a larger and larger scope over the second Act, killing the infant ruler of Stalwart all the way to a forced famine. Capitulating to a tyrant in order to save yourself was what Ashe did for his men, and so the Disfavored path of the game has to doing much the same, capitulating to Kyros and to Ashe to earn favor and regard.

So, I like the character and the setting even if the military mistakes sometimes become a nuisance. Evil healers are one of the favorite sorts of character dichotomies, and the mistakes are logical even if sometimes I feel that they are over-egging the pudding.

Thanks for the question, Toad.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[sportyheroesimagines]

May I have a scenario with Prince!Todoroki and a female servant having a secret relationship? Endeavor has been looking for a suitable princess for an arranged marriage, and the couple gets caught. Shouto stands up for his lover when his father threatens to fire her and ruin her reputation for having an "affair" with the prince. Agh I love the fantasy AU

I’ve never done a fantasy au before, but I know I love the ED. I hope you guys enjoy this! I had fun writing it. 

Todoroki Shouto, son of the tyrant Hell King and the Mad Queen. Todoroki Shouto, a prince born of hatred and resentment, bred to carry the perfect bloodline. Todoroki Shouto, the disfigured prince. He was known by many names, revered by some and hated by others, but, above all, he was still the prince. Prince Todoroki Shouto, but, to you, a lowly handmaiden, he was just Shouto.

Behind closed doors, away from prying eyes he was just Shouto. Always just Shouto, your Shouto. And he thought of himself as such. Yours.

Throughout a life woven in misery and mistreatment, you were a shimmering thread tying him together, the one beautiful constant in his life. You were the one to tended to his fresh burns that night with gentle hands and your tender voice offering meek condolences. He always remembered your smile and calloused hands that ceaselessly offered him a tender touch. But you were just a servant, a handmaiden, a nobody, or, at least, you were someone who should’ve been a nobody. For months, he tried to reinforce the wall separating you for fear of his father or his own emotions, Todoroki was never sure. He tried, but it was all in vain. How could he deny you when you grinned with that radiant smile or laughed that musical laugh or touched him with a kindness that felt so foreign yet so nice to him.

His lips just seem to fall onto yours one night. You were washing his feet when you looked up at him with a sweet smile. Todoroki leaned forward, pressing his smooth lips against your slightly chapped ones. You still addressed him as ‘young master’ back then, but, after that night, he asked to call him by his first name. You were just as taken aback as he was. It was your first kiss, you assumed it was for him as well, but that’s not why you were stunned. He asked you. Not an order or a command, but an earnest request made by the blushing young prince. He was a royalty, you had no place to deny him anything, but he had asked you … and it was a request you were more than happy to oblige.

That was a year and a half ago.

“Young master,” you say, standing at the side of his large bed, “Young master, it’s time to wake up. Young master …”

A small squeak flies from your lips when your prince reaches for you, pulling you into the plushy bed and the sanctity of his arm. You stare at his face and his strong jaw and his perfect lips and his long two-colored eyelashes. Todoroki opens his eyes and places a small kiss on your forehead.

“Please call me Shouto.”

“Sorry, I forget sometimes. It’s hard flipping from ‘young master’ to ‘Shouto.’”

“It’s okay,” he mutters as he kisses down your neck, “Are you comfortable?”

“I am …”

But you never will never be able to get comfortable in such a luxurious bed. You feel out of place like you are sinking into the plushness of his his bed only kept afloat by your prince’s strong arms around you. Todoroki’s lips find yours. Your lips move with his as his hand comes up to caress your cheek.

“I shouldn’t be in bed with you, Shouto,” you say breathlessly between kisses, “What if … someone … comes in?”

Todoroki hums, absentmindedly running his hand over the curve of your sides. He doesn’t answer you as he is still lost in your taste. His tongue runs along the bottom of your lip, asking for an invitation you’s never deny anyway. You open your mouth to him and he deepens the kiss. He pulls you closer to his body. You’re forced to remain separate every day, only connecting with fleeting touches and cautions glances. But now you are here with him, in his bed, separated from the word by the shimmering gold fabric of his canopy.

“Shouto, I—”

You are cut off by the heavy wooden door being furiously opened, hinges squealing. Your blood runs cold. All the warm feelings in your chest have ceased to be as the flaming beard of your king flares.

“Shouto!” his voice booms, seemingly shaking the very foundation of the room, “Why are you not ready? I have several princesses waiting for—”

The room stills when the king’s icy blue eyes meet yours. Your breath is stuck in your throat and the silence is deafening. What a sight you must be. A servant laying in the arms of a sovereign prince. The king makes a step towards the two of you, and you scramble to your feel, clutching your apron until your knuckles turn white.

“What is the meaning of this!” He roars, taking large strides towards you.

Todoroki acts quickly, jumping out of bed and standing between you just as his father’s large hand reaches for your head.

“Don’t touch her.”

The king snorts as he pushes his son out of the way. He takes your hair into his grip, pulling you away by violently yanking at your hair. You let out a strangled cry as tears prick in your eyes. Todoroki hands ball into fist at the sounds of your anguished cries. The king reaches for the door handle with his free hand, only to find the lock frozen over in a thick sheet of ice.

“Let her go.”

He looks at his son. The flames at his chin intensify along with the anger boiling dangerously in his body. The king throw you to the ground, and you scurry away from him, staring at him with fearful eyes.

“Shouto!” He snaps, “She is a worthless! She can’t carry the bloodline. Think about how this will make us look! What will people say?”

“People already talk about us father,” Todoroki challenges, “And it’s through no fault of mine! The tyrant Hell King? The Mad Queen? It’s your fault! And you think that she will tarnish our name any further? I love her!”

You look over to the prince with a blush dusting over your cheeks. He loves you. He loves you. Of course you knew it and you felt it, but he had never said it until know as a bold declaration in front of his father. The king growls and casts his gaze to you.

“You,” he says, “You, damn witch! What have you done to him? I should have you cast out! No, I should have you sentenced to death for trying to dirty the bloodline, you worthless slave!”

“You will do no such thing!” Todoroki shouts back, “If you touch her, I swear … I swear I’ll ruin everything for you. I love her and if you hurt her …”

You stare back and forth between the Hell King and your lover. Both have there flames raised in challenge. Your heart is pounding in your chest as sweat rolls down your cheek. The king puffs air out of his nose as he turns on his heel. He easily melts the ice along with the handle as he leaves, slamming the door violently behind him.

You let go of the breath you didn’t even know you were holding and look to Todoroki. He is by your side in an instant with his worried eyes and concerned hands roaming over your body.

“I-I’m alright, but, Shouto,” your voice cracks as tears well in your eyes, “w-what are we going to do?”

He cups your face and kisses you sweetly. When his lips leave yours, he thumbs away your tears with a calm, certain smile on his face. You aren’t sure why he’s smiling or if you should be smiling too, but looking at his handsome face always put you at ease. You calm down.

“Shouto, what are we going to do?”

“Leave. You and me. Tonight. I can take you away from all of this, and we can be together, but only if you want to.  Do … do you want to?”

You cover his hands with your own ones, and you look at him with glossy eyes and a hopeful smile on your face.

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

[torixus]

History of St. Pachomius a Bishop who Founded Communal Monasticism

Though St. Antony be justly esteemed the institutor of the cenobitic life, or that of religious persons living in community under a certain rule, St. Pachomius was the first who drew up a monastic rule in writing. He was born in Upper Thebais about the year 292, of idolatrous parents, and was educated in their blind superstition, and in the study of the Egyptian sciences. From his infancy, he was meek and modest, and had an aversion to the profane ceremonies used by the infidels in the worship of their idols. Being about twenty years of age, he was pressed into the emperor's troops, probably the tyrant Maximinus, who was master of Egypt from the year 310; and in 312 made great levies to carry on a war against Licinius and Constantine. He was, with several other recruits, put on board a vessel that was falling down the river. They arrived in the evening at Thebes, or Diospolis, the capital of Thebais, a city in which dwelt many Christians. Those true disciples of Christ sought every  opportunity of relieving and comforting all that were in distress, and were moved with compassion towards the recruits, who were kept close confined, and very ill-treated. The Christians of this city showed them the same tenderness as if they had been their own children; took all possible care of them, and supplied them liberally with money and necessaries.

Such an uncommon example of disinterested virtue made a great impression on the mind of Pachomius. He inquired who their pious benefactors were, and when he heard that they believed in Jesus Christ the only Son of God, and that in the hope of a reward in the world to come, they labored continually to do good to all mankind, he found kindled in his heart a great love of so holy a law, and an ardent desire of serving the God whom these good men adored. The next day, when he was continuing his journey down the river, the remembrance of this purpose strengthened him to resist a carnal temptation. From his infancy he had been always a lover of chastity and temperance but the example of the Christians had made those virtues appear to him far more amiable, and in a new light.

After the overthrow of Maximinus, his forces were disbanded. Pachomius was no sooner returned home, but he repaired to a town in Thebais, in which there was a Christian church, and there he entered his name among the catechumens, or such as were preparing for baptism; and having gone through the usual course of preliminary instructions and practices with great attention and fervor, he received that sacrament at Chenoboscium, with great sentiments of piety and devotion. From his first acquaintance with our holy faith at Thebes, he had always made this his prayer: "O God, Creator of heaven and earth, cast on me an eye of pity: deliver me from my miseries: teach me the true way of pleasing you, and it shall be the whole employment, and most earnest study of my life to serve you, and to do your will." The perfect sacrifice of his heart to God, was the beginning of his eminent virtue. The grace by which God reigns in a soul, is a treasure infinitely above all price. We must give all to purchase it. To desire it faintly is to undervalue it. He is absolutely disqualified and unfit for so great a blessing, and unworthy ever to receive it, who seeks it by halves, or who does not esteem all other things as dung that he may gain Christ.

When Pachomius was baptized, he began seriously to consider with himself how he should most faithfully fulfil the obligations which he had contracted, and attain to the great end to which he aspired. There is danger even in fervor itself. It is often an artifice of the devil to make a novice undertake too much at first, and run indiscreetly beyond his strength. If the sails gather too much wind, the vessel is driven ahead, falls on some rock and splits. Eagerness is a symptom of secret passion, not of true virtue, where it is wilful and impatient at advice. Pachomius was far from so dangerous a disposition, because his desire was pure, therefore his first care was to find a skilful conductor.

Hearing that a venerable old man named Palemon, served God in the desert in great perfection, he sought him out, and with great earnestness begged to live under his direction. The hermit having set before him the difficulties and austerities of his way of life, which several had already attempted in vain to follow, advised him to make a trial of his strength and fervor in some monastery; and, to give him a sketch of the difficulties he had to encounter in the life he aspired to, he added: "Consider, my son, that my diet is only bread and salt: I drink no wine, use no oil, watch one half of the night, spending that time in singing psalms or in meditating on the holy scriptures, and sometimes pass the whole night without sleeping." Pachomius was amazed at this account, but not discouraged. He thought himself able to undertake every thing that might be a means to render his soul pleasing to God, and readily promised to observe whatever Palemon should think fit to enjoin him; who thereupon admitted him into his cell, and gave him the monastic habit. Pachomius was by his example enabled to bear solitude, and an acquaintance with himself. They sometimes repeated together the psalter, at other times they exercised themselves in manual labors (which they accompanied with interior prayer,) with a view to their own subsistence and the relief of the poor. Pachomius prayed above all things, for perfect purity of heart, that being disengaged from all secret attachment to creatures, he might love God with all his affections. And to destroy the very roots of all inordinate passions, it was his first study to obtain the most profound humility, and perfect patience and meekness. He prayed often with his arms stretched out in the form of a cross; which posture was then much used in the church. He was in the beginning often drowsy at the night office. Palemon used to rouse him, and say: "Labor and watch, my dear Pachomius, lest the enemy overthrow you and ruin all your endeavors." Against this weakness and temptation he enjoined him, on such occasions, to carry sand from one place to another, till his drowsiness was overcome. By this means the novice strengthened himself in the habit of watching. Whatever instructions he read or heard, he immediately endeavored fervently to reduce to practice.

One Easter-day Palemon bade the disciple prepare a dinner for that great festival. Pachomius took a little oil, and mixed it with the salt, which he pounded small, and added a few wild herbs, which they were to eat with their bread. The holy old man having made his prayer, came to table; but at the sight of the oil he struck himself on the forehead, and said, with tears: "My Saviour was crucified, and shall I indulge myself so far as to eat oil?" Nor could he be prevailed upon to taste it.

Pachomius used sometimes to go into a vast uninhabited desert, on the banks of the Nile, called Tabenna, in the diocese of Tentyra, a city between the Great and Little Diospolis. While he was there one day in prayer, he heard a voice which commanded him to build a monastery in that place, in which he should receive those who should be sent by God to serve him faithfully. He received, about the same time, from an angel who appeared to him, certain instructions relating to a monastic life.. Pachomius going back to Palemon, imparted to him this vision; and both of them coming to Tabenna, built there a little cell towards the year 325, about twenty years after St. Antony had founded his first monastery. After a short time, Palemon returned to his former dwelling, having promised his disciple a yearly visit, but he died soon after, and is honored in the Roman Martyrology on the 11th of January.

Pachomius received first his own eldest brother John, and after his death many others, so that he enlarged his house; and the number of his monks in a short time amounted to a hundred. Their clothing was of rough linen; that of St. Pachomius himself often haircloth. He passed fifteen years without ever lying down, taking his short rest sitting on a stone. He even grudged himself the least time which he allowed to necessary sleep, because he wished he could have been able to employ all his moments in the actual exercises of divine love. From the time of his conversion he never ate a full meal. By his rule, the fasts and tasks of work were proportioned to every one's strength; though all are together in one common refectory, in silence, with their cowl or hood drawn over their heads, that they might not see one another at their meals. Their habit was a tunic of white linen without sleeves, with a cowl of the same stuff; they wore on their shoulders a white goatskin, called a Melotes. They received the holy communion on the first and last days of every week. Novices were tried with great severity before they were admitted to the habit, the taking of which was then deemed the monastic profession, and attended with the vows. St. Pachomius preferred none of his monks to holy orders, and his monasteries were often served by priests from abroad, though he admitted priests, when any presented themselves, to the habit, and he employed them in  the functions of their ministry. All his monks were occupied in various kinds of manual labor: no moment was allowed for idleness. The saint, with the greatest care, comforted and served the sick himself. Silence was so strictly observed at Tabenna, that a monk, who wanted any thing necessary, was only to ask for it by signs. In going from one place to another, the monks were ordered always to meditate on some passage of the holy scripture, and sing psalms at their work. The sacrifice of the mass was offered for every monk that died, as we read in the life of St. Pachomius. His rule was translated into Latin by St. Jerome, and is still extant. He received the sickly and weak, rejecting none for the want of corporal strength, being desirous to conduct to heaven all souls which had fervor to walk in the paths of perfection. He built six other monasteries in Thebias, not far asunder, and from the year 336, chose often to reside in that of Pabau, or Pau, near Thebes, in its territory, though not far from Tabenna, situated in the neighboring province of Diospolis, also in Thebais. Pabau became a more numerous and more famous monastery than Tabenna itself. By the advice of Serapion, bishop of Tentyra, he built a church in a village for the benefit of the poor shepherds, in which for some time he performed the office of Lector, reading to the people the word of God with admirable fervor; in which function he appeared rather like an angel than a man. He converted many infidels, and zealously opposed the Arians, but could never be induced by his bishop to receive the holy order of priesthood. In 333, he was favored with a visit of St. Athanasius at Tabenna. His sister, at a certain time, came to his monastery desiring to see him; but he sent her word at the gate, that no woman could be allowed to enter his enclosure, and that she ought to be satisfied with hearing that he was alive. However, it being her desire to embrace a religious state, he built her a nunnery on the other side of the Nile, which was soon filled with holy virgins. St. Pachomius going one day to Pane, one of his monasteries, met the funeral procession of a tepid monk deceased. Knowing the wretched state in which he died and to strike a terror into the slothful, he forbade his monks to proceed in singing psalms, and ordered the clothes which covered the corpse to be burnt, saying: "Honors could only increase his torments; but the ignominy with which his body was treated, might move God to show more mercy to his soul; for God forgives some sins not only in this world, but also in the next." When the procurator of the house had sold the mats at market at a higher price than the saint had bid him, he ordered him to carry back the money to the buyers, and chastised him for his avarice.

Among many miracles wrought by him, the author of his life assures us, that though he had never learned the Greek or Latin tongues, he sometimes miraculously spoke them; he cured the sick and persons possessed by devils with blessed oil. But he often told sick or distressed persons, that their sickness or affliction was an effect of the divine goodness in their behalf; and he only prayed for their temporal comfort, with this clause or condition, if it should not prove hurtful to their souls. His dearest disciple, St. Theodorus, who after his death succeeded him in the government of his monasteries, was afflicted with a perpetual headache. St. Pachomius, when desired by some of the brethren to pray for his health, answered: "Though abstinence and prayer be of great merit, yet sickness, suffered with patience, is of much greater." He chiefly begged of God the spiritual health of the souls of his disciples and others, and took every opportunity to curb and heal their passions, especially that of pride. One day a certain monk having doubled his diligence at work, and made two mats instead of one, set them where St. Pachomius might see them. The saint perceiving the snare, said, "This brother hath taken a great deal of pains from morning till night, to give his work to the devil." And, to cure his vanity by humiliations, he enjoined him, by way of penance, to keep his cell fire months, with no other allowance than a little bread, salt, and water. A young man named Sylvanus; who had been an actor on the stage, entered the monastery of St. Pachomius with the view of doing penance, but led for some time an undisciplined life, often transgressing the rules of the house, and still fond of entertaining himself and others with buffooneries. The man of God endeavored to make him sensible of his danger by charitable remonstrances, and also employed his more potent arms of prayer, sighs, and tears, for his poor soul. Though for some time he found his endeavors fruitless, he did not desist on that account; and having one day represented to this impenitent sinner, in a very pathetic manner, the dreadful judgments which threaten those that mock God, the divine grace touching the heart of Sylvanus, he from that moment began, to lead a life of great edification to the rest of the brethren; and being moved with the most feeling sentiments of compunction, he never failed, wheresoever he was, and howsoever employed, to bewail with bitterness his past misdemeanors. When others entreated him to moderate the floods of his tears, "Ah," said he, "how can I help weeping, when I consider the wretchedness of my past life, and that by my sloth I have profaned what was most sacred? I have reason to fear lest the earth should open under my feet, and swallow me up, as it did Dathan and Abiron. Oh! suffer me to labor with ever-flowing fountains of tears, to expiate my innumerable sins. I ought, if I could, even to pour forth this wretched soul of mine in mourning; it would be all too little for my offences." In these sentiments of contrition he made so "real progress in virtue, that the holy abbot proposed him as a model of humility to the rest; and when, after eight years spent in this penitential course, God had called him to himself by a holy death, St. Pachomius was assured by a revelation, that his soul was presented by angels a most agreeable sacrifice to Christ. The saint was favored with a spirit of prophecy, and with great grief foretold the decay of monastic fervor in his order in succeeding ages. In 348 he was cited before a council of bishops at Latopolis, to answer certain matters laid to his charge. He justified himself against the calumniators, but in such a manner that the whole council admired his extraordinary humility. The same year, God afflicted his monasteries with a pestilence, which swept off a hundred monks. The saint himself fell sick, and during forty days suffered a painful distemper with incredible patience and cheerfulness, discovering a great interior joy at the approach of the end of his earthly pilgrimage. In his last moments he exhorted his monks to fervor, and having armed himself with the sign of the cross, resigned his happy soul into the hands of his Creator in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He lived to see in his different monasteries seven thousand monks. His order subsisted in the cast till the eleventh century: for Anselm, bishop of Havelburgh, writes, that he saw five hundred monks of this institute in a monastery at Constantinople. St. Pachomius formed his disciples to so eminent a degree of perfection chiefly by his own fervent spirit and example; for he always appeared the first, the most exact, and the most fervent, in all the exercises of the community. To the fervor and watchfulness of the superior it was owing that in so numerous a community discipline was observed with astonishing regularity, as Palladius and Cassian observe. The former says that they ate with their cowl drawn so as to hide the greatest part of their faces, and with their eyes cast down, never looking at one another. Many contented themselves with taking a very few mouthfuls of bread and oil, or of such like dish; others of pottage only. So great was the silence that reigned among them while every one followed his employment, that in the midst of so great a multitude; a person seemed to be in a solitude. Cassian tells us, that the more numerous the monastery was, the more perfect and rigorous was regular observance of discipline, and all constantly obeyed their superior more readily than a single person is found to do in other places. Nothing so much weakens the fervor of inferiors as the example of a superior who easily allows himself exemptions or dispensations in the rule. The relaxation of monastic discipline is often owing to no other cause.

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[qqueenofhades]

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter XXI

summary:  Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XX

The sun was rising slowly behind them, painting blood-red tracks on the boards and matching the steady trickle from the ruin of Job Anderson’s head, as Geneva Jones sat with her back against the railing, stared at her hands on her knees, and felt only a detached, mild interest, as if they were glassed-up objects on display in some mad genius’s lair. She supposed that she should get up and do something, but in the first case, fucked if she knew what that was, and in the second, the Hispaniola was already under the impression that they had the Rose’s captain aboard. It could possibly look rather queer if someone else were to start striding around and giving the orders – especially her. Anderson’s words still rattled in her head like hot marbles, unable to be dislodged or destroyed. Think it’s time you go back to your dollies and your embroidery, little lady. The Rose is going to get a real man’s hand to master her.

Intellectually, Geneva was aware that this was complete bollocks, that she was no less good at what she did just because she had been challenged by an obnoxious man with a loud voice, and that if this Lord Gideon Murray was of a temperament to help them rather than being just another in what she had become convinced was their slow-motion descent through the poet Dante’s circles of hell, they could yet get out of this. Her heart was less sure. After having everything she thought she knew about herself, her past, her family, and especially her father upended in such short order, she could no longer return to comforting old certainties. She knew Daddy had been a pirate, she knew all of them had, but that man Silver had described, the merciless Captain Hook, who had killed his own old friend in cold blood, who was willing to take the war as far as it could go and then some… not her father, not the gentle, wry, clever, loving man she knew, who had taught her to sail since the moment she could walk, when the memory of the look on his face when she became captain of the Rose at eighteen could still light up her world. That had to be a different Captain Hook.

He’s still the same man, Geneva tried to reason with herself. Nothing about what he did has changed, only what you knew about it. As well, she felt, just as she always had, that their family’s life of sober, productive, peaceful probity for twenty-odd years must outweigh their violent hell-raising prior to it. Even that hell-raising, however, had been against tyrants and thieves and madmen and murderers, the same names that the civilized world called the pirates of New Providence. It had been glorious in memory, it had been easy, it had been strong. Now it all fell apart in a morass of broken pieces that cut her when she tried to pick them up and put them back, and no easy or clearly drawn or straightforward answers whatsoever.

Geneva closed her eyes, head pounding. The comparative quiet of the morning was ringing unnaturally in her ears, after the night of madness. A few of the Hispaniola redcoats were still moving around the deck of the Rose, dragging mutineers’ bodies away and pitching them over the railings with cannonballs yoked to their ankles, and she could hear the telltale churn in the water that meant sharks. While most of the mutineers had been the new men that she had taken on in Bristol, there were a few of her old hands among them too, the ones she had assumed to be firm and fixed in their loyalties. Daddy thought the same of Mr. Hawkins, no doubt. They were going overboard just the same, men she’d sailed with and adventured with and trusted for six years, and she could hear them being eaten. Between Mr. Arrow and now this, not to mention her own mistakes, she’d managed to destroy everything but the physical ship, and since it was tilting decidedly to starboard after the Hispaniola’s bombardment, that too was open to question. Just sink it. Just sink it, and take all of this away.

Geneva harshly swallowed the bile in her throat, as she was not going to vomit like some greenhorn in rough seas for the first time. She let her head fall with a clunk against the boards, wondering how long Lord Gideon felt was a proper time to question “Captain Barlow.” Thomas had decided it was too risky to use their own names, and had introduced himself as such – Captain James Barlow, and Geneva as his niece, Elizabeth. Silver had promptly made himself scarce, but she could not help but fear what Lord Gideon might have heard about a notorious one-legged man. And while the family had changed the Rose’s markings and flags and other Naval dressing, they had never changed the name, and that suddenly appeared as an unforgivable oversight destined to doom them all. What if Lord Gideon had access to the Navy rolls, knew the Rose had been stolen by pirates years ago, and then decided to –

Well, Geneva thought bleakly. Can’t be any worse, can it?

She remained where she was, the sun cresting steadily over the topsails, until she sensed someone crossing the planks toward her, then halting a few steps short. “C – Geneva?”

It was Jim. Dully wondering if he had come to shout at her more about Daddy, deciding she didn’t much care either way, and probably deserved it, Geneva cracked a bleary eye; both of them had had time to turn what must be a rather spectacular purple. “Aye?”

Like the rest of them, Jim looked tousled and sleepless, chestnut hair loose from its ponytail and face pale and drawn. But it had been a bloody clever move, that trick with the flare, and must have taken considerably gifted marksmanship to pull off, as well as quick thinking and steely nerves. He might have saved their lives, in fact, and Geneva forced the cold clay of her face into what she hoped was a grateful smile. “You – that was very impressive. Thank you.”

Jim shrugged, rather diffidently. “Thank you for trusting me to do it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, the echoes of their confrontation in the cabin still audible between them. Then the mutiny had forced them to work together regardless, and it seemed deeply counterproductive to continue to go for each other’s throats, with the disastrous consequences of just such a thing scattered to every side. After a pause, Jim blew out a breath and sat down next to her. “I – ” he began, stopped, and tried again. “I’m sorry for what I said. I know you didn’t have any way of knowing what your father did.”

Even if he was apologizing for shouting, Geneva did not want to talk about her father right now. She felt almost unworthy of the credit Jim was extending to her – she hadn’t known, of course, but if she had, would she have treated that knowledge like Silver, keeping it to herself rather than throwing it out like Greek fire, to torch everything in its path? She could give no good answer why Killian Jones had killed James Hawkins, why she had grown up with a father and Jim, as a direct result of hers, had not. Nothing but her entire family’s obsessive love for a years-dead ghost, which she had no intention of offering up as a mitigating factor. If he had had, and still did have, that kind of control over them, Samuel Bellamy was a very dangerous man indeed.

“Thank you,” she said again, since Jim seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t any way for either of us to find out. I would give anything to take it back.”

“I know.” Jim struggled slightly with the words, but managed to get them out. “What I – well, about your father, I’m sorry for that. But with us, what I – about the kiss – ”

“What?” Geneva incredulously peeled open the other eye. “Are you actually wanting to talk about that right now?”

“I just…” Jim stared studiously straight ahead, but she could see his sunburned cheeks darkening further. “I said that you only meant to stab me in the back with it, and maybe that wasn’t true. But I – well. It’s as straight as I can say this, and I’m not trying to hurt you more. If it was just distraction and deception you were after, could you please not do it again?”

Geneva mulled this over grimly. She wanted to shout at him, just because the prospect of shouting at someone seemed vaguely appealing, but all her passion and anger and driving energy and sense of purpose, all the stuff you needed for a proper shout, had completely drained out of her. As well, Jim had every right to ask her so politely not to toy with him, not to treat him as a puppy or insipid hanger-on or other disposable inamorato. “I’m sorry,” was all that came out. She didn’t know if she meant for the kiss, or for how she had treated him overall, or the voyage, or coming to Bristol, or everything. Probably everything. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her voice cracked on the last one, mortifyingly, and she tried to turn it into a cough, but her eyes welled up and spilled over before she could stop herself. She bit her lip hard enough to feel her teeth break the skin; if she started crying now, she’d come completely to pieces, and she couldn’t do that. Not even if the Hispaniola men might be expecting some maidenly tears from poor Elizabeth Barlow, nearly set upon and torn apart by vicious mutineers, and confused as to why she hadn’t. That was for later. Everything was.

Nonetheless, Geneva could not quite stop shaking, and after a deeply uncomfortable moment, Jim reached out and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her cautiously against his side and letting her hide her face. This made her shake more instead of less, even as she remembered that she hadn’t given him an answer and perhaps he thought this was some other devious female ploy to practice upon his sympathies. Why was he here, why was he being kind to her at all, when her father had killed his, had ruined his entire life before he was even old enough to remember it, or know why? He should still be shouting. They all should.

And yet, Jim remained holding her, lightly but firmly, making it clear that she could pull back if she wanted to, or if she felt this was an improper encroachment upon their still-fragile relations. Geneva sniffed hard, trying to gulp down the ache in her throat, and could not muster up enough orneriness to raise her walls again. “That was…” Her voice was muffled against Jim’s collarbone, the unlaced neck of his dirty shirt. “That was a really good shot. With the flare.”

She felt more than saw him shrug, with his usual self-deprecating nature. “Would have blown my bloody fingers off if I lit it in my hand. I had no choice but to take the risk.”

“No, it was.” Geneva looked up at him. There was a faint shadow of unshaven beard on jaw and cheeks, almost auburn in the morning light, which almost surprised her – she kept forgetting he was a year older than her. “I probably couldn’t have made it.”

“You could have,” Jim said. “You’re about the most impressive person I know.”

Geneva couldn’t help a shy, surprised giggle, despite her cloud of misery. “I am not.”

“Aye, you are.” Jim appeared to be quite stout on this point. “Bloody hell, look at me. Kicked out of the Navy, hated by the entire merchantry of Bristol, inadvertently burned down my mother’s inn, have no prospects for rebuilding it or making amends if I don’t come back with – well, something. Then there’s you. You’re beaut – clever, strong-willed, brave. You captain your own ship and travel the world, you stand up to whatever it has thrown at you, you’re not afraid of anything, and you’re just…” He trailed off. “You’re intimidating.”

Geneva had once seen a man in a social capacity – George Warrington, his name had been – who had said something similar to her. While he had outwardly meant it admiringly, it became clear that he did not, that he would have preferred for her to be somewhat less bright. Not all the way, no, no, not entirely. He was an educated man; of course he didn’t believe all that folderol that women were destined to a life of nothing but motherhood and drudgery. He had read books written by women, even, and he was perfectly willing to allow that Geneva be permitted such idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes. But when they were married (he seemed to do quite a bit of talking in this vein), she would need to bridle some of her more outrageous activities. Swearing, for example. She could swear around him, since he was (as he would often remind all and sundry) an educated man. But he did not feel it was proper for children to hear their mother swear, or for her to take quite such controversial notions. She’d have to make sacrifices.

After one too many speeches in this vein, and a family supper in which Grandpa and Daddy had gone rather glassy-eyed listening to George prattle about London stocks and bonds recovering in the wake of the South Sea Bubble, then exchanged the kind of look that meant they were thinking of dismembering him in the back garden before dessert (that memory had always been funny, but now it seemed less so), Geneva had issued George with his notice of dismissal. He had been quite aghast, and called by the house several more times without an invitation, in hopes of changing her mind. His last argument had been that she wouldn’t find anyone willing to accept all of her. She was a beautiful woman, she was talented, she was clearly very special, but she was too stubborn, too contrary, too scathingly witty, too prickly, and certainly too sexually liberate to appeal to any other gentleman of quality. Pass him up now, and she would be doomed to a life of either perpetual spinsterhood, or bearing eleven children for some fat old pig who only thought she was good for sweeping floors and baking bread.

“What?” Jim asked, evidently realizing that he had struck a nerve. “I’m sorry, did I – ”

“No, I… it’s not your fault.” Geneva scrubbed at her crusty eyes. “I’m sorry too.”

A corner of Jim’s mouth twitched wryly. “So, you think we’ll just be saying that to each other for the rest of the journey, then?”

Caught by surprise, Geneva giggled again. It was more of a snorted wheeze than an actual laugh, and it felt as if she’d been kicked in the ribs, but it was the first time in what felt like forever, and it seemed a small miracle to know that she still could. Jim coughed, looked down, and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Let me clean you up a bit.”

“Oh no, it’s all right, I can.” Geneva tried to take the handkerchief, but he had a firm grip on it. “You don’t need to – ”

“I know I don’t,” Jim said, sounding slightly exasperated. “But you’ve been doing everything for everyone, without a rest, and you fought those men that were twice your size and thought you were no real threat to them. Let me, please?”

Geneva hesitated, torn between an urge to point out that the last thing she needed was more men trying to do things for her, and the sore desire to have someone else take control and sort this out, even for a little while. “Fine.”

Jim got up, dipped the handkerchief in the water barrel, and then returned, crouching down next to her, taking her chin in his hand, and carefully wiping the blood crusted on her face. Geneva hissed when he touched her black eyes, and he grimaced in sympathy, but didn’t pull back, working carefully and lightly, having to make a few more trips to rinse the cloth. “There,” he said at last. “I don’t think you’ve broken anything, it’ll patch up.”

“It’s fine,” Geneva said again, feeling an odd, burning tingle in the back of her eyes. “It’s just a few bruises and scrapes, I’ve had worse. You don’t need to fret over me.”

Jim paused, as if weighing what to say, sensing that she was trying to keep up a stiff upper lip, had to do her damndest to present the illusion of control, even as she had never felt less of it in her life. Then he said quietly, “It’s all right for it to hurt, you know.”

Geneva looked down at her hands, knotted in her lap. “Not right now.”

“Hey.” He reached out, took one of them, and carefully unbent her clenched, aching fingers, straightening them against his callused palm. It wasn’t forward or suggestive in any carnal sense, but just a solid, simple gesture of comfort, warm and matter-of-fact. “You can do it.”

Despite herself, Geneva glanced up at him, almost tentatively. She had been amused by his boyish crush and tongue-tied awkwardness around her before, but she now found herself deeply impressed by his steadiness and his cool head under fire, his perception and his bravery and that confounded refusal to hold a grudge past a few days, when he could conceivably and justifiably have held it for life. I have misjudged this man. Aye, and he is, not a lad. Their eyes met, and all at once, it was Geneva’s turn to feel shy, something she rarely did when it came to gentlemen. Her heart fluttered unaccountably at the thought of their earlier kiss, and Jim didn’t appear to be fleeing in terror from the potential of another one. She could lean forward – it was foolish, it wasn’t the time, she hadn’t even answered him yet, but he was there, and waiting, and –

She might well have done it. She was bloody close. Then the moment was broken by one of the Hispaniola soldiers – no, it was a lieutenant, wearing an officer’s silver gorget – emerging from the cabin and pulling Madi by the arm. “You, girl, what happened to your mistress in there?”

“Get your hands off her!” Geneva jumped to her feet, outraged. She knew that Madi needed no help in defending herself in the usual course of things, but with what they had just been through, for her to be called “girl” and mistaken for Eleanor Guthrie’s slave had to be the final salt in the wound. “That’s a free woman, Mrs. Scott, and you will leave go of her immediately!”

Surprised, the lieutenant looked over his shoulder at her, then – with a somewhat too-precise movement – let go of Madi, who murdered him with her eyes. “Your pardons, Miss Barlow. I discovered the Negress inside, and assumed she was tending to your companion.”

“You assumed wrongly,” Geneva said, very coldly. “And under what warrant, exactly, are the lot of you pillaging my – my uncle’s vessel?”

“Lord Gideon’s,” the lieutenant informed her. “There was just a mutiny on board, was there not? As the king’s agents, we have a responsibility to ensure the return and establishment of law and order, and to impose it ourselves if your uncle is unable. What did happen to the lady in there? Wounded, aye, but that doesn’t look to be a recent injury. What else has been going on aboard this ship, the – ” He raised an eyebrow, as if in expectation of a name.

Geneva raised one back at him, as if in expectation of his first.

“Lieutenant Jeremy Woodlawn, madam. I don’t think I’ve actually heard what this ship’s name is yet. Do you know where your uncle keeps the registry papers?”

“My uncle is speaking with Lord Gideon,” Geneva said. “I’m sure he’s sorted it out.”

“The ship looks quite Navy in her trim.” Woodlawn glanced up at the masts, then across the deck. “How long has your uncle sailed her, do you know?”

Geneva was very wary of giving any answers that might conflict with Thomas’, since she did not know what he might be claiming to Lord Gideon. “I don’t.”

“Hmm. Well, the papers must be somewhere in the cabin, and since this is not your slave, perhaps you wish to show me instead?” Woodlawn put his hand on the latch. “Then we can have this all sorted out and – boy, did I ask for you? I don’t recall doing so.”

Jim didn’t budge. “I’m sure I can help.”

Woodlawn eyed him, as if to say that he knew damn well Jim was trying to get between him and having Geneva alone for further persuasion, friendly or otherwise. However, he could hardly make it plain that he might be about to mistreat a wealthy merchant’s niece in front of the rest of the men, and jerked his head. “Very well. Make yourself useful.”

With that, the lieutenant followed Geneva and Jim into the cabin, which was low, dim, and smelled of blood and laudanum, as Eleanor had apparently been self-medicating throughout the chaos of the events outside. Her eyes were dilated, glassy, almost black, and she did not appear to take much notice of them. Geneva was trying to think what the devil to do – she knew exactly where the registry papers were, of course, but since they gave the ship’s name as the Rose and its captain’s as Geneva Jones, that, obviously, would be bad for their ruse in any number of ways. Woodlawn also did not seem like the kind of man who would be satisfied by putting a perfunctory effort into it and admitting failure. As Geneva and Jim came to a halt in the middle of the floor, he said again, “Well? The trunk or the desk, do you think?”

“I – can’t be sure, I don’t – ”

“Excuse me.” The slurred voice came from the bed, as Eleanor pushed herself up on an elbow, eyes unfocused, and pointed an accusing finger at them. “You, sir. You are invading my quarters. Do you know who I am?”

“I do not, madam.” Woodlawn turned to her. “Did you possibly wish to inform me?”

“She’s an – old friend of – a friend,” Geneva said hastily. “Not particularly – ”

“I’m Mrs. Woodes Rogers,” Eleanor announced. “My husband will punish all of you if you persist in this insubordination. Woodes Rogers, you have heard of him? The governor of Nassau?”

Woodlawn’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Governor Rogers has been dead for eight years, madam.”

Eleanor frowned, then shook her head woozily. “No. No, he’s not. He’s – ”

“See,” Geneva interrupted, sensing her opportunity. “Mrs. – Mrs. Smith is raving. Bad reaction to opium. She was wounded in the side by a falling spar not long into the journey, it’s been a terrible trial to care for her. Really, you will insist on bursting into an invalid gentlewoman’s bedchamber and ransacking the place? For shame, sir! For shame!”

Lieutenant Woodlawn squinted at her, but after a moment, very grudgingly, took a step backward. “Apologies. Christian consideration must be taken into account. We can wait for your uncle’s return.”

They managed to make it back on deck, as Geneva felt her knees wanting to wobble and locked them as hard as she could. It was at least an hour since Thomas had gone on board the Hispaniola, maybe more; they had not been sounding the bells in the disarray of things. How many questions, exactly, might Lord Gideon have? Something seemed faintly, damnably familiar about the man, as if she should know him from somewhere, but she didn’t. It was ominous enough that he was from Charlestown. She was trying to suppress the urge to pace, fingernails balled painfully into her fists, when a voice said, “Lieutenant, we’ve found a few more below.”

Geneva, Jim, and Woodlawn all turned to behold two redcoats dragging John Silver by the arms, one of them carrying his false leg; to judge by the bruise rising on Silver’s cheek, the man had already struck him with it. They dropped him in a heap, as the first one said, “There’s another in the brig, m’lord. But before we ascertained what he was in for, we didn’t think it wise to release him on the – ”

“Jesus Christ.” Silver spat out a few dribbles of blood. “I already told you, don’t let that man out, unless you want us all blown to – ”

“Shut up.” The soldier kicked him, which Silver absorbed with a grunt. Addressing himself to Woodlawn, he went on, “The surviving mutineers, they’ve sworn that this one was the chief of the uprising. Talked himself into control of it and was intending to carry it out, until the lad managed to signal for us. Should we execute him as well, sir?”

“The chief of the mutineers, was it?” Woodlawn inspected Silver closely. “A one-legged man, to boot. How very curious. No, Jenkins, hold your fire. Lord Gideon is going to want to see this.”

Geneva and Madi glanced at each other almost inadvertently, as if to gauge what the other was thinking to see Silver prone and bleeding in front of them. Nobody could argue with him deserving it, and Geneva might still have a few slaps in reserve if the opportunity arose, but she did not quite want to see Silver shot like a dog. He had killed Anderson, but was that in defense of them, or because Anderson had threatened his authority as leader of the mutiny? Now that she had some emotional remove from the heat of the situation, Geneva had to admit that she could not see Silver veering so quickly from saving her from Hands and insisting that he could not watch her die, to handing them all over to a scabrous gang of malcontents without a second look back. But there remained the fact that Silver’s methods, whatever his motives, were often very hard to tell apart for friend or foe, and there was no reason to think he had been lying about being willing to do whatever it took. He always had, no matter what, and assuredly always would.

The wait dragged on interminably as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Geneva was feeling almost completely dissociated from her body, between hunger, exhaustion, emotional turmoil, anxiety, and everything else, and Woodlawn finally (gold medal for him) allowed her to sit on the hatch cover and have a drink of water. Jim perched protectively near her, as a few of the redcoats likewise seemed rather taken with this pretty, vulnerable-looking young lady, and Geneva couldn’t decide if it was worth the effort to disabuse them. If they thought she was in fragile estate, they could potentially refrain from anything too drastic, but the question remained if Lord Gideon would be fooled. If he ever got bloody back, or if Thomas did. Jesus, could this just get over with, or at least not get any worse? For once?

It was going on noon by the time the young governor finally reappeared, emerging onto the deck of the Hispaniola and crossing over to the Rose, as Geneva’s eyes swept from side to side and noted at once that Thomas was not with him. She barely managed to hold her tongue until Murray had arrived, then blurted out, “Excuse me, where’s my uncle?”

“He’ll be remaining behind for the moment.” Lord Gideon regarded her coolly. “That makes sense, of course, given what he said about your – circumstances?”

Geneva had no idea what Thomas might have told them, and took serious leave to doubt that his detainment had been voluntary. She took a step. “Look, you – ”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Woodlawn interrupted. “Miss Barlow is rather hysteric, you should leave her be for the moment. This scoundrel is of considerably more interest.”

While Geneva was still trying to decide if she should step on Woodlawn’s foot for the hysteria comment, or affect a swoon, or anything, Murray looked over at Silver, who still had several bayonets pointing at him. Something flickered across his face that Geneva decidedly disliked, and he contemplated Silver for a long moment. Then he said, “Correct me if I am mistaken, but am I in fact honored with the presence of the notorious pirate, Long John Silver?”

There was a deeply unpleasant pause, after which Silver seemed to decide that he could hardly deny it. “I do not go by that name presently, but yes.”

“I thought so. That also explains why you attempted to conceal yourself – individuals of your former occupation must not be terribly fond of the sight of redcoats.” Lord Gideon turned to Geneva. “But then, Miss Jones, you knew that too, didn’t you?”

It took a moment for everyone to catch this. Geneva felt a lurch in her stomach as if she had missed several steps going downstairs. “I beg your pardon? My name is Barlow, Miss Elizabeth Barlow, not – ”

“Please.” Murray held up a hand. “I did suspect, but I needed the sight of him to be sure. Your name is Geneva Jones, and your uncle is Thomas Hamilton. Likewise, am I incorrect?”

Geneva opened and shut her mouth like a fish, surely not doing anything to convince Murray of her bona fides. Then suddenly and horribly, she remembered something that Madi and Max had said to her back in Nassau – and which, to judge from the look on Madi’s face, she had also just thought of. “You,” Geneva said. “You were the man that Billy Bones met in Charlestown, who sent him haring across the ocean to England. Weren’t you?”

Murray inclined his head with sarcastic grace. “And you had – your uncle Charles, would it be? Charles Swan – write to David and Mary Margaret Nolan, prominent merchants of the same city, to have them ask who in Charlestown might know something about it. As well as giving details of your situation, and that you had departed aboard your ship, the Rose, in company with John Silver and in hopes of catching up to Mr. Bones. Well? Did you?”

“I met him,” Jim said defiantly. “They didn’t. Him and that mad old witch he’s traveling with, Lady Fiona. She burned down my mother’s inn, by the way. I’m sure of it.”

“Did you?” Murray looked at Jim narrowly. “How interesting. Lady Fiona is – regrettably – my adopted mother, and I have no more reason to wish her success than you must for Bones. But speaking of families, Miss Jones, I have met yours. They were in Charlestown, where they came to visit me, and I engaged them to perform a few small tasks.”

“Why would they help you?”

“Because they might not see your father again if they didn’t.” Murray spun on his heel. “I sent them to Philadelphia, but they slipped through my fingers after that. I knew you still had to be somewhere in the offing, however, and that made you my backup plan. It was simple enough to set sail to where you could be guessed approximately to be, if you were returning from a voyage to England, and hope we crossed paths. This worked better than even I was expecting.”

Geneva continued to stare at him. She wanted to ask what the bloody hell he meant possibly not seeing her father again, until something else occurred to her. That odd encounter after the hurricane, with the ship called the Pan, its cocksure young captain, Rufio, and her inexplicable sense that something was wrong, when she asked him what was in the hold. Just a stubborn ox, my lady. There was no proof, none whatsoever, but – she had sailed past, if that had been Daddy held prisoner, and she had missed her chance to –

Geneva had no idea how to react, as her anger and sense of betrayal at her father’s long-ago actions wrestled with her still-deep love of him, and her fear that her failure might ultimately be the one that kept them from mending fences, rather than his. But there was no way to know where Killian Jones was now, or what had happened to him or any of them. Lord Gideon was clearly not about to let them wander off and find out, and with that, Geneva knew what he wanted. Coolly, she lifted her head. “You want us to take you to Skeleton Island. Since you couldn’t sway Billy to your side, and because you lost my family. Don’t you.”

“I do, yes.” Murray folded his arms and looked at Silver. “I would be correct in thinking that was where you were already bound? And that you, sir, know the coordinates?”

Silver hesitated for a long moment. “Where’s Thomas Hamilton?”

“Aboard the Hispaniola, still – for the moment – an honored guest. That can alter if you displease me.” Murray flushed. “Do you want to wager with his safety?”

“No,” Silver said, after another pause. “No, I very much do not.”

“Well then?” Lord Gideon jerked his head petulantly. “Aren’t you going to cooperate?”

Silver flicked his eyes at the bayonets still hovering a few inches away from him. “It would be difficult for me to do anything in my present situation, Your Excellency.”

Murray made a brusque motion, and the redcoats lowered their muskets. They hastened to grab him by both arms again, however, and force him into a pair of fetters, which Silver rattled sardonically. “Are these necessary? They have, as you see, already deprived me of my leg. Unless the British Army is in the habit of fearing elderly cripples these days?”

“If we were truly to contain the most dangerous part of you, we’d have to put on a muzzle.” Gideon looked at Madi, who had taken an involuntary step forward. “And you, madam, would be Madi Scott, the co-factor of New Providence Island? You will also be coming with me, to discuss the trading arrangements that currently exist between Nassau and Charlestown, and David Nolan’s controlling interests in each. Lieutenant Woodlawn, you’re now the captain of the Rose, congratulations on your promotion. Station your men accordingly, mend any damage, and follow us closely. Mr. Silver will be giving us instructions on the Hispaniola, as to the whereabouts of Skeleton Island. Is that clear?”

Geneva was so incensed she could not speak, although part of her wondered why she was even still surprised. They had been delivered from one mutiny straight into the jaws of another – she had lost control of her ship first to Job Anderson and his frothing dogs, now to Lord Gideon Murray and his infernal redcoats, and that was only part, by the sound of things, of the trap he had cooked up to ensnare her family. But Thomas was a hostage, and she could not under any circumstances endanger his life, so she made herself stand still as Madi and Silver were hauled off onto the Hispaniola. The hell was she going to do, anyway? It was pointless. It was all so fucking pointless.

When we get to Skeleton Island, she thought. I’m bloody killing all of them.

To say the least, the air was tense when Sam and Jack – having been marched back to their cramped berth and locked in by Billy, who shrugged off all Sam’s attempts at conversation with an impervious grunt – had been left alone again. If it was awkward to share a small space with a bloke before, when he had stripped off his shirt, showed you his scars, and told you a horrible story, it was several orders of superlative worse when that selfsame bloke had then grabbed your arse and claimed to be shagging you on the regular, to save your blood from being used for some esoteric Potion of Youth. Sam had long since accepted that he lived a somewhat more eventful life than your average likely lad, but still. This was just rude.

He had thought, with apparently criminally naïve optimism, that even Jack would be forced to talk about what had just happened, but Jack, as ever, did not think he needed to descend to such provincial mortal trivialities. He sat in the chair by the desk, obliging Sam to either crawl back into his bunk or perch on the trunk, and since the bunk was not going to do anything but make him toss and turn some more, he elected for the trunk. His insides were creaking with hunger, especially as the rising sun filtered through the cracks above and he could hear the rest of the ship wakening, but it seemed signally unlikely that a hearty breakfast would be forthcoming – unless Lady Fiona wanted to feed them up like that grisly German fairytale about the witch who ate children, which Sam rather wished he hadn’t thought of. Finally, since it was stare at Jack’s back some more or go mad, he said, “Fucked me over a barrel, was it?”

“Preferable to having your blood sipped for a refreshing aperitif, wasn’t it?” Jack didn’t turn around, so he remained half in shadow, as if cut from black velvet. “Or is this truly about your sense of offended decency?”

“It’s not, it. . .” Sam could feel his cheeks heating. “Look, you make fun of me because I can’t lie to save my life, but you – I’ve been honest with you, all right? I just – ”

“And I haven’t?” At that, Jack did look up, eyes fierce. “I told you that story about my scars – now what? Do you want to know every bad thing that’s ever happened to me?”

“Congratulations,” Sam said. “You’ve told me one bloody thing about your past. Let’s hope the world can keep spinning, after a shock like that.”

Jack looked as if he was about to fire back, then stopped. He braced his hands on his knees, turning the chair with a screech on the worn boards, leaning forward as if he was a runner waiting for the crack of the starting pistol. “What do you want me to say?”

“I have no bloody clue. If I had to guess, though, now you probably point out it was the logical thing to do to save me from Lady Fiona, just like it apparently was with the sailors belowdecks on the Griffin. And who knows, you’re probably right. Since we’ve already established you don’t want to tell me about Charlotte, I’m just curious why that doesn’t – ”

Jack looked back at him, eyes cold and narrow. Finally he said, “The first thing I ever told you about Charlotte was that it was complicated. I don’t owe you anything else.”

“Fine!” Sam shouted. “You don’t owe me! But I’d like to know why you’ll lie to protect me, you’ll claim to be me, you’ll kiss me or act like we’re sleeping together or anything else, you’ll even tell me that story about your scars, and the rest of the time, it’s back to acting as if I’m the scum of the earth! I’m sorry if I can’t presume to the lordly Jack Bellamy’s knowledge or rationale or understanding of things, so I suppose I just have to put up with whatever mood you feel like inflicting on me from day to day! I don’t think you hate me, by the way. I don’t think you do at all. But I could just be imagining things, given the way you told me off on my birthday. Oh yes, and then ran off! And got my best friend killed, more or less!”

He found himself on his feet, taking a few steps (which were all he needed) to close the distance, as Jack stood up sharply as well, raising his arm as if he thought Sam was going to hit him. Sam was aware that this was a not unreasonable conclusion to draw, given as he had done the same thing when Jack had found him in the woods in Barbados, but he was now additionally aware that it was a deeply conditioned instinct, that Jack would in fact expect an angry man to hit him, and that was why he had gotten so good at hitting back. The smallest prickle of shame punctured Sam’s anger, and he took a step away. “Fuck you,” he said, more quietly. “Fine, you don’t have to tell me anything else, ever again. Just tell me that this – whatever you do for me, whatever this is – is actually just what you think is sensible, you don’t like me but don’t want to see me dead, and have it done. That’s all I really expect from you, anyway.”

“I. . .” Jack opened his mouth, shut it, and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m sorry about Nathaniel. I’m bloody sorry. If I’d had one friend like that as a boy – if I’d had any friend before Charlotte – and someone got them killed like that, I wouldn’t have forgiven them either. I know you’re angry at me for it, and I don’t expect you not to be. But if you could for once – ”

“I’m not asking for the bloody moon! You just – one moment you’re soft to me, almost gentle, you open up, you comfort me. The next, you throw an iron wall in my face and act like I’m the fool for thinking you were ever any different! The world won’t end if you’re honest for a godforsaken minute, but since that’s apparently too difficult – ”

They were almost nose to nose, and Sam was still tempted to give the oaf a good shove into the wall, just to emphasize his point. Or maybe a knee in the balls, that was also a deeply appealing option. But he ended up raising his hand and giving Jack a stupid jab in the shoulder instead, Jack swatted at him, Sam grabbed back, got hold of the collar of that nice new shirt the bastard had made such a meal of putting on, and – he didn’t know what he was going to do, exactly, but it would definitely convey his displeasure. Only Jack wriggled around, and shoved back, and – they didn’t know exactly what the blazes either of them were doing, but one moment it was fighting, and then the next, with no clue on Sam’s part how, it was –

Sam opened his mouth, doubtless intending to say something clever, but as their mouths were presently locked together, and Jack was kissing him practically violently enough to break bones, this did him no good at all. He clawed hold of Jack with both arms, getting them around his shoulders, as they banged noses, bit tongues, bloodied lips, and kept knocking heads every time they tried to turn them to get closer. It was the world’s ugliest kiss, wet and raw and clumsy, as they pulled at each other, got fistfuls of the other’s hair, stumbled backwards against the bunk, and slid down it to the floor in a heap. They rolled over and over, still kissing, until they fetched up against the trunk (there not being much other room to go) and came to a halt, Sam sprawled on top of Jack, breathless and dazzled and drunk. He tried to push himself off, but his arms had turned to water. They just lay there, wheezing.

After a moment, Jack tried to recover enough to speak, which Sam could see no good to come of, and since they were in for a penny, in for a pound, there was not much to be done for it. He bent down and kissed Jack again.

This one was somewhat less like two jousters riding at each other full tilt, but no less vigorous, and they struggled half upright, Jack sitting with his back against the trunk and Sam straddling him, knees to each side of his hips, Jack’s hands sliding up his sides and his own gripping at Jack’s head. They kissed themselves completely breathless, mouths raw and bruised and swollen and marked with teeth, until Sam had no blood north of his heart at all and felt lightheaded enough to float off directly into the ether. He slowly, deliberately unstuck their faces, sweaty hair spilling loose from its queue and waving wildly in his eyes, as Jack raised a dazed hand as if meaning to tuck it back for him. Instead it fell to his side. He said hoarsely, “Jesus.”

That, Sam supposed, was one way of putting it, and considerably more eloquence than he himself could manage at the moment. He recalled Charlotte, and felt a stabbing pang of shame that he had disrespected her like this. That was another thing to attend to when he got off Jack, which he had completely forgotten how to do. He rolled his hips instead, which made both of them groan, and leaned forward, open mouth against Jack’s cheek, their breath hot against the other’s skin as he sucked in short, shallow gasps that did nothing to ease the unbearable constriction in his chest. “You,” he managed, with a feeble poke in Jack’s stomach (with a finger, though for bloody sure other things wanted to poke as well) “are – such – a bastard.”

Jack looked as if all things considered, he couldn’t deny it. His hand had made it to the small of Sam’s back beneath his shirt, spreading on the smooth, unmarked skin, running up the knobs of his spine. Sam shifted, partly in response to this and partly in hopes of easing the strain on said other parts of his anatomy, which really didn’t help. He was still breathing in those whooping gulps, clinging onto sanity by the very edges of his fingernails, and made himself remember that Robert Gold could be in the berth just across the way, listening to everything. That did succeed in deflating some of his. . . ardor, but not all of it. He thought about putting his hands on Jack’s thighs to slide off, but that felt exceedingly dangerous.

Extremely belatedly, Jack also seemed to remember that whether or not he had lied to Lady Fiona about this being a regular feature of their activities, now was not the time to turn it into the truth. He slowly eased upright, sagging back against the trunk, as Sam skidded off his lap and landed with a thunk on the floor, thus making his tailbone the second most throbbing part of him. They both stared up at the ceiling for as long as humanely possible, until Sam said, “So. . . you don’t hate me, then?”

Jack huffed an exasperated-sounding snort. “Don’t push your luck.”

Sam supposed he could swipe at him again, but that seemed liable to end up with more kissing, and that would be detrimental to the whole thing. A small warm ember had somehow ignited in his chest, burning steadily above his heart, until it was quenched by cold reality. “We, ah,” he said, and coughed. “We shouldn’t have. If Charlotte knew that, she’d – ”

“Look, just. . .” Jack finally seemed to have reached his limit on how many questions about his wife he would curtly deflect. “Our arrangement is. . . flexible, all right?”

Sam blinked. He wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly, and didn’t want Jack to repeat it, just in case. He did know, of course, that Grandpa, Granny, and Uncle Thomas all lived together, that Granny was married to both of them, and that Grandpa and Uncle Thomas were also partners, but still. He had just assumed that that was something peculiar his family did – another pirate habit that was all well and good for them behind closed doors, but certainly not shared in any way by the outside world. This was likely true, given as Sam had encountered the conflict between his family’s accepting views of sex and those of starched-up colonial polite society before. But if it was possible that Jack wasn’t callously two-timing Charlotte, and that if they lived through this, there might be the slightest chance for a repeat opportunity – no, not that he was thinking of that, he absolutely was not. Not at all. This was purely academic information. Besides, he was still so mixed up and angry and conflicted over Nathaniel and revenge on Gold and whether he blamed Jack for it and how they were going to get out of this and what Lady Fiona might want with them, that there was no real desire to pursue it at the moment. He felt as if they had in fact punched it out (though with some slight differences) and he scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to make any sense whatsoever of the last five minutes. It felt like a very highly colorized dream.

The morning crawled past on turtle feet. Both of them were trying very hard not to look at each other, speak to each other, or acknowledge the other’s existence in any way, and there was still not much to do in the tiny berth. There was a bucket in the corner to piss in, which was about its only amenity, and which Sam held off on using until his eyeballs were floating. There were no books and certainly no important papers left conveniently lying around, and he had no idea where they were going. He was so hungry he almost felt sick. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten something of any substance, and his innards were knocking together with a clacking sound. Food had never been a question for him; his parents complained good-naturedly about how much he (and Nathaniel) ate, but they never begrudged it, especially not his father, who remembered all too well growing up in bondage and never having enough. If it ever ran short, all they had to do was drive down the road to Leroy Small the grocer’s, and buy more. Sam could count on his mother cooking breakfast, on a hearty plowman’s lunch packed for school, on cakes or jam tarts or other small treats when he got home, and then roast or potato or soup or sausage or whatever else for supper with his family. He had simply never had to worry this much about where his next meal might be coming from, and it unsettled him.

Jack, of course, gave no indication. He must be much more used to the withholding of food as a punishment, to scraping by and hoarding it in his room and sneaking down to steal it, probably risking another thrashing if he was caught. He had to be hungry too, but he must also be well used to ignoring it, until Sam almost felt jealous. Not of his past, God no, but that Jack seemed, as ever, much better equipped to tough these things out than him. Finally, however, his stomach growled fit to wake the dead, and Jack raised an eyebrow. “Don’t go swooning away, then?”

“Sorry,” Sam muttered, cheeks hot. “I’m hungry.”

“Well,” Jack remarked. “If she wants to drink your blood, I suppose it would be easier to get it from you after she starved you to death. Likely not very healthful, though.”

Sam glared at him. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

Jack raised his hands, as if to say that if gallows humor was their only diversion, so be it. Sam himself was highly tempted to see if Jack’s head could be used as a battering ram, both for personal satisfaction and to break out of here before he went completely raving mental. Maybe that was the point – starve and bore them slowly into insanity, until they gladly agreed to whatever Lady Fiona proposed if she would just let them out. That was quite bad enough, though Sam had expected worse. He tried to calculate in his head. How far could they have gotten from Barbados in a few days? Were they running with or against the great clockwise current of the westerlies? He had no idea. God, he hated sailing.

They managed to get through most of an afternoon of productively ignoring each other– Jack still in the chair, Sam lying on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if he would get thin enough to slip through one of the cracks – until there was finally another knock on the door. “You two. Come with me.”

It was Billy, again, and Sam was so weak and faint with hunger, poor pathetic creature he, that he could not even think of a snappy retort. He tried not to scramble too quickly off the bunk, though he did go briefly dizzy when he sat up, and slid down. Only to catch the seat of his breeches on a snagging nail, plunge, and break his ankle – or would have, if Jack had not adroitly caught him in both arms, de-snagged the nail, and set him on his feet. Sam was fairly sure that the heat of his face could have been glimpsed by the Old Man on the Moon.

The lock rattled, and Billy opened the door, beckoning them brusquely out. Sam saw absolutely no reason not to, and trotted up to Billy’s side as they started above, snapping his fingers under his nose. “Oy. Hey, you. You. You can keep ignoring me all you want, but I won’t shut up. Ask Jack, I’m really good at not shutting up. One of the only things I’m good at, but never mind. Where are we going? Are we there yet? Are you planning to just keep us in the dark like funguses – fungi – whatever the whole bloody time? Until your sodding maniac of a boss decides it’s time to off us, is that it? What about – ”

“Be quiet.” Billy thrust aside the hatch and pulled Sam through it, into the cool blue-gold evening air. Jack climbed out after them, with a cocked eyebrow as if to say if Billy could succeed where he had failed, he would be very surprised. “Lady Fiona is waiting for you, so – ”

“Oh, now we’re getting back to the blood-drinking bit, are we?” Sam stayed light on his feet (very light, he might crumple up and blow away with a good gust) and stared at Billy. “You know, I think I’ve figured out something about you. You just like to serve someone, it doesn’t really matter who, and when you are, you won’t think about anything else they might be doing. Then you do think about it, and go mad trying to destroy them for whatever bloody reason that is. First it was my – Captain Flint, and then you turned on him. Then you went to Woodes Rogers and sold the pirates out, and ended up stuck on Skeleton Island for your trouble. Then you found your way to Gold, made a deal with him, and then turned on him. Finally, you’ve ended up with Fiona ‘Nuttier Than Squirrel Poo’ Murray, whom presumably you will also turn on once you realize she has been a Bad Person. I could really speed that process up for you. Here: she’s terrible. Help us escape, in – I don’t know, a longboat or something, you and Jack could row, we’d steal provisions. You could still redeem yourself and do something worthwhile. Get me back home, and my family would forgive everything else.”

Billy regarded him impassively. But for a moment, he seemed almost about to answer – to justify himself, perhaps, to explain why he believed that destroying Flint was the only path remaining for him to have peace in his life, and Sam felt an odd, cold shiver. He knew just then that he did not want to end up like Billy, so fixated on eradicating one man that he couldn’t hear or accept reason at all, who was self-aware enough to know that he was proceeding down a dark path, but so stubborn and self-righteous that he felt it must be justified in the name of combating a darker evil. And by that system, in small steps and slippery slopes, he had gone from Flint to Rogers to Gold to Lady Fiona – each time, serving an objectively worse master in the name of revenge on the one before it. That’s no way to live. That’s no way to even exist.

“Your grandfather,” Billy said abruptly. “If, for the sake of argument, I was to agree to this half-baked proposition of yours, help you and Bellamy escape. Then I walk in with the pair of you, and see him. Is he going to shake my hand, thank me for my service, say we should call it fair and go our own ways? Or is he going to shoot me on the spot, now that he has me there, in sight, and can settle it once and for all?”

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. He knew his grandfather could, to say the least, be of a similarly vengeful temperament – any family with Captain Flint and Captain Hook in its branches could not be unfamiliar with its corroding influence. But surely, if Billy brought him home safe, Mum and Granny would prevail on Grandpa to forgive and let him go. Surely.

There remained, however, that pervasive small kernel of doubt. Flint and Billy had both been left behind on Skeleton Island, stranded and alone for months, and their lives forever changed as a result, but it was only Billy’s that had been destroyed. That, Sam felt, was as much down to his own choices as anything, but Flint had gotten the world back, a family, a home, a happy ending, and Billy had not. He had been dangerous before, and this made him more so, and James Flint was not in the habit of leaving alive those who had threatened or harmed his loved ones. It was possible that even if Billy brought Sam back, Flint would not consider the ledger wiped clean, and would not call off the hunt. Sam wanted to lie, to say that there would be absolution and gratitude no matter what, but the words got stuck.

Billy seemed to sense the answer nonetheless. A dark shadow passed over his face, and if there had been any chance of reaching him, of changing his mind, Sam felt it wither to dust in his hands. Billy turned away. “Come on,” he ordered. “She’s waiting.”

Stomach leaden, knowing that had been his last shot and he had missed it, Sam trailed after him into the cabin, half-expecting to see some diabolical alchemical setup with smoking crucibles and bubbling cauldrons or God knew whatever else. As such, he was almost relieved (deeply so, in fact) to realize that it was a dinner table, spread with an assortment of savory-looking dishes that immediately made his mouth water. Lady Fiona was sitting behind it in her sinister sartorial best: a low-cut black gown trimmed with sparkling onyx, and a jeweled hairpiece with a black ostrich feather pinned in her bouffant updo. “Good evening, boys,” she said sweetly. “You must be very hungry, mustn’t you?”

“We’re not,” Sam said, as his stomach once more growled like the volcano about to bury Pompeii of old. He had identified a decided problem in this apparently generous offer. “Not for whatever poisoned slop you’d be feeding us.”

“Poison?” Lady Fiona raised a heavily plucked and penciled eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

“Actually,” Sam said. “Yes.”

Lady Fiona shrugged, poured herself a cup of wine, and took a drink. Then she cut a bit off the gleaming leg of roast chicken and nibbled it daintily off the end of a golden fork, watching Sam pointedly the whole time. When this did not occasion her dramatic death, and Sam still didn’t move, she shrugged. “Bones, take them below. Apparently they’re not hungry.”

“I… wait.” Sam would have been willing to do a great deal to avoid another slow, starving day and night in the tiny berth with just ignoring Jack for entertainment. He was aware that plying a prisoner with food and drink in hopes of getting them to talk was an old interrogation trick, but at least if he knew she was trying it, that had to be worth something, didn’t it? He was so bloody, bloody hungry, and if she was going to kill them, which was extremely likely, at least he would not die on an empty stomach. “Fine. Fine.”

Lady Fiona beckoned them to sit in the two empty chairs across from her, and once more nodded for Billy to depart. Once they had, eyeing her with extreme dubiousness, she waved a magisterial hand at the table. “Help yourself. I doubt my brother fed you bountifully, now did he?”

“Your brother’s a git,” Sam said. “Runs in the family.”

Lady Fiona laughed, apparently not at all disconcerted. “Believe me, I know. Robert is quite a troublesome fiend, isn’t he? He always has been. I heard what happened to your little friend, by the by. That must have been very awful.”

Sam meant to answer, but his throat had closed up. He looked down, mastering himself, then checked what was already on her plate and served himself only from those dishes, as Jack paused, then followed suit. He didn’t much like the taste of wine, but there was nothing else to drink, so he poured a cup from the same decanter that she had earlier. Obviously there was some sort of twist or catch or whatever else, but the first bite of warm herbed chicken and steaming fresh bread with butter almost brought tears to his eyes. He munched warily, trying not to inhale it all at once, on high alert for any symptoms of abrupt and unpleasant death, but for better or worse, didn’t think she’d poisoned it. He was probably too much bloody fun to play with first.

“So,” Lady Fiona said after a few moments, seemingly when she had a chance of getting a semi-human response. “Do you want to kill my brother, young Samuel?”

Sam’s mouth was still full, so he swallowed first, feeling it undignified to spray crumbs. “And why would you let me do that?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “I don’t have any personal need to accomplish his death myself, and fratricide is rather unstylish. However, I need information on his network first, all the branches of this new society he’s built, his contacts and his influences and his acquaintances. Robert has always been very thorough when it comes to that sort of thing. I want to use his system, simple as that, and it will be easier to do it without him around to compete with me. He of course knows this, and that I need him alive until he talks, which I think even he will do, eventually. Especially if he meets his son, or rather my son. Lord Gideon Murray, he’s a fine young man, and he absolutely hates his father. I made quite sure of that.”

Sam took another bite of chicken, rather than answer too fast. He hated Gold, no doubt of that, but if there was anything worse than Gold running this secret murder society of his, it was Lady Fiona running it. He couldn’t help but feeling, again, just that tiny (very tiny) bit sorry for Gold, who was obsessed with power past all sense and had done many terrible things to many people, but at least had some crumb of human feeling and sentiment, some possibility of attachment or remorse. Lady Fiona, so far as Sam could tell, had no soul at all.

Jack, meanwhile, had an odd look on his face, as might be expected from this talk of sons hating their fathers, of being willing to destroy them for their crimes. He lifted his cup of wine to his lips, then put it back down. With considerably affected casualness, he said, “Would you happen to know if a Captain Jonathan Howe is part of this network of your brother’s? Last the commander of HMS Eagle, out of London.”

Sam shot him a sharp look, which he could see Jack pretending not to notice. Lady Fiona, for her part, tapped her fingers speculatively on the table. “The name seems somewhat familiar, yes. I am sure I could arrange to find out more. Are you interested in doing business with me, Mr. Bellamy? You would, of course, be most welcome.”

Since looks did not appear to be working, Sam kicked Jack under the table, hard. Aye, Howe needed to get very dead, and promptly with it, but he was far from sure that making a deal with the devil was the way to go about it. Even he, much as he still wanted revenge on Gold, wasn’t about to leap for the serpent’s apple that Lady Fiona was temptingly dangling. Jack wasn’t stupid, he could see she was bad bloody news, and would snap him up the instant he ceased to be useful. Right? Right?

The silence was taut and tenuous. Then Jack smiled. “I am interested, Lady Fiona,” he said. “Very much. Shall we be allies? It is a considerably more agreeable situation than prisoners.”

“It is.” Lady Fiona was practically purring, leaning across the table and giving Jack an excellent view down the front of her dress, stroking his wrist, as Sam thought he might vomit in his mouth. Then she straightened up and turned to him. “Well, Mr. Jones? Do you intend to join us?”

Sam hesitated. He could feel Jack’s eyes on him, and couldn’t be sure if this was just a ploy to get Lady Fiona on their side and inclined to treat them better for the rest of the trip, or if Jack was genuinely willing to work with her to get a shot at his father. After hearing that story, he couldn’t blame Jack, had no right to judge him, but –

But.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. His voice sounded thin and shaky, so he swallowed and tried again. “I’m sorry, both of you. But I’m not going along with it.”

“Aren’t you?” Lady Fiona considered him shrewdly. “So you don’t want to make my brother pay for what he did to your friend? That does surprise me.”

“Yes,” Sam said. “Yes, I bloody do. But I don’t want to end up like Billy Bones, revenge has already done enough damage to my family, and if I do get it, it isn’t going to be through selling my soul to you. And there’s nothing you can say about me not caring for Nathaniel as much as I thought I did to guilt-trip me otherwise. He was my friend, my best friend, and I’m going to miss him for the rest of my life, probably. Gold and Jack and the soldier who shot him are all responsible, maybe, in some way. But you know who’s the most to blame for it? Me. I’m the one who got him killed. Took him along on this adventure and thought I’d always be able to get us out of it, and I didn’t. And playing your game isn’t going to change anything about that.”

Lady Fiona’s eyebrows arched again, as if almost impressed at this display of forthcoming honesty – aye, it must be a rarity around her. “Oh, I believe you,” she said. “I quite suspected that ill-advised streak of nobility was going to resurface, in fact, so all we have to do is – ah. That worked quite well, didn’t it?”

There was a soft thud from next to Sam, and he spun in his chair to see Jack topple face-first into the table, just missing his plate. Sam stared at him, thinking he’d somehow managed to fall asleep, then suddenly was afraid he’d had an apoplexy. He reached out, gripping Jack’s shoulder and shaking him hard, but there was no response. “Hey. Hey! Jack! Jack. Jack. Jack!”

“He won’t wake,” Lady Fiona said. “I only gave him a small dose, as I didn’t want him interfering if you decided to be difficult. I gave you a bit as well, so I wouldn’t move too quickly if I were you. Might make the world go quite topsy-turvy. If you aren’t going to help me, and you don’t want to kill my brother – well, I could sell you back to your family, it’s true. But I don’t need the money, and it would set a bad example. Besides, when you refused me your blood, you did make me think of another recipe I’ve been wanting to try. The tonic works tolerably well at keeping me young, but I do have to continue taking it. If there was a solution to solve it permanently, or at least for several years – well, I might not have to kill quite so many boys, and I do get rather fond of them. So you see, sweetheart? You can still be useful after all.”

Sam jerked back from the table and tried to stand up, but just as she had warned, his legs had unaccountably turned to wet sand, and he staggered, clutching at the tablecloth and pulling it half off. His chest felt as if it had been filled with hot mud, stealing up behind his eyes. Whatever Lady Fiona had dosed him with, however she had done it, it was undeniably potent. “What?” he croaked. “What the hell are you going to do, eat my heart?”

“Oh, do you know some of the occulted arts?” Lady Fiona seemed amused. “That is in fact what I am going to do, yes, once I’ve brewed the proper potion. That should keep me in youth for at least several years, rid me of the disagreeable business of draining the boys for blood so often, and perhaps I can find a proper philosopher’s stone and do one better. I am sure Jack will regret your passing, but I will tell him some heroic story to soothe his consciousness about continuing to work with me. So.” She reached for the folded napkin next to her, flipped it over, and pulled out a black-hilted dagger, honed to a lethally sharp edge, glittering in the candlelight. “This will hurt much less if you don’t struggle.”

Sam backed away. The chair caught him painfully behind the knees, sending him stumbling, as he tried to recollect enough control of his drugged limbs to search the cabin for a weapon. He reached out, fingers clumsily batting Jack’s shoulder, but he was dead to the world. “Wake up!” Jack had protected him from the start of this adventure, however grumpily or reluctantly or unusually. From Da Souza, then the ocean, then Lieutenant Warwick and Matthew Rogers and the bo’sun on the Griffin, then Gold, then Lady Fiona earlier. Always had, and without him, Sam felt suddenly and terrifyingly vulnerable. “Jack! Wake up!”

“I told you,” Lady Fiona said. “He won’t.”

With that, she lunged at him, much quicker than one would expect for an eighty-year-old lady in long skirts, as Sam caught her wrists and forced them away from his face. He was taller than her, and probably in the ordinary course of things stronger, but she was some evil alchemy vodou witch and he was quite thoroughly foxed on whatever vile compound she’d managed to slip into the dinner. There was only one chance, and that chance was terrible. “Billy!” It came out choked, because Lady Fiona had managed to clamp one bony hand around his throat, and he was starting to see spots. Nonetheless, he struggled to get enough air into his straining lungs to try again. “BILLY! BLOODY HELL! BILLY!”

“He won’t help you.” Lady Fiona’s eyes were almost completely black. “Not when he knows his revenge on Flint is what I can give him – and aye, his revenge on my brother. Not everyone is so noble as you, to pass it up. So I’m afraid, young Samuel, you’re out of allies. Just you. And you’ve never been enough, have you? Always needed someone else to save you. Well, if it’s any comfort, now you’ll save me. I do appreciate it. Good night, sweet prince.”

She stabbed at him again, as Sam clumsily knocked it aside, but not far enough. He was aware of a distant, disconnected pain, observed the slash in his forearm and the slow, sludgy trickle of blood from it, but it barely seemed real. Then the world was cartwheeling out from under him, he was falling, and she was above him, like a ravening dark shadow, a carrion bird with black wings outstretched. Tore his shirt aside over his heart, and raised the blade –

– was that someone shouting? It wasn’t Jack, Jack was still unconscious, and Billy wasn’t coming, nobody was coming –

Then the dagger bit into his chest, hard and sharp and cold, and Sam Jones screamed.

[wearetheblacklegion]

Collected

A drabble I have written for @fuukonomiko celebrating her ascendency to Chaos godhood about her Astartes servants, renegade Blood Ravens whose kleptomania have caused them to fall to Chaos. Without further ado, here we go.

In his millennia of life, both as a warrior of the Imperium and a servant to the Ruinous Powers, Thuoris had gathered many names and titles. Captain of the Legion, Lord of the Warp Wraiths, Bane of Wolves, Tyrant of the Hive, Sorcerer of Ash and Fire, Son of the Red Cyclops, and countless others. Demons, mortals, and Astartes alike had bent knee to him or been crushed by his armies and his own considerable powers. Like all Astartes the emotion of fear was bred out of him, never once experienced since his ascendency past the mortal form. Has his twin hearts pounded, muscles tensed, and throat choked with hot air, he wondered if this was what fear felt like? Muffled but still audible through the immense stone walls were the sounds of gunfire, the screams of the wounded mingling with daemonic shrieks, and roared war cries. Thuoris racked his brain for a solution, a way out of this predicament. He had survived the Great Crusade, the Heresy, the Legion Wars, and everything that came after. By the eye of the Primarch he would not die here!

Thuoris had lead his warband to this dead world on a rumor, whispers of ancient texts and powerful artifacts hidden away. In most instances Thuoris dismissed such rumors as here-say but not this one. His reasoning was that it had been brought to him by a daemon, one bound by his own hand and power. The daemon had told him of a dead World, home to ruins of a long dead xenos civilization. It had told him of their worship of the dark gods, of their studies of the warp, how they learned to control and bend both the warp and its denizens to their will. It had not told him of how they were destroyed but instead spoke of the countless relics and knowledge left behind in the ruins, sealed away to protect them from the ravages of time. Suck knowledge would grant the owner incredible power, the power to understand the warp and bend it to their will, to enslave a legion of daemons, to rise to the highest echelons of power and favor. The thought had Thuoris nearly drooling with greed and ambition. It had taken months of warp travel through treacherous currents to reach the world, far out in the wilds of space. He had ordered a full deployment of the warband to maximize their search efforts, numbering a coven of three sorcerers including himself, fifty Rubricae, and a number of mortal cultists descending via Thunderhawk gunships.

Thuoris had been the first to set foot upon the sands of the dead world, had insisted on it. His own ego and air for theatricality would not allow otherwise. The air was hot and dry even through his helmet filters but breathable , the twin suns blazing overhead. They had landed on the outskirts of some ancient city now a crumbling ruin, following the directions given to him by the daemon. Azoth, a lesser member of the coven and Thuoris’ apprentice initiated to an Astartes long after the events of the Heresy, approached him. “I do not like it Master. Something about this world is wrong, I can sense it.” Thuoris could sense it to, the grind of the warp on his mind. The warp was close to the surface here, strong enough that one gifted could hear the faint whispers of those long dead. But Thuoris brushed it off, he would not be run off like a frightened child. “Steel yourself Azoth, we are Astartes. We press forward.” And so they did, the sorcerers encircled by the Rubricae and the mortals trailing behind. They trudged through the crumbling ruins, past once towering buildings, and statues of beings now worn away by time. Their procession lead them to the center of the lost city, a surprisingly intact acropolis of worn sandy stone. Sensor data from the orbiting ship blared down to the, warnings of an encroaching sandstorm. “Come, we enter now!”

The acropolis was a place of worship at some point, the ancients decorated with half decayed mosaics of heroes, gods, and unknown beings. Mortals carrying glow lamps illuminated the path though their number was reduced. The dead had not left this place unguarded, ancient traps still operating and lethal. Through the winding passageways they had left a trail of dead cultists. From the dark corridors they finally emerged into a large circular chamber. Thuoris deduced it to be some kind of sacrificial chamber given the stone altar set in the middle. But where was the relics and tomes, the hidden caches of forbidden knowledge? His thoughts were interrupted by the echoes of gunfire. Someone or something had engaged the Rubricae he left to guard their way back. He whirled and began issuing orders. “Azoth, Graal, take the mortals and return to the entrance. If someone has followed us, kill them. I will remain here. His fellow Thousand Sons nodded their consent and moved to do as he bid.

So now he stood, waiting for their return, surrounded by his fifteen remaining Rubricae. The din of battle had faded, replaced only by the rising clank of heavy boots on stone floor. Thuoris peered into the darkness, reaching out with his psychic sense for a trace of his brothers presence"Azoth? Graal? What has happened?” Two rounded objects came flying out of the dark tunnel, thudding across the floor and rolling to a stop at the feet of the Rubricae. Thuoris’ mouth faked under his helm as he stared at the severed heads of Azoth and Graal. From within the darkness came a loud, echoing warcry. “All! Is! Eternal!” Astartes clad in dark red power armor surged forth from the tunnels, bolters cracking a hail for fire, The Rubricae fired back but were futile slow, falling in shattered armor and clouds of dust as the explosive shells tore through them. There was no time to think, to plan, to identify these unknown attackers, only to react. Thuoris identified one he guessed to be the leader, a powerful figure striding through the ranks carrying a Thunder Hammer. Gathering his psychic might he lashed out at the individual, unholy flames eclipsing him. Thuoris smiled but it was quickly wiped from his face as the warrior stepped through the flames unharmed. He gathered his concentration for another attack when a sudden force knocked the air from his lungs, lifting him off his feet and hurling him through the air. He collided with the stone altar in a crash of armor an stone. Pain lanced through him as he felt several ribs break and tasted blood in his mouth. Groggily he tried to rise but something heavy and forcefully cracked against his head, smashing into the floor and blackness eclipsed him.

He came to groggily, vision blurred and head pounding. He blinked away the fog, the world slowly coming into focus. He was still in the chamber, lying with his back on hard stone. The air tasted stale in his lungs, someone had removed his helm. He went to rise but found he could not, his limbs bound with heavy chains. He tried to gather his psychic power but his mind was blurred, unfocused. He could hear voices nearby and he struggled against the bindings, cursing in Prosperan. He was surprised when another voice answered in his native tongue. “Ah brother, you are awake.” A figure moved into his view, an armored Astartes. He could just make out the symbol on the shoulder pauldron, it appeared to a…… scroll or a book? “You are….. not Prosperon.” His captor laughed, the vox disruption making it a horrifying sound. “No brother I am not. But is a beautiful language, valued by the goddess and worthy of preservation. Aren’t all languages though? Each syllable is unique, a twist of the tongue forming sounds that can be composed into words, each individual yet part of a greater whole.” He continued to ramble, confusing him even more. He’d never heard any renegade speak in such a manner and he talked of a goddess so they were not of the hated Imperium. “Who… are you?”, he growled. Again his captor laughed. “Who are we brother? We are the providers of the Eternal Vaults, chosen of the Goddess herself, collectors of the universe. We are the Eternal Keepers.” The name did not register with any Warband Thuoris knew of but that was not uncommon with the countless splinters that roamed the Eye and beyond. “What do you want?” “Why you of course? You have chosen brother, for you are unique. You have gathered so many interesting titles and you are a son of Magnus. That will make you most beloved by the goddess. Ah but now our conversation must end. It is time for you to go.” Thuoris could hear chanting rising in volume, vocal cords twisting to produce words not meant for human tongue, and he could feel the energy of the warp crackling in the air. He struggled more, thrashing against his chains, but it was to no avail. Shrieking syllables and inhuman vowels echoed through the chamber as reality tore around him. He found himself unable to turn away, gazing through the tear into the endless expanse of the Eternal Vaults. He saw daemons the likes of which he’d never seen before buzzing, chittering, cataloging the countless specimens of an unspeakable collection. The demons raised their heads, clawed hands reaching for him as immeasurable power froze his limbs, his muscles, even his soul. Thuoris, lord of the Warp Wraiths, Sorcerer of Ash and Fire, Son of Magnus the Red, screamed as the many limbs tore him from the altar and dragged him through. As the rift closed the chamber echoed with the praises roared by the Eternal Keepers, mingling with a sound only they could hear. The renegades departed from the dead city with the delighted laugh of a pleased goddess ringing in their ears.

[honorificabilitudinatatibus]

A Sketch of Napoleon

               Born on a pile of tapestry— because that’s what it was. From the moment that the titan Cronos bestowed his dying breath into the infant boy’s lungs, it was evident that— it was not yet certain what was evident, but something about his unmistakable sense of ennui captivated the people around him. When he grew older and began to attend the military school of Brienne, whenever anyone tried to correct him, he simply said, “I know it, sir.” And that was the end of every conversation, because it was evident that he, indeed, knew.

               He was twenty years old when the revolution broke out, and all of a sudden, Achilles, Hector, and Ajax were no longer just configurations of letters in his Iliad and colorful stitches in a lifeless piece of cloth; they were alive on the continent, and their names were Robespierre, Danton, and Marat. The twenty-year old Corsican nationalist went home to find his hero— the godlike Pascal Paoli— but found that despite his apparent willingness and mental capacity, his hero held him out at arm’s length. The young Napoleone di Buonaparte, instead of turning the other cheek for his cause, realized for the first time that he held the unfortunate position of being an alien no matter where he went, and returned to the unstable climate of France where there was no place for anyone anymore.

---

               In the space of five short years, the Corsican didn’t recognize himself anymore, and perhaps, this way, it was for the better. It was, for all intents and purposes, a narrative of five parts.

               I— In 1795, he gave the royalists in Paris a whiff of grapeshot and became a hero. He became bewitched by Josephine de Beauharnais, a beautiful widow six years his elder. He was too in love with being in love with her to see that she resented him.

               II— In 1796, he married her. There was no ceremony—with a batch of paperwork, Napoleon and Josephine became Citoyen and Citoyenne Bonaparte.

               III— in 1796, he took Italy, and learned, at last, that his dear wife was far dearer to him than he was to her. It took a night of her relentlessly pounding on his door for him to forgive her for all she had done to wrong him, but when all had been said and done, he no longer loved her.

               IV— in 1798, forty centuries looked down upon him in Egypt.

               V— finally, in 1799, the coup of 18 Brumaire promotes him to First Consul of the First Republic. The man who once kissed the feet of Paoli, who once worshipped Voltaire, now has France wrapped around his little finger.

---

               It took another five years before the First Consul of France (and new President of the Republic of Italy) decides, once again, that what he has— and all he has accomplished— is no longer enough. If consul wasn’t enough for Julius Caesar, his lifelong idol, then it isn’t enough for him. And it wouldn’t be enough to be a king, either. So, on December second, 1804, Napoleon Bonaparte takes the crown of Charlemagne from the hands of the pope, and, as time seems to stop moving in the frigid air of the Notre Dame of Paris, places it on his own head. He proceeds to call himself emperor, and the world follows suit.

---

               What is there to want anymore? At the mere age of thirty-five, Napoleon Bonaparte has the world at his disposal. In his heart he knows that he possesses the competence that only people whose names usually ended in “The Great” carried, but he knows that a brief look at the history of his rise to power would make it evident that the strength in his career really all manifested itself in being at the right place at the right time. He begins to play games to see how far he can go without flying too close to the sun— already, as it is, he stands quite close. He first divides France into 83 administrative districts. He overhauls and reforms the education system. He combines the laws of the land into a single civil code, which is perhaps the proudest of his many achievements to date.

               And then there are the Icarus moments. In an attempt to maintain his popularity, he shuts down every newspaper in Paris except for those that worship him. He appoints his brothers and sisters as kings and queens of lands where they do not belong. And in 1812, seven years after the victory at Austerlitz, he decides to retaliate against England and Russia, the two countries which refuse to fall under his command; in an act of revenge, he decides to invade Russia.

---

               By the time that the great imperial army fights its way to Moscow, the city lays in cold embers at the emperor’s feet. As wind whistles and newly-burnt ruins lay sound, for the first time the Corsican tastes defeat. Leaving scores of thousands of his ever-faithful men to the murderous hands of general snow, he retreats, not having completely fallen into the sea, but struggling to hover with whatever he has left.

---

               Two years later, he abdicates, as is demanded by the coalition of all of Europe against France— that is, if by France, they meant Napoleon Bonaparte. Tasting melancholy for the first time in a long while, he begrudgingly kissed his guards goodbye at Fontainebleau. On the way out of the country that he, the self-made man, shaped with his own two hands, he greets the passers-by at every village he stopped through. And he sees that in his attempts to stylize himself as a god, as a hero, as Caesar, as Alexander the Great, all he had done was shift his own image so out of proportion that none of these people recognize him as their emperor anymore. But being the person he is, he refuses to accept that this is the death of the Emperor.

---

               One year. One year is all it takes for the menace of all of Europe to grow bored with the island of Elba. He decides that there is, after all, a difference between him and Caesar; between him and the heroes of his history books and tapestries. Napoleon Bonaparte was a name that would be savored for eternity, and not because he, like the other, lost in the end, but because he, unlike the others, managed to win one last time.

When he arrives in France again, surrounded by allies and enemies, he bares his chest to the world and shouts that anyone who dared shoot their emperor has the right to do so. No one shoots. It seems a good omen.

---

He remains stubborn until the bitter end of his career, and perhaps that is why, after losing to the seventh alliance, he proceeds to call the Battle of Waterloo the Battle of Mont-Saint-Jean. He has in his mind from the beginning that something will go wrong, but because of the unfortunate fact that he is a human being, he doesn’t know what. The words of advice that he had given to himself not so long ago (for he is his own adviser) repeat themselves in his head as he watches his final, faithful army fall to that of that tyrant Wellesley and his damned coalition. He tells himself over and over that he must be different than the others, that he cannot, under any circumstances, flame out and die young. But the dashing young general who had dominated Italy and Egypt has been gone since 1799.

---

Napoleon Bonaparte, without title, without fortune, abdicates life on the British Island of Saint Helena in 1821, on the British Isle of Saint Helena. In his final six years the once-conqueror spends his days drawing out the game to a finish. He dictates his memoirs in the hopes that someone will one day read them and try to understand him. He spends hours playing chess, reminiscing about the days when the silly board game had been his reality.

He just cannot being himself to live in the present where the empire is lost, the revolution is dead, Josephine is dead, and all he had done and taken for granted in the span of fifty-one years is gone— all gone! As if none of it happened to begin with! Captured only in art and writing which people now know does not represent the reality of the situation! Between the hours of distraction— chess— hours-long baths— entertaining guests in a mockery of what had once been— dying, eventually— he, as the biographers and scholars who will go on to follow his jumbled legacy, asks himself:

What would have happened if he had won that fateful day? Would he have gone on to become the hero he envisioned? Or would he have lost some other way? Will he be at least remembered as one of the great conquerors, if nothing else? Is this the way that Caesar felt as he lay dying? Filled with regret and desperation but with a tiny amount of hope at imagining what could have been?

               “Who retreats…” he rasped with whatever was left of Cronos’s dying breath, perhaps unaware that these were his parting words. “Head of the army…”

[torixus]

History of St. Pachomius a Bishop who Founded Communal Monasticism

Though St. Antony be justly esteemed the institutor of the cenobitic life, or that of religious persons living in community under a certain rule, St. Pachomius was the first who drew up a monastic rule in writing. He was born in Upper Thebais about the year 292, of idolatrous parents, and was educated in their blind superstition, and in the study of the Egyptian sciences. From his infancy, he was meek and modest, and had an aversion to the profane ceremonies used by the infidels in the worship of their idols. Being about twenty years of age, he was pressed into the emperor's troops, probably the tyrant Maximinus, who was master of Egypt from the year 310; and in 312 made great levies to carry on a war against Licinius and Constantine. He was, with several other recruits, put on board a vessel that was falling down the river. They arrived in the evening at Thebes, or Diospolis, the capital of Thebais, a city in which dwelt many Christians. Those true disciples of Christ sought every  opportunity of relieving and comforting all that were in distress, and were moved with compassion towards the recruits, who were kept close confined, and very ill-treated. The Christians of this city showed them the same tenderness as if they had been their own children; took all possible care of them, and supplied them liberally with money and necessaries.

Such an uncommon example of disinterested virtue made a great impression on the mind of Pachomius. He inquired who their pious benefactors were, and when he heard that they believed in Jesus Christ the only Son of God, and that in the hope of a reward in the world to come, they labored continually to do good to all mankind, he found kindled in his heart a great love of so holy a law, and an ardent desire of serving the God whom these good men adored. The next day, when he was continuing his journey down the river, the remembrance of this purpose strengthened him to resist a carnal temptation. From his infancy he had been always a lover of chastity and temperance but the example of the Christians had made those virtues appear to him far more amiable, and in a new light.

After the overthrow of Maximinus, his forces were disbanded. Pachomius was no sooner returned home, but he repaired to a town in Thebais, in which there was a Christian church, and there he entered his name among the catechumens, or such as were preparing for baptism; and having gone through the usual course of preliminary instructions and practices with great attention and fervor, he received that sacrament at Chenoboscium, with great sentiments of piety and devotion. From his first acquaintance with our holy faith at Thebes, he had always made this his prayer: "O God, Creator of heaven and earth, cast on me an eye of pity: deliver me from my miseries: teach me the true way of pleasing you, and it shall be the whole employment, and most earnest study of my life to serve you, and to do your will." The perfect sacrifice of his heart to God, was the beginning of his eminent virtue. The grace by which God reigns in a soul, is a treasure infinitely above all price. We must give all to purchase it. To desire it faintly is to undervalue it. He is absolutely disqualified and unfit for so great a blessing, and unworthy ever to receive it, who seeks it by halves, or who does not esteem all other things as dung that he may gain Christ.

When Pachomius was baptized, he began seriously to consider with himself how he should most faithfully fulfil the obligations which he had contracted, and attain to the great end to which he aspired. There is danger even in fervor itself. It is often an artifice of the devil to make a novice undertake too much at first, and run indiscreetly beyond his strength. If the sails gather too much wind, the vessel is driven ahead, falls on some rock and splits. Eagerness is a symptom of secret passion, not of true virtue, where it is wilful and impatient at advice. Pachomius was far from so dangerous a disposition, because his desire was pure, therefore his first care was to find a skilful conductor.

Hearing that a venerable old man named Palemon, served God in the desert in great perfection, he sought him out, and with great earnestness begged to live under his direction. The hermit having set before him the difficulties and austerities of his way of life, which several had already attempted in vain to follow, advised him to make a trial of his strength and fervor in some monastery; and, to give him a sketch of the difficulties he had to encounter in the life he aspired to, he added: "Consider, my son, that my diet is only bread and salt: I drink no wine, use no oil, watch one half of the night, spending that time in singing psalms or in meditating on the holy scriptures, and sometimes pass the whole night without sleeping." Pachomius was amazed at this account, but not discouraged. He thought himself able to undertake every thing that might be a means to render his soul pleasing to God, and readily promised to observe whatever Palemon should think fit to enjoin him; who thereupon admitted him into his cell, and gave him the monastic habit. Pachomius was by his example enabled to bear solitude, and an acquaintance with himself. They sometimes repeated together the psalter, at other times they exercised themselves in manual labors (which they accompanied with interior prayer,) with a view to their own subsistence and the relief of the poor. Pachomius prayed above all things, for perfect purity of heart, that being disengaged from all secret attachment to creatures, he might love God with all his affections. And to destroy the very roots of all inordinate passions, it was his first study to obtain the most profound humility, and perfect patience and meekness. He prayed often with his arms stretched out in the form of a cross; which posture was then much used in the church. He was in the beginning often drowsy at the night office. Palemon used to rouse him, and say: "Labor and watch, my dear Pachomius, lest the enemy overthrow you and ruin all your endeavors." Against this weakness and temptation he enjoined him, on such occasions, to carry sand from one place to another, till his drowsiness was overcome. By this means the novice strengthened himself in the habit of watching. Whatever instructions he read or heard, he immediately endeavored fervently to reduce to practice.

One Easter-day Palemon bade the disciple prepare a dinner for that great festival. Pachomius took a little oil, and mixed it with the salt, which he pounded small, and added a few wild herbs, which they were to eat with their bread. The holy old man having made his prayer, came to table; but at the sight of the oil he struck himself on the forehead, and said, with tears: "My Saviour was crucified, and shall I indulge myself so far as to eat oil?" Nor could he be prevailed upon to taste it.

Pachomius used sometimes to go into a vast uninhabited desert, on the banks of the Nile, called Tabenna, in the diocese of Tentyra, a city between the Great and Little Diospolis. While he was there one day in prayer, he heard a voice which commanded him to build a monastery in that place, in which he should receive those who should be sent by God to serve him faithfully. He received, about the same time, from an angel who appeared to him, certain instructions relating to a monastic life.. Pachomius going back to Palemon, imparted to him this vision; and both of them coming to Tabenna, built there a little cell towards the year 325, about twenty years after St. Antony had founded his first monastery. After a short time, Palemon returned to his former dwelling, having promised his disciple a yearly visit, but he died soon after, and is honored in the Roman Martyrology on the 11th of January.

Pachomius received first his own eldest brother John, and after his death many others, so that he enlarged his house; and the number of his monks in a short time amounted to a hundred. Their clothing was of rough linen; that of St. Pachomius himself often haircloth. He passed fifteen years without ever lying down, taking his short rest sitting on a stone. He even grudged himself the least time which he allowed to necessary sleep, because he wished he could have been able to employ all his moments in the actual exercises of divine love. From the time of his conversion he never ate a full meal. By his rule, the fasts and tasks of work were proportioned to every one's strength; though all are together in one common refectory, in silence, with their cowl or hood drawn over their heads, that they might not see one another at their meals. Their habit was a tunic of white linen without sleeves, with a cowl of the same stuff; they wore on their shoulders a white goatskin, called a Melotes. They received the holy communion on the first and last days of every week. Novices were tried with great severity before they were admitted to the habit, the taking of which was then deemed the monastic profession, and attended with the vows. St. Pachomius preferred none of his monks to holy orders, and his monasteries were often served by priests from abroad, though he admitted priests, when any presented themselves, to the habit, and he employed them in  the functions of their ministry. All his monks were occupied in various kinds of manual labor: no moment was allowed for idleness. The saint, with the greatest care, comforted and served the sick himself. Silence was so strictly observed at Tabenna, that a monk, who wanted any thing necessary, was only to ask for it by signs. In going from one place to another, the monks were ordered always to meditate on some passage of the holy scripture, and sing psalms at their work. The sacrifice of the mass was offered for every monk that died, as we read in the life of St. Pachomius. His rule was translated into Latin by St. Jerome, and is still extant. He received the sickly and weak, rejecting none for the want of corporal strength, being desirous to conduct to heaven all souls which had fervor to walk in the paths of perfection. He built six other monasteries in Thebias, not far asunder, and from the year 336, chose often to reside in that of Pabau, or Pau, near Thebes, in its territory, though not far from Tabenna, situated in the neighboring province of Diospolis, also in Thebais. Pabau became a more numerous and more famous monastery than Tabenna itself. By the advice of Serapion, bishop of Tentyra, he built a church in a village for the benefit of the poor shepherds, in which for some time he performed the office of Lector, reading to the people the word of God with admirable fervor; in which function he appeared rather like an angel than a man. He converted many infidels, and zealously opposed the Arians, but could never be induced by his bishop to receive the holy order of priesthood. In 333, he was favored with a visit of St. Athanasius at Tabenna. His sister, at a certain time, came to his monastery desiring to see him; but he sent her word at the gate, that no woman could be allowed to enter his enclosure, and that she ought to be satisfied with hearing that he was alive. However, it being her desire to embrace a religious state, he built her a nunnery on the other side of the Nile, which was soon filled with holy virgins. St. Pachomius going one day to Pane, one of his monasteries, met the funeral procession of a tepid monk deceased. Knowing the wretched state in which he died and to strike a terror into the slothful, he forbade his monks to proceed in singing psalms, and ordered the clothes which covered the corpse to be burnt, saying: "Honors could only increase his torments; but the ignominy with which his body was treated, might move God to show more mercy to his soul; for God forgives some sins not only in this world, but also in the next." When the procurator of the house had sold the mats at market at a higher price than the saint had bid him, he ordered him to carry back the money to the buyers, and chastised him for his avarice.

Among many miracles wrought by him, the author of his life assures us, that though he had never learned the Greek or Latin tongues, he sometimes miraculously spoke them; he cured the sick and persons possessed by devils with blessed oil. But he often told sick or distressed persons, that their sickness or affliction was an effect of the divine goodness in their behalf; and he only prayed for their temporal comfort, with this clause or condition, if it should not prove hurtful to their souls. His dearest disciple, St. Theodorus, who after his death succeeded him in the government of his monasteries, was afflicted with a perpetual headache. St. Pachomius, when desired by some of the brethren to pray for his health, answered: "Though abstinence and prayer be of great merit, yet sickness, suffered with patience, is of much greater." He chiefly begged of God the spiritual health of the souls of his disciples and others, and took every opportunity to curb and heal their passions, especially that of pride. One day a certain monk having doubled his diligence at work, and made two mats instead of one, set them where St. Pachomius might see them. The saint perceiving the snare, said, "This brother hath taken a great deal of pains from morning till night, to give his work to the devil." And, to cure his vanity by humiliations, he enjoined him, by way of penance, to keep his cell fire months, with no other allowance than a little bread, salt, and water. A young man named Sylvanus; who had been an actor on the stage, entered the monastery of St. Pachomius with the view of doing penance, but led for some time an undisciplined life, often transgressing the rules of the house, and still fond of entertaining himself and others with buffooneries. The man of God endeavored to make him sensible of his danger by charitable remonstrances, and also employed his more potent arms of prayer, sighs, and tears, for his poor soul. Though for some time he found his endeavors fruitless, he did not desist on that account; and having one day represented to this impenitent sinner, in a very pathetic manner, the dreadful judgments which threaten those that mock God, the divine grace touching the heart of Sylvanus, he from that moment began, to lead a life of great edification to the rest of the brethren; and being moved with the most feeling sentiments of compunction, he never failed, wheresoever he was, and howsoever employed, to bewail with bitterness his past misdemeanors. When others entreated him to moderate the floods of his tears, "Ah," said he, "how can I help weeping, when I consider the wretchedness of my past life, and that by my sloth I have profaned what was most sacred? I have reason to fear lest the earth should open under my feet, and swallow me up, as it did Dathan and Abiron. Oh! suffer me to labor with ever-flowing fountains of tears, to expiate my innumerable sins. I ought, if I could, even to pour forth this wretched soul of mine in mourning; it would be all too little for my offences." In these sentiments of contrition he made so "real progress in virtue, that the holy abbot proposed him as a model of humility to the rest; and when, after eight years spent in this penitential course, God had called him to himself by a holy death, St. Pachomius was assured by a revelation, that his soul was presented by angels a most agreeable sacrifice to Christ. The saint was favored with a spirit of prophecy, and with great grief foretold the decay of monastic fervor in his order in succeeding ages. In 348 he was cited before a council of bishops at Latopolis, to answer certain matters laid to his charge. He justified himself against the calumniators, but in such a manner that the whole council admired his extraordinary humility. The same year, God afflicted his monasteries with a pestilence, which swept off a hundred monks. The saint himself fell sick, and during forty days suffered a painful distemper with incredible patience and cheerfulness, discovering a great interior joy at the approach of the end of his earthly pilgrimage. In his last moments he exhorted his monks to fervor, and having armed himself with the sign of the cross, resigned his happy soul into the hands of his Creator in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He lived to see in his different monasteries seven thousand monks. His order subsisted in the cast till the eleventh century: for Anselm, bishop of Havelburgh, writes, that he saw five hundred monks of this institute in a monastery at Constantinople. St. Pachomius formed his disciples to so eminent a degree of perfection chiefly by his own fervent spirit and example; for he always appeared the first, the most exact, and the most fervent, in all the exercises of the community. To the fervor and watchfulness of the superior it was owing that in so numerous a community discipline was observed with astonishing regularity, as Palladius and Cassian observe. The former says that they ate with their cowl drawn so as to hide the greatest part of their faces, and with their eyes cast down, never looking at one another. Many contented themselves with taking a very few mouthfuls of bread and oil, or of such like dish; others of pottage only. So great was the silence that reigned among them while every one followed his employment, that in the midst of so great a multitude; a person seemed to be in a solitude. Cassian tells us, that the more numerous the monastery was, the more perfect and rigorous was regular observance of discipline, and all constantly obeyed their superior more readily than a single person is found to do in other places. Nothing so much weakens the fervor of inferiors as the example of a superior who easily allows himself exemptions or dispensations in the rule. The relaxation of monastic discipline is often owing to no other cause.

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