#Auburn Hills Day Care Center

[thelearningexperienceauburnhills]

Day care center

Website : https://thelearningexperience.com/centers/auburn-hills-mi/

Address : 2635 N Squirrel Rd, Auburn Hills, MI 48326

We make early education and daycare joyful, engaging, and fun for infants, toddlers, and preschool-aged children! Since 2002, The Learning Experience has been positively impacting the lives of children ages six weeks to six years by developing and implementing ground-breaking childcare and early education programs. Our proprietary curriculum encourages children to learn in their favorite way: by exploring and doing. This forms a foundation for kids to Learn, Play and Grow under the care of our nurturing teachers. The Learning Experience curriculum is created to meet or exceed nationwide standards and it’s all-inclusive—with all curriculum programs and enrichment programs like music, engineering and fitness, offered at no additional charge.

[labyrinth-runner]

Kilts and Kisses

Secret Cupid Submission

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, @peacefulwizardfox​. I accidentally posted this early so I’m really hoping I didn’t just ruin the surprise. 

Here’s some cute, fluffy Obi-Wan x Reader action for you.

Summary: Obi-Wan and Reader head to Stewjon to track down the source of missing resources. What they find instead? Feelings.

Warnings: None

Word count: Almost 5000. I’m not apologizing.

“Resources are missing. To Stewjon you will go. Get to the bottom of this, you must,” Master Yoda had said. His voice echoed in your mind as you watched the streaks of stars pass outside the viewport of your room. You had split off from Master Kenobi, noting that he took on a somber attitude since take off. 

However, left to your own thoughts, you found yourself thinking of the Jedi that was sent with you. You’ve always admired Master Kenobi. He was efficient and perhaps the best Jedi that you knew. Yet.... you couldn’t deny that he was also the most handsome Jedi that you knew. That thought had been banished to the back of your mind ever since you two had parted ways to become padawans to your respective Masters. The years apart did nothing to dull your feelings, unfortunately.

A breath passed through your lips as you heard a knock at the door. “Come in.”

Obi-Wan entered and took a seat on the bunk next to you. “We’ll be arriving shortly.”

“Will you finally tell me what the plan is?” you asked with a slight smile. “After spending all that time alone, surely you have one by now.”

“Well, Stewjon is a fairly popular destination for people looking for agricultural work,” Obi-Wan noted.

“So we’re farmers,” you nodded. “With zero agricultural experience.”

“I never said it was a good plan,” he chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, “Fair enough.”

You felt the ship come out of hyperspace and got up. “Come on, let’s go land this ship.”

The world that you landed on was lush and green. There were sprawling hills and valleys filled with farms and small cottages on the outskirts. There were a few cities speckled here and there, great walls of stone erected to protect them.

“It’s odd to see such a peaceful planet with so many defenses,” you commented as you walked through the city.

“The early people of the planet were feudal clans. Since then, there’s been peace between them,” Obi-Wan explained. “But the Clans are still in charge, and there is still a bit of competitive friction between them.”

“If there’s friction, then how fragile is their peace?” you asked skeptically.

“Not as fragile as you would think. Every year they host games where the Clans compete against each other. It’s a way to get out aggression and foster unity,” he replied.

You nodded, “Well, how exactly are we going to investigate the missing resources?”

“Well, if we can get jobs as-”

“Abhainn!” A woman cried out as she grabbed the arm of the man beside her.

“Edine, what is it?” the man asked as he turned to her.

She pointed at the two of you and you froze.

“Well, this is the fastest I’ve ever been caught on a mission,” you muttered.

“You’ve clearly never been on a mission with me,” Obi-Wan sighed as the couple came over to you.

“I’m tellin’ you, Abhainn, it has to be,” she murmured in awe. “A mother always knows.”

“Lad, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Obi-Wan cast a glance at you. “Why?”

“You just... look like a boy I had to give up a long time ago,” Edine said softly, “We gave him up to be a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in shock. “I-”

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” you said, gracefully stepping forward to take his hand. 

Edine smiled broadly and enveloped Obi-Wan in a strong hug. “A sheòid,” she said happily.

Obi-Wan hugged back, a conflicted look in his eyes.

She pulled back, confusion apparent on her face, “But why are you back? We thought you were to be a Jedi, a sheòid?”

“I was,” Obi-Wan looked at you, catching your eye with a smirk. He held up your hand in his, “But, then I met this one and decided to leave.”

You knew he was just trying to salvage the mission, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest.

Edine’s critical eye turned to you, taking you in to see if you were good enough for my son. “Well, Hen, I hope you’re taking care of him.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” you nodded.

“Well, why’d you come back here?” Abhainn asked.

“For work,” Obi-Wan explained.

“I see,” his father nodded. “And where are you staying?”

“Probably in a hotel,” Obi-Wan admitted.

“Nonsense, a sheòid!” Edine said. 

“She’s right,” Abhainn said, puffing up slightly, “You are the son of Clan Chief Abhainn of Clan Kenobi. No son of mine will stay in a hotel when he can stay in his ancestral home.”

Obi-Wan bowed his head in concession, “Of course. We would be honored.”

“Edine, take them home. Tell the cook to prepare a feast. I’ll be home shortly as soon as I conclude business here in town,” Abhainn said, giving Edine a kiss on the cheek.

Edine beamed at the two of you before leading you back home. She pointed out all the important spots of town, trying to cram in 36 years of history into a 30 minute walk. It was important to her, you could see, that Obi-Wan knew that they never stopped thinking about him.

Soon enough, you found yourselves in an old stone castle. Your face was full of awe and wonderment at the idea that Obi-Wan Kenobi, your Obi-Wan, could have grown up in a place like this. Yet, the look was not matched. As you looked at him out of the corner of your eye, all you saw was embarrassment at being the center of attention and affection. Part of you wanted to laugh. The most dramatic man in the galaxy was embarrassed by his mother. Some things truly were universal. 

“Edine,” he murmured eventually. “We’ve had a long trip. Would you mind if we went to our rooms to rest before the festivities?”

“Of course,” Edine said, but you could see her deflate slightly at the rebuff. She showed you to a large room upstairs, “Here you go.”

“There’s only one bed,” Obi-Wan commented.

“Well, you’re married. I didn’t think it would be a problem,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“It’s not,” you replied. “It’s just been a while since we’ve had such nice lodgings. The ships we’ve been staying on have only offered pods or beds only large enough for one person. It’ll be nice to share a bed again. Thank you, Edine.”

“You’re welcome, Hen,” Edine said before leaving the two of you alone.

Obi-Wan laid on the bed and let out a long sigh. “Well, this is a mess.”

“On the contrary,” you replied, “I think this could work towards our advantage.”

“We’re trying to be stealthy, and yet we’ve attracted so much attention,” he groaned. “How is this ideal?”

“Well, we can get information from your family. Force, you could even use their connections to get you a better job that could garner more information than we could ever gain by working in the fields,” you said, sitting next to him.

“It just... feels wrong,” he murmured, turning to look at you. “We’re taking advantage of a woman’s kindness when I don’t even see her as my mother. The Order was my home. As incredible as Abhainn is, Qui-Gon was the closest thing to a father figure that I had.”

You swallowed, placing a hand on his. “What are the odds of meeting your biological parents, Obi-Wan? Perhaps this was the will of the force.”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Well, you should rest. I’m going to get ready for this feast and call back to Coruscant to let them know the latest developments.”

“Alright,” you replied, brow furrowing in concern. You crawled into bed to take a nap to counteract the lag you were experiencing from traveling.

When you woke hours later, you spotted a handsome auburn haired man in a kilt and a flowing white shirt. It took you a moment to realize it was Master Kenobi.

“Did you transform into a highlander while I was asleep?” you teased as you sat up.

“When on a planet, make like the natives,” he shrugged. “Here’s an outfit for you, too.”

You eyed the tartan garments wearily. It had been a while since you wore anything other than your robes, but you knew that Obi-Wan was right. If you were to succeed at this mission, you would have to blend in to the best of your ability. People were more likely to trust those who seemed like them. Turning your back to him, you undressed and changed into the clothes left for you. 

“Well, how do I look?” you asked, raising a brow at him.

“I...” he trailed off as a blush tinged his cheeks, momentarily speechless. He quickly cleared his throat and recovered, “Like a true clanswoman. Now, let’s head to this feast.”

He offered you his arm and you hooked into his, walking with him down the stairs to find a party already roaring in the hall. 

Everywhere you went, people clapped Obi-Wan on the shoulder and welcomed him home. He gave them awkward nods and smiles, clearly uncomfortable with all the attention and affection. You couldn’t blame him. Everyone in the temple was quite withdrawn. You were lucky to have a slightly affectionate Master as a padawan, so you didn’t wither under the critical gaze of his family. Quite the opposite, really. You were thriving. You commanded the room with a sense of belonging. No one batted an eye at you as you made your rounds, learning names and stories to see who was best to help you and Obi-Wan in your mission.

Eventually, you found yourself talking to a cousin of Obi-Wan’s, Hamish.

“Someone as well-traveled as he is shouldn’t be working in the fields,” Hamish commented.

“I agree,” you smirked. “You haven’t seen him with my garden. He’s sent more of my plants to the force than I would have liked.”

“He should work with me,” Hamish nodded. 

“And where do you work?” you asked curiously.

“I work with the planetary government,” Hamish said proudly.

“I thought Stewjon was run by the clans.”

“Oh, it is, lass, but that doesn’t mean that there is no need for a governmental body. It’s part of how we keep the clans in check and keep trade open. Lately, a few of the clans have been underperforming in their exports. We’ve had to resort to opening up a dialogue with our neighbors. However, not all of them speak Basic,” Hamish said, leaning in. “We’re in need of a translator.”

You caught Obi-Wan’s eye from across the room and smiled, feeling your face heat up slightly. “I think he’d be perfect for that.”

“Great, I’ll bring him with me in the morning,” Hamish grinned. “He’s lucky to have a strong lass like you behind him.”

You chuckled, thinking of all the times you’d supported each other over the years. “Trust me, Hamish. I’m the lucky one.”

With a knowing smile, you continued your turn around the room until the party started to die down. Then, you carefully excused yourself to go back up to your room and sleep. 

When you woke the next morning, Obi-Wan was gone. He left you a note saying that he had gone to work with Hamish and that he would be talking to you about that later. In the meantime, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself.

The lazy morning light streaked across your bed, casting you in a warm glow. You stretched slightly before getting yourself ready for the day. 

Once downstairs, you heard screaming and squealing. Your training kicked in immediately and you found yourself running towards the sound.

It was not what you had expected. There were children running and playing games in the field. Their squeals of laughter were infectious and you caught a tired Edine trailing behind them to keep an eye on them as she bounced a baby on her hip.

“Ah, good. You’re up, Hen,” Edine smiled as she spotted you. “I was worried you’d be down for the count after last night’s feast.”

“I can keep up, if that’s what you were wondering,” you smiled as you fell in step with her. Your eyes fell to the little girl in her arms. “Who’s this beauty?”

“Ah, this wee one is Greer,” Edine said, nuzzling her nose against the baby’s. “Technically, she’s your niece. Would you like to hold her?”

“Me?” you asked. A slight panic settled in your chest as she passed the babe into your arms. However, after the first initial wave of fear was banished, you found yourself thinking of all the times you’d babysat the chreche for Master Yoda. Back then, it had been out of duty. But now? Now this awakened something deep in you. As the baby looked up at you with her bright eyes, she smiled and grasped your finger tightly. Your eyes softened as you bonded.

“Hello, lassie,” you murmured. “You are so incredibly precious.”

Edine watched you closely, a smile forming on her face. “How long have you known Obi?”

“Years,” you admitted, playing with the baby to keep her from entangling her tiny fingers in the scarf you wore around your neck. As you rocked her, you listened to her coo and giggle.

“Would you ever want kids, Lass?” Edine asked.

You looked down at the girl in your arms, smiling softly at her. As a Master, you’d be responsible for a padawan. They would be like your own to guide. That would have to be enough for you. In another life, though... you let the thought die before it finished. “I would.”

Someone cleared their throat from behind you. 

You turned, slightly shocked to find Obi-Wan behind the two of you. He was looking at you differently, as if seeing you in a new light. You raised a brow at him.

Obi-Wan smiled and kissed your cheek, “I missed you, mo chridhe. Would you mind if I stole you?”

“Of course,” You swallowed, falling back into business mode. After all, you had a mission here. You couldn’t afford to have distractions. Gently, you passed Greer back to Edine and followed Obi-Wan back to the house.

“I think this is the perfect position for me to learn more about the missing resources,” he smiled.

“Good. How long do you think it will take?” you asked, genuinely curious. Your resolve was already cracking on day one. You weren’t quite sure how much longer it would last if you had to stay here.

“A few rotations. I’ve volunteered to look over their books. I’m hoping that will shine some light on things. I’ve already seen a few inconsistencies that I need to look into further.”

You nodded, “The sooner we can resolve this, the better.”

“Miss the Temple?” he asked teasingly.

“No, but I feel like I should be helping the war effort more, and instead I’m here on vacation. My men are currently reinforcing Skywalker in the outer rim. Part of me feels guilty for not being there,” you told him. It was a half-truth. 

“Well, I will do my best to learn more.”

“I have no doubt you will,” you replied, looking out the window. You let the conversation die off as you turned your mind back to your conversation with his mother.

A few days later he returned home from work early with good news. 

“I’ve done it, mo chridhe!” he grinned, picking you up and twirling you around. “I’ve got proof that the clans are not underperforming. Their missing exports are being rerouted to the Separatists.”

“The Separatists?” someone gasped behind the two of you.

Quickly turning, you came face-to-face with Edine.

“Mother, I-”

“I heard you come in and wanted to make sure you were alright because you were home early,” she murmured. “You mean to say that the clans are working against the Republic?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replied, honestly, “The clans are not the ones rerouting the supplies. It’s the head of the Council.”

“But Hamish is the head of the Council,” Edine replied, “He’s always been a good lad.”

“Have you noticed anything different about him lately?” you asked.

“Well, he has been wearing finer clothes, but I thought he just had a good harvest,” Edine sighed.

“He’s been selling supplies from the clans who used to cause problems to the Separatists and pocketing the money,” Obi-Wan explained, “Then, he’s charging the underperforming clans more since Stewjon has to import due to their failures. I’m surprised no one has caught onto it.”

“He won’t get away with it,” Edine said firmly. “To jeopardize the honor of the clan is a grievous act. Abhainn won’t stand for it.”

“Mother, I don’t think you should involve him,” Obi-Wan said gently.

“Nonsense. This is clan business,” Edine replied. “Your father must know.”

Obi-Wan ran a hand through his hair, turning to you with a look that suggested he wanted your help with this.

Gently, you placed a hand on his shoulder. “If this is how things are done here, then this is how things are done.”

“See? The Hen knows. I’ll tell Abhainn as soon as he’s home and we’ll go from there,” Edine said before leaving the two of you alone.

Obi-Wan turned to you, “How could you let her do that?”

“We are peace keepers. That means advising, not taking over,” you replied, “If this is how things are done on Stewjon, then who are we to interrupt clan politics and customs?”

“But what if they get hurt?” Obi-Wan asked quietly.

“I’ll protect them.”

“And who will protect you?” 

“You say that as if it hasn’t always been you,” you murmured, reaching up to cup his cheek. As you noticed his blush, you quickly amended your statement. “Is that not a husband’s job?”

“Right,” he said, hanging his head. “Of course.”

“Based on those standards, though, one could argue that we’ve been married for years,” you teased.

He smiled at the ground, taking your hand to give it a kiss across your knuckles, “I suppose they could, mo chridhe.”

Just then, Abhainn appeared in the doorway, a serious look on his face. His mouth was a hard line.

“So you’ve heard,” Obi-Wan sighed, dropping your hand.

“Aye, lad. Your Ma told me,” Abhainn nodded. “Come, we’ve got much to discuss.”

Obi-Wan nodded and the two of you followed him down into the great hall downstairs. Gathered there were a group of men from the clan, all ready to listen intently to the plan.

It was decided that Obi-Wan would go to work as normal the next day and make copies of all the evidence in case Hamish tried to destroy it. Then, a group of clansmen would sneak into the government complex through the servant’s entrance. From there, they would apprehend Hamish and retrieve him from the building to stand trial.

“But what of the other clans?” You asked when it was all settled.

Abhainn appraised you, surprised by your question, “We’ll sell off Hamish’s assets. The sale of those items will go towards paying back the clans he betrayed.”

You nodded, “And Hamish?”

“Clan law dictates that it is up to the victims to decide the punishment. I’ll be contacting the leaders tomorrow to inform them of the charges,” Abhainn explained.

The crowd started to disperse, leaving just you and Edine in the hall. You watched Obi-Wan and Abhainn walk towards the study to talk some more.

“He’ll never see him as his father,” Edine commented.

“What makes you say that?”

“He calls me ‘mother,’ but it is clear that he doesn’t view Abhainn as his father.”

You swallowed, knowing why that was the case. “When a Master takes a Padawan, it is essentially like an adoption. Although Obi-Wan’s Master died some time ago, the bond between Master and Apprentice is strong. In many ways, Qui-Gon was like a father to Obi-Wan. They went through a lot together.”

“I see,” Edine nodded, “Did he treat my boy well?”

You thought of all the times you’d seen the two of them frustrated with each other. Then, you remembered how Qui-Gon turned down a seat on the Council in order to stay with Obi-Wan. “He would have done anything for him.”

“As any father would,” Edine murmured. “I keep wondering what life would have been like if he had stayed, but then I remember that if you truly love someone, you must set them free to fly.”

“I’m glad to have met you,” you told her. 

“And I am glad to have met you, hen,” she grinned. “He’s lucky to have you.”

You felt your face grow hot as you went to leave, “No, it is truly the other way around.”

The next day, a pit of apprehension settled in your stomach. You were waiting in the corridor behind the building for Obi-Wan’s signal to enter. Behind you were a group of warriors, rustling in anticipation.

“Come on, Obi,” you murmured, growing restless yourself. 

As if he had heard you, your commlink beeped, signaling that it was time. Waving on the men behind you, you all quickly entered the building before they split off to block the exits leaving only you and Abhainn. 

“I’m surprised you tagged along, lass,” Abhainn muttered as you rounded a corner.

“I’m not defenseless,” you smirked, your hand settling on your lightsaber at your side.

“I had no doubt about that,” he grinned as the two of you came to a stop in front of Hamish’s office. 

You gave Abhainn a count of three before kicking down the door, your lightsaber igniting at your side.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hamish screeched as the two of you came into view. 

Obi-Wan ignited his own saber from his spot behind Hamish’s chair.

“You’re under arrest, lad,” Abhainn informed him, “For crimes against the clans.”

“Abhainn, I’ve done nothing against Clan Kenobi-” Hamish started to protest.

“A crime against another clan is a crime against the honor of Clan Kenobi,” Abhainn grit out. “You should be ashamed of yourself, lad. I know I am.”

“Abhainn, I can explain!”

“Explain it to the other clans at your trial,” Abhainn clipped, taking a pair of shackles out and handcuffing Hamish. 

The four of you made your way through the building and out front, meeting back up with your group of warriors. 

“Take him back to the clan,” Abhainn said, pushing him towards a duo who marched Hamish towards the road. Abhainn turned back to everyone else with a grin,  “I think this calls for a celebration.”

A cheer broke out among the men and you soon found yourselves swept up in a party in the great hall. The clan was quickly getting rowdy in their glee. You found Obi-Wan on the outskirts of the commotion and sidled up next to him.

“Not your cup of tea?” you asked with a smile.

“I’m just taking it all in,” he murmured.

“Thinking of what could have been?”

“In a way,” he admitted. “Although, as nice as they are, I know I’m on the right path.”

“How do you know that?” you asked with your brow furrowing.

His gaze settled on you and he smiled warmly, “Oh, I just know, mo chridhe.”

You tilted your head and turned back to the crowd, “We should get going. It’s a long way back to Coruscant.”

“We should change out of all this tartan first,” he said, looking down at his kilt. “Anakin would never let me live this down.”

You chuckled, following him back upstairs to change and pack your things before coming back to say goodbye.

A hush settled over the crowd as slowly the celebration came to a halt when they noticed that you were both back in your Jedi robes.

“We came to say goodbye,” Obi-Wan murmured.

“So, you’ll be going back to the Temple now?” Abhainn asked.

“How did you-” Obi-Wan started.

“The lightsabers gave it away, son. They’re only the weapon of a Jedi,” he smiled.

“It’s where you belong, a sheòid. You were meant for that path,” Edine said with a sad smile.  “Although, your acting was good. You had us fooled.”

You looked at Edine in a new light. A Jedi’s strength was in their resolve. You saw that same type of resolve now in Edine as she let her son go again for the second time in her life. It showed a strength of character that you weren’t sure even Master Yoda had.

“Well, we’ll walk you back to your ship,” Edine sniffed, holding her hand out to Obi-Wan.

He hesitated for a moment. You could see his feelings warring on his face as he contemplated taking it. She was his mother, and that was an unchangeable fact, but she was a stranger in many ways. Yet, he knew her heart. He smiled softly and took her hand, walking with her all the way back to the ship. Along the way, he pointed out the places she had told him about, reiterating her stories to show he had been paying attention. 

The ramp of the ship jutted out in front of you. The reality of the situation loomed over you both as you stood in the shadow of the vessel. 

Reluctantly, Edine let go of her son’s hand to give you a hug. “About what we talked about,” she murmured in your ear, “We have a saying here, ‘what’s for you won’t go past you.’”

“Where I come from we say, ‘if the force wills it, then so it will be,’” you replied as you pulled back.

“It’s the same sentiment, Hen,” she said, patting your cheek affectionately. “Safe travels.”

You smiled, walking up the ramp to give Obi-Wan a moment alone with his parents. As you passed into the ship, you caught a glimpse of them embracing. For once, Obi-Wan didn’t look uncomfortable.

Faintly, you could hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

“I know you were acting that you were farmers, but you can’t be acting about how you feel,” Abhainn said pointedly.

“Don’t let that go,” Edine pleaded.

Obi-Wan looked up at where you stood and smiled before turning back to his parents, “May the force be with you, always.”

The two of you made your way to the cockpit and initiated the flight sequence, moving as one. 

Soon, your ship was cruising through hyperspace, leaving a silence to settle over the two of you as you sat next to each other on a bunk.

“About the mission-” you started.

“We need to talk-” we need to talk he murmured.

You looked at each other and chuckled.

“You first,” he said.

“About the mission,” you murmured, “I have to be honest with you. I... wasn’t acting for a lot of it.”

Obi-Wan looked down at his lap, “Darling, we can’t. It goes against everything we were taught.”

“No it doesn’t,” you pleaded, taking his hand. “Obi-Wan, relationships are not frowned upon as long as you can let go of someone when the time comes. If all relationships were forbidden then we would all be solitary. Relationships are a form of support.”

He gazed up at you, stroking his thumb along the back of your hand, “That’s just the thing. I don’t know if I would be able to let go.”

Your eyes softened as he reached up to stroke your cheek. Leaning into his touch, you murmured, “But I’m not worth the Order.”

“You’re worth so much more than that,” he said seriously. “It’s just... there’s a war. We have our duties and our burdens to carry. I don’t want to add worrying about me to your list.”

“Obi-Wan, I’ve always worried about you,” you laughed. “That isn’t new.”

“If anyone found out...” he sighed.

“Last time I checked, you were better at keeping secrets than your Padawan,” you teased.

He smirked at you, wagging a finger, “He’s never been good at that.”

“Obi-Wan,” you murmured, leaning in slightly, “What does ‘mo chridhe’ mean?”

“Hmmm?” he asked, playing dumb.

“You kept calling me ‘mo chridhe’ while we were on Stewjon. What does it mean?” you pressed.

He blushed, running his hand through his hair, “It’s... it’s the native language for ‘my heart.’”

“I’m your heart?” you asked with a grin.

“You are,” he admitted softly, looking at you with eyes full of raw emotion. “You’re in the creases and the corners to the point where you overrun it and... and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You felt the air exit your lungs as you acted on instinct. In moments, your lips were pressed to his. His hand reached up to cup the nape of your neck as he kissed you back with equal passion, pressing you into the bed.

I love you.

He smiled against your lips before pulling back for air. 

You felt the unmistakeable feeling of the ship exiting hyperspace. 

“We’re home,” he murmured.

You nodded before pulling him back down for as many kisses as you could get in until you were pulled into the atmosphere. Only then did you allow yourself to quietly slip back into the mindset of a Jedi. Only then did you carefully tuck your happiness away to revisit later in the stillness of your chamber or on a desolate planet after a defeat. You would have time to dwell on it. Until then, you would be the perfect Jedi, fueled by the knowledge that you were in love, and loved in return.

[jengajives]

So I know canonically Barahir and Finrod probably never met again after the Bragollach but I just WANT THEM TO

(My personal hc for Barahir and Emeldir is that they’re Gay Besties and her sweetheart died years ago and he never found the man for him but they both really wanted a child so they had Beren and raised him together as friends, and all the people of Dorthonion totally knew what was up but played along anyway.)

Also excuse my Sindarin, i am awful at languages

“My lord.”

The voice seemed deafening in the chamber of Finrod- the quiet space he sulked in when all of Nargothrond’s riches seemed empty and lifeless to him. When the company of his brother, his niece, and all his people just wasn’t enough.

He turned from his tapestry slowly, almost unwilling. If Celegorm and Curufin wanted another counsel, he had run out of excuses to deny them. All he wanted to do was stand around looking at the tapestry of Tirion he kept on the wall to substitute for a proper window.

“What is it?” he asked tiredly, unable even to muster the energy for a proper hello. The attendant bowed anyway.

“It’s the border wardens, your Highness. They’ve apprehended a trespasser on the eastern marches- a Man. He carries your ring, sir. He’s requested an audience.”

It seemed as if everything went utterly still and for several long moments Finrod could not speak.

He had to rub his eyes to ensure he was awake and hearing correctly. This wasn’t just the dream that had haunted him more years now than he could count.

“By all means,” Finrod said in a strangled voice, “bring him before me.”

It isn’t. It can’t be. He’s dead.

The attendant bowed again, all low and respectful. “I’ll let you know as soon as they reach the city, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Finrod wasn’t paying attention properly anymore; he was suddenly very worried about what he was wearing, how he looked. The way he dressed around Nargothrond was very different than his war attire, and it was very concerning when he worried whether Barahir would even be able to recognize him.

No, no. Barahir was dead five winters now. It didn’t matter whether he looked familiar or not, he was dead.

Still, though. There was a chance.

Finrod threw open his wardrobe with something akin to panic.

The woods of Dorthonion were dense and dark, with occasional beams of golden sunlight filtering through the high pine trees and turning the bed of needles to luminous white. There wasn’t too much undergrowth, which made it easy to ride through, and Finrod did so with as much speed as his mare could manage, flying over falling trees and secret glens that few among the Elves had ever looked on, thundering across rushing mountain creeks with all the speed of the Valar. He held his arms out to the wind and let his golden braids flow loose behind him.

When he at last came to the little green valley he’d been directed to, he slowed his mare to a stop and stood there a moment on the ridge. The people of Bëor lived in small homesteads spotted over the highlands, and here a number of them gathered together alongside a cool, fresh creek to graze their animals on its fair grasses. The largest of the wooden homes was nestled just beneath the rolling, forested hills, sheltered by the river’s curve and somewhat apart from the others. It was here Finrod rode, galloping eagerly across the meadows of the basin.

A handful of sturdy horses grazed on the green pasture in front of the house, along with a pair of cows and one freshly-sheared sheep. Finrod rode along the tree-lined lane until he came to the house itself.

It was single-storied, made of finely hewn logs painted with red and gold, and a thatched ceiling that looked freshly lain. On one side stood a small barn for the animals, and on the other a woodshed that had seen better days. Finrod dismounted took a moment to take it all in. A warm smile crossed his face.

At once, the worn blue door opened, and a Man came hurrying out. He was dressed in simple work trousers and a maroon shirt that wasn’t tied all the way and showed off the warm brown hair of his chest, but he was hastily throwing a fur coat over the top of it all as he stumbled down his stairs.

“King Felagund!” he choked, obviously out of breath. Finrod noticed a gleam of gold on his middle finger. “We- I- This is most unexpected!”

“I must apologize for the intrusion, Barahir,” he said with pity. “I was riding back from Hithlum and I became… sidetracked.” Then he smiled again. “I hope it’s not too much trouble?”

“Trouble!” Barahir shook his head a little too energetically. “No trouble at all! It’s just… “ He motioned helplessly to the house behind him. “t’s not much. Certainly nothing like a prince like yourself would-“

“Barahir,” Finrod said, bold enough now to take the Man’s hand in his own. “Your home is beautiful.”

Barahir visibly relaxed. His face went soft.

“It is… very good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

“To you, it’s Finrod.” He gave the hand a squeeze. “You have more than earned that right.”

Barahir’s tawny cheeks went red.

Finrod thought he would have kissed him then, if it had been for the little voice that interrupted them.

“Papa!”

Immediately Finrod straightened up and looked over Barahir’s shoulder to the doorway.

A small, brown face peeked out from inside. Just a beam of light caught on dark curls and turned them shining auburn.

Finrod’s expression went slack for only a moment before the corners of his mouth began to peak upward.

“Who’s this?” he asked eagerly. The child stuck his head out further to show two gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you one of the Valar?” he called, somewhat shyly.

Finrod smiled.

“No, child. Why do you think so?”

The little one gave a sheepish shrug. “You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” Finrod looked down. His tunic was indeed embroidered with gold and there were jewels in his hair. The thought of this innocent child mistaking him for a Vala was a very fond one, though.

“Beren,” Barahir called. “This is King Felagund. He’s a very powerful and noble Elf. Come over here and give a him a nice bow.”

Beren slowly moved onto the steps and made his way over, still cautious. He was wearing a green shirt that was too big for him and clutched a stuffed hound in one hand. Immediately Finrod saw the likeness with Barahir; other than the boy’s darker shade of hair, the two were nearly identical.

Finrod glanced at Barahir as the child approached.

“Yours?”

“Yes, he is.”

When Beren reached his father’s side, he shut his eyes tight and performed a bow so deep he nearly toppled. “At your service, King Felagund, sir!”

Finrod laughed and dropped to one knee so he could look the boy in the eyes. “An honor, Beren, prince of Dorthonion. I could not ask for more steadfast a Man!”

Beren cracked one eye, then the other. He gave a cursory glance to his father, then pointed at the great palomino mare waiting patiently on the lane.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

Barahir clicked his tongue. “Beren, be polite.” Finrod chose to ignore him.

“She is Glânhen, Brighteyes,” he said to Beren, as if he were sharing a secret. “She very much likes to eat. I think she might let you ride her if you find space for her in your pasture.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I can do that, sir!” He squinted up at the horse. “Where’s her bridle?”

“She’ll follow you,” Finrod said. He told the horse something in Quenya and she nickered, and then he straightened to let the bouncing little boy hurry past, motioning to the mare eagerly.

“Follow me, Glânhen! I’ll find you the best grass we’ve got!”

The pair of them trotted off together- the massive steed of Valinor, and the little woodsman’s boy leading her like an obedient pup. Finrod got distracted a moment just smiling at the sight, until Barahir chuckled behind him.

“Well, I… I didn’t know you were fond of children.” He paused, obviously bashful, before he slipped out the name like he thought it might bite him. “Finrod.”

“Very fond. He’s a wonderful boy, Barahir. How old?”

“Five this spring.”

“My.” A wistful smile crossed Finrod’s face. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A silence passed, but it was broken when Barahir reached out and took his hand. “Will you come in?”

Finrod turned and the joy he felt looking at that gentle face was unlike anything he’d felt for countless years.

“I would love to.”

Felagund paced his throne room, back and forth, an anxious rhythm like the thudding of his own heartbeat. The tapestries and jewels felt suddenly profane. Would Barahir know him here? Surrounded by wealth and finery and all the glory of the princes of the Noldor?

Of course he would. Barahir would know him anywhere.

But it wasn’t going to be Barahir who walked through his doors. Dead five years at least, cut down in the highlands of Dorthonion all alone and friendless.

Finrod’s fault. He had tried to send help, tried to send forces through to reinforce the outlaws or bring them back, but no one had been able to brave the Haunted Wood. No one could get through. And Barahir had died alone in the mud, because Finrod’s strength had failed.

No. It could be him. He could have escaped. None of the Eldar were there to see him fall. It could be a mistake.

The golden doors swung open.

Finrod turned, suddenly frozen, as a company of his march wardens stepped inside with a Man held between them like some lesser prisoner. He was so thoroughly surrounded that Finrod couldn’t get a good look at him.

“Leave him,” he called, irritation wearing his voice thin. “He is no trespasser here if what I am told is true.”

The wardens bowed, and moved aside, and there in the center of the room stood Barahir son of Bregor with the cares of many lifetimes etched across his face.

The air left Felagund’s lungs.

He looked just as he had the very last time they had seen each other.

Tears blurred his vision, and when he wiped them away, he saw through new eyes, and the Man he saw was not the one he had dreamed of.

The curls were too dark. The build too tall. The face alike in almost every way, but there was something there now that made it painfully obvious Felagund had been mistaken. He deflated at once and collapsed back into his throne, face in his hands, floundering just a moment in defeat.

“King Felagund, sir,” called the Man. “I thank you for your hospitality. I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, but I need-“ Abruptly, the trembling voice broke on a sob and trailed into tearfulness. “I- I need your help. Please.”

Finrod looked up again and his eyes softened, recognizing the sensitivity behind those eyes. He rose and stepped slowly down until he stood before the Man with pity in his heart and tears running down his face.

He put a hand on the rough-clothed shoulder.

“Beren,” he said softly, as fervent as he could manage. “I will do anything within my power to help you, no matter the cost.”

When Beren at last looked up to meet his eye, it was the same face of the shy woodsman’s son he had met all those years ago, and Finrod decided then that he would go gladly to his death if it would bring Barahir’s son to the fulfillment of his errand.

[frostsinth]

Of Sand & Sea - Prequel

@thava commissioned a prequel of my one-shot HERE, curious about the first meeting between Guppy and Gull. This was a great time for me, I had a lot of fun! I hope it’s everything you were looking for! It ran a little longer than planned, but I don’t think you’ll mind :D

Enjoy my work? Consider going to BuyMeACoffee to show your support. You can find the link in my MASTERLIST. Feel free to check out my other ramblings while you are there. DM me if you are interested in a commission of your own!

Enjoy, and Happy New Year!

The beach seemed a pleasant place. The crash of the waves, steady and rhythmic against the shore, filled her ears. The briny scent filled her lungs and washed away the stinging behind her eyes, though she still gave sad little sniffles every now and then. The girl walked along the sand, sweeping an abandoned bit of driftwood back and forth in front of her as she did. Far too young to be left alone to wander, but far too forgotten by the world for anyone to notice. She was dressed simply; an off-white tunic dress, old and over sized, that fell past her knees. The sleeves had been roughly shorn away, leaving her tawny kissed skin bare to the warm sun. She wiped the back of a sandy hand at her eye, blinking away the last of her tears.

This was her mother’s lands, she had been told. The islands of her forefathers. Whatever that meant. This particular island, small and entirely empty, had been her family’s for many generations. Though it had fallen into neglect after her grandmother had passed. Forgotten by the younger generation like some old heirloom left in the attic to gather cobwebs and mothballs. Far removed from the main islands and certainly off the map for tourists and greedy moguls. It was maybe only a few miles across in each direction, with a small grove of trees at the center which crowned the raised hillock where the house had been built. Though ‘house’ was a generous word, as the structure only had a few rooms and was set high on stilts. Like something out of a picture book, she had decided upon first seeing it.

This was her first time here, and as soon as she had buried her bare feet in the soft, warm sands, she had felt... different. More at home than she had in a long time. Not since…

The girl sighed, far too heavily for someone of her age, looking out across the stony beach to the ocean beyond. A weight in the corners of her large brown eyes that the waves could not so easily wash away. Her uncle thought it would be nice to bring her here. To get away from the city and have some quiet. Though he was always working... He knew nothing about children; had no concept of what she needed. He tried, to some extent. Bought her clothes, asked her what foods she liked. But more often than not, he would be in his own world, and forget she even existed. Spending his time lost in his writing, or his books.

She found she didn’t particularly mind. He was awkward, and a little strange. They were still trying to establish their relationship, so suddenly forced together. And he was older, with rickety knees and greying hair. He couldn’t keep up with her, and seemed to quickly tire of her lack of understanding and occasional emotional outbursts. As had happened this morning. They had been on the island for nearly a week now, and she had stayed in the house on the hill for the most part. Timid and frightened of the rest of the seemingly wild place. But she had nervously lingered too close to him for too long. Had gotten in his way one too many times.

His harsh words still rang in her ears as she wandered along the beach. The little patch of trees she had bolted to hadn’t been nearly so scary as the volume of his voice. And he hadn’t followed her. Hadn’t chased after her to make sure she was ok, or to apologize for losing his temper with her. So she wandered farther away, first down toward the rickety old dock where their small little boat was tethered. Then further, along the sands and stones, to the far side of the island. Clambering over rocks where she needed to, swinging her stick back and forth.

No, she decided. The island was not nearly so scary as she had first thought. And there was lots to look at. Sea birds who cawed overhead and gathered on the rocks to look at her with curious, beady eyes. Crabs that scuttled out of her way, or raised their claws at her stick when she poked gently at them. Lots and lots of shells too. Some half buried in the sands, some laying on top. As the last of her tears dried in the warm sun, leaving tracks down her dirty face, she began to collect them. Gathering them up in her dress. Tossing her stick to the side in favor of sandy shells and shiny stones.

A particularly large and gleaming shell caught her eye a little while later, tucked between some large rocks right at the edge of the water. She could see the foam from the waves splash up just beyond them, and eyed them nervously. She had never been taught to swim, and her uncle told such frightening stories of little girls being washed out to sea. But the temptation of the shell was far too great to be belittled by her fear of the water.

She piled her bounty on the sand, then carefully clambered over the damp rocks. They were quite slippery in places, and more than once her balance was challenged by their shifting and sliding. But she found a little burst of pride in herself as she managed to reach the top of one particularly large rock in front of her prize, and stood there a moment to peer at the little cove around her.

The little girl suddenly became distinctly aware of a soft sound, echoing above the crash of the waves. It sounded like a warble, a keening. Sad, and melancholy. It made her heart quicken and her fear rise again. Her large eyes darted about nervously, wondering if ghosts could come out during the day. Her curly dark auburn locks bounced about her eyes as she searched. Something moved near the head of the semicircle of rocks that formed this corner of beach, and her heart jumped. But then the keening wail came again, chirping now. Sad, but also… frightened.

She clutched her prize shell close to her chest as she cautiously ventured closer. Climbing timidly over the rocks, careful to avoid the little pools of water gathered in between where the waves crested the taller boulders to splash bits of ocean into the crevices. 

The rocks clicked and shifted ahead of her, and she was distinctly aware of the movement seeming more frantic as she drew closer. Something sploshed, and slapped. Sounding like wet cloth smacking against the stones. She could finally see it more clearly now, and the girl ducked behind a rock in fright at what she saw. 

At first, she had thought it was another child, naked and laying half in a shallow little puddle of water amid the stones. It certainly looked like a fat child, but with greenish-teal skin and a mop of seaweed colored locks on the top of its bulbous head. She braved another peek around the rock, easing a little closer. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else living on this island. Her uncle had told her as much, and she hadn’t any reason to disbelieve him. Curiosity overtook her fear, and she snuck closer. Perhaps a little more lonely than she would ever admit, and hoping for someone other than her uncle to talk to.

The rocks shifted and clacked beneath her feet as she moved a little closer. And the teal-skinned child’s head snapped around at the noise. Fixing her with large, bright yellow eyes.

She froze, shocked. She had never seen such eyes before! They had no whites, and it seemed like the boy had no eyebrows above them. Instead, his brow bowed out, like he had been stung by a bee. Lots of bees, she guessed, because it was very big. It was a boy, or at least, she thought it might be a boy. He had chubby cheeks and messy green hair, narrow little shoulders and spindly arms. The shape of his head and the color of his skin was distracting, but she was pretty sure it was a boy.

When he saw her, his eyes seemed to get larger. He wriggled, and kicked, as if trying to move closer. She jumped at that, skittering a few steps backwards. Her feet slipped on the stones and she gave a soft yelp as she fell. Landing hard on her bottom on the wet stones, her ragged dress becoming quickly soaked at the hem with the intermittent little puddles of water. Her shell went flying, landing a few feet away from them both, but closer to him than her. He froze at that, and stared back at her. Suddenly frightened of the strange looking boy, she crawled backwards, until her back hit a large boulder.

But he didn’t move to follow her. Though she saw him wriggle and scramble again. He gave a huff at his efforts, then the soft, keening wail came from his mouth. She had never heard such a sound before. She blinked at him, watching him collapse on his stomach in the puddle, splashing about. Yanking at his lower half, which appeared to be half under a rock.

A year ago, she had found a rabbit, stuck in a fence. Its back legs unable to fit through the opening its head and shoulders had managed to wriggle through. She remembered the way it had thrashed and kicked, its eyes wide. It had even squeaked, as if in pain, and had seemed even more frantic when she had approached.

The boy with the strange eyes and skin moved the same way as that rabbit. She watched him for a moment, until he lay still once more. After a little while, he craned his neck back. As if to see if she was still there.

“... Are you stuck?” She asked him, her voice a little soft for its timid-ness.

He blinked at her slowly, as if surprised to hear words coming from her mouth. Slowly, she eased herself back to her feet. Then carefully skirted her way over, giving him as wide a berth as she was able. His eyes followed her as she moved. They were a little eerie, but she squared her jaw stubbornly, and turned her own attention to the rock on his legs. It was big, not nearly so large as her, but it looked heavy. With a final glance at the strange boy, she put her shoulder against it and shoved with all her might. It shifted, and she heard the crunch of other rocks around them. But it didn’t  move much. After a moment, she had to relent, and stepped back.

A check on the boy found him still watching her, and she noticed now that she could see him properly he didn’t seem to have ears. Instead, there were fins protruding from beneath his hair, and what she thought looked like little pink slashes on his fat neck. He looked strange… but not that scary anymore, now that she was closer. She could see specks of yellow across his nose and cheeks, and over his shoulders, arms, and chest. Like freckles, she decided. She had a few freckles, though hers were brown, not yellow. But the color seemed fitting on him, since he was a greenish-blue, and she paid it no further mind. Turning her attention back to the rock.

“It’s heavy,” She admitted, then glanced back at him, “But I can try again… pull your legs out, ok?”

He watched her silently, and for a second she wondered if he could understand her. There were some people who couldn’t, she knew. Some people on the main island spoke with different sounds and words that she didn’t understand. Her uncle had said they spoke a different language, though he hadn’t fully explained what that meant. But after a moment, the green boy nodded slightly and she gave him a small smile. So he could understand her then. Good!

“Ok, on three,” She instructed, leveling her boney shoulder against the rock again, “One, two, THREE!”

She shoved with all the might her little five year old body could manage, though her feet slid in the wet pebbles at her feet with the effort. Still, the rock lifted, just a little, and with a SHLUP, the boy scuttled backwards. Just in time too, as she lost her balance and dropped the rock back down moments later.

She slipped the rest of the way, falling onto her bottom again. The rock shifted, and both of them gasped nervously. But then it fell still, and after a moment, her face split into a broad grin. She even laughed a little, looking over at the boy to see if he shared in her mirth.

It was only then she realized it was not legs he had pulled out from under the stone. She wasn’t sure what they were, but there was more than two of them. They wriggled and twitched under her scrutiny, curling and uncurling. They were the same color as his body, but the undersides were pink with little suckers every few inches in matching pairs. As she watched, frozen in surprise, the boy inched a little closer. Seeming to snake his way over the rocks. The strange appendages carried him like legs, with his upper body propped straight up as hers was when she stood. But they didn’t move like her legs, more like fingers. Or like a spider perhaps, though they looked squishy like spaghetti. She was so surprised by the sight of him, she hadn’t realized the little boy had crawled right up to her, and was now peering at her nose to nose.

“... Who are you?” He asked her after another moment, and his voice sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of water. His breath was salty, and he smelled like the ocean.

She blinked at him stupidly for a moment. “Me?”

He nodded, then reached out one stubby teal finger, poking her shoulder curiously. “... You’re all tan and pink. Like a gull without feathers.”

She pushed his head away. “Well, you’re all green! Like seaweed!” She shot back.

He scoffed, and she jumped as one of his weird feet fell on her ankle. “I look how I’m supposed to look. You’re the weird one.”

She shook her head. “You’re the weird one! And you smell like fish!”

His head cocked to the side, and she watched his nose flare as he sniffed at her. “You smell like sand, I think.” He seemed to consider this, looking her over. “What’s wrong with your tentacles? Why do you only have two?”

“Tentacles?” She echoed the strange word, and he grinned at her. Baring stubby little white teeth.

“Yeah, these.” He held one up, wriggling it in front of her face. Then poked her nose with its tip.

She cried out softly in surprise, covering her nose with both her hands. That made him laugh quietly. “I don’t have those!” She exclaimed through her fingers. “I have legs!” 

She lifted one up slightly in illustration. He looked at it, then wrapped two of his tentacles around it. She giggled, kicking slightly.

“That tickles!”

“You’re weird, little Gull.” He told her, uncurling from around her leg and sitting back slightly to appraise her again. Then his grin returned. “I like you.”

“Do you live here?” She asked curiously, shifting into a better seat and wrapping her arms around her knees.

He shook his head, then pointed out to the sea. “I live there, of course.”

“In the ocean?”

He nodded. “Yeah, don’t you?”

She laughed. “Of course not! I can’t swim.” She turned and pointed over her shoulder to the small hillock behind them above the copse of trees. “I live up there. Well, right now anyway.”

“How can you live so far from the water?” He sounded surprised. “How do you stay wet?”

“I don’t want to stay wet!” She argued. “I want to get dry!”

“You’ve got it all backwards, silly Gull!” He shook his head, exasperated. “Getting too dry will make you sick!”

“But my bed would feel really gross if it was wet all the time.” She reasoned, thinking it over. “And I’m usually dry, and I’m not sick.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re sand colored all over.” He mused, reaching out with his tentacles as he leaned back on his hands, running them appraisingly over her arms. “You dried out too much.”

She thought that over for a moment, watching his tentacles skim over her arms. “No, I think I’m supposed to be like this. Everyone else I know looks like this too. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like you...” She reached out, touching the thicker body of one tentacle currently wrapping around her opposite wrist curiously. “Maybe you stayed in the water too long, and that’s why your legs and skin look funny.”

He unwrapped his tentacle, pulling it back and leaning forward to take up her hand with his. His skin was cool to the touch, and had a weird quality to it. Like a slug’s skin, but not so gross as that. She didn’t mind him touching her, turning her hand about and rubbing his thumbs along its length curiously. He lifted it up, looking at the underside of her arm, then sighed and let it drop back down.

“I’ve never seen anyone like you, little Gull. Are you sure you’re supposed to look like this?” He curled and uncurled his tentacles beneath him, inching in a half circle around her as he looked her over again. “Maybe you’re under some spell.”

“A spell?” She echoed, spinning to watch him circle her. Fascinated by the way he moved. As he completed his circuit, he slunk over to the pool of water, easing slowly down into it before laying flat on his belly so the water lapped over his back. Propping his head on his hands to look over at her again. “What kind of spell?”

He shrugged his knubby little shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know. I used to hear stories about people under spells. They have to walk the land alone forever and never return to the sea.” He twirled his tentacles back and forth behind him. “Maybe that’s what happened to you.”

She paused, falling silent and suddenly remembering her sadness. Resting her chin on her knees. “Maybe…”

They fell silent for a minute, and he seemed a bit puzzled at this. At her sudden switch. He chewed on his cheek, then shifted, rolling back out of the puddle. Water dripping from his teal skin.

“The stories say you can break the spell though.” He offered tentatively, scooching closer. One long tentacle reached out, plucking the large shell from where it had fallen. Bringing it back over and holding it out to her.

She took it with a soft sniffle. “... Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Maybe you just need to come back to the sea.” He poked her shoulder again. “Then you’ll get the ocean back in your blood.”

“I don’t know how to swim.” She reminded him.

“I can teach you!” He replied eagerly. But she quickly shook her head. “Come on, it’s easy!”

“For you, maybe.” She scoffed, running her hands over the shell in her lap. “You’re a fish!”

He scowled at her. “I am not a fish!”

“Oh yeah? Then what are you?”

He paused, thinking this over for a moment. “Well… I’m… I’m just…” He straightened, puffing up his chest. “I’m Gupslessiano.”

“... Glupses-”

“Gupslessiano.”

“Gupplessan-”

“GUPSLESSIANO!”

She shook her head. “That’s too hard to say…. How about Guppy?”

The boy chewed that over, leaning back. “... Hmmm… I suppose it’s ok if you call me Guppy.” His bright yellow eyes darted to her. “But only if I can call you Gull!”

She grinned at him. “Deal!”

“So then, Gull,” He keened, skittering back a few steps, “... Wanna play a game?”

... The End

[peantbutter-honeycombs]

The Hollowing Series: Part I

Title: Prelude

Word count: 2,980

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic. Crappy writing?

Notes: So three? I want to say three years ago this idea came to mind. Well not this one. But I worked off that idea and came to this. I like the idea of the Doctor being around children. They’re just so innocent. But then I though what the hell let’s torture 11 and the kids and this was born. I’ll explain more later but for now Spoilers. I reall have worked hard on this it’s my first Doctor Who fic. It’s been in my head and notes for years so please be kind and enjoy. I’m going to try, try to break this in to only 4 parts. But hey I’m a detailed writer.

Special Thanks to my college buddy B, @mirkwoodshewolf, and @underskaro​ for tolerating my ramblish rants and beta reading the chapter.

———

Down the road aways, pushed against the hills, stood a cobblestone farm style home. The front lawn was messy, jagged and uncut. From the muddy earth sprang up wildflowers and weeds, northern marches, poppies, and heathers. It was all very wild. The pedestal of a concrete birdbath was cracked and lopsided, with vines wrapping around the very base.

A trike was tangled, hidden in the tall overgrown grass. It felt out of place among the weedy garden. The bike in contrast to the exterior of the old homestead must have been brand new. Green and black, the trike was just brilliant enough to be noticeable through the thrush.

Visible from the left lower window appeared a boy, no older than 14 but no younger than 12. He reached out toward the edges of the frame, grasping at the sangria red fabric. In one swift motion, he drew the curtains closed.

“There,” the boy said, standing back to admire his work.

The four windows of the well-sized sitting room. The warm golden light that once flooded through the glass panes, faded, leaving room to feel somewhat dark and empty.

Stepping backward, the young teen collapsed over an armrest onto a sofa. The sofa’s cushions sank under the weight of him, creating a spot perfectly tailored to the shape of his body. The sofa had seen better days. The brown leather fabric was worn, torn in some places and had a great dark stain on the Center cushion that the boy couldn’t remember ever not existing.

Dragging his legs over the armrest, he moved himself so he was in a sitting position. He stretched his right hand out, leaning his body so he could reach a drawing book on the right end table. The silence of the sitting room hugged him like a security blanket, his muscles became jello, all the stress of the day just melted off him. Being the man of the house was hard.

He became lost in his own world. He didn’t utter a word for the next fifteen minutes and barely moved from his spot for a full thirty minutes. His left hand carefully looped and curved over the blank sheet of paper, no longer blank. Every now and again he’d spin his pencil around in his fingers in deep thought, or wildly erase a thoughtless mistake. He hummed along to the song blasting through his one right earbud (the one thing he’d moved to retrieve.) nodding his head in time with the 60’s melody.

The sound of creaking floorboards overhead pressed through his exposed ear, carrying him back to reality. He could hear gentle feet beating against the wood. They were almost unnoticeable over the music. Almost.

There was a lull in the footsteps, creating silence.

They must be at the stairs, he thought, beginning to set his drawing tools away.

They always stopped at the top of the stairs and the base. The stairs of the old farmhouse were criminally steep, with each weirdly a different height than the last. They were enough to give anyone unfamiliar with them a headache. If his mother had gotten them carpeted, maybe the stairs wouldn’t have been so nauseating, but she’d wanted to preserve the house’s history as best she could.

Thump, thump, thump.

He could just imagine the little human, the footsteps belonged to crawling down the stairs. Moving down them one by one, on their knees. Sort of in a reverse way of the puppy conquering the stairs in Lady and the Tramp.

“No, go away,” he called, pressing a pencil down into its colouring box. When there was quiet he looked over his shoulder, everything from the waist down just sitting there on the steps. The figure's upper body was obstructed from his view.

“I was kidding, you can come down.” He turned back to his tidying. He heard the little feet happily stomp about, then thump, thump, thump.

Focused on organising his things, he looked up only when noticing the pair of dust stained white socks out of the corner of his eye. He blinked, somewhat irritatedly, staring at the little girl who now stood across from him.

With a great sigh, he said.

“You’re really annoying sometimes, you know that?”

A child no older than four stood before him. Her brown eyes, earthy hues of the soil after rain or bark on a walnut tree. They gave him a look that was of youthful innocence. Bright auburn hair reached down to the middle of her back, slightly covering the sides of her cheeks. Her pale skin was dotted and marked with a surplus of freckles — Sophia.

Sophia frowned, taking a step back. This made the older boy quietly snicker.

He smiles in a reassuring manner, “Hello, Soph-a-loaf.” He teased goofily pronouncing her name. The slightest smile tugged at the corners of the ginger's lips. He brought Sophia onto his lap, letting her sit on his thighs. “What’s up ducky?” He asked, brushing some of her hair back behind her ear. Sophia scrunches her mouth to one side, making a few murmuring noises. “Oh really? Sounds like you’ve had a day.”

Sophia nods. She rests her head on Oliver’s stomach, looking up at him with her sweet doe eyes.

“What?”

Her eyes darted off toward the window.

“No. No.” Oliver shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Sophia tilted her head to one side, training her attention on Oliver’s. “Seriously the park now?” Oliver whined, backing into the cushion.

He reaches for a throw pillow and covers his face with it.

“I’m sleeping,” he murmurs from behind the fabric. Sophia fusses lightly, pressing at his stomach. Oliver grunted, but kept the pillow pressed against his face. “I’m dead,” he tried.

This time Sophia head butted him in the gut. Oliver pulled a face, bringing the pillow down.

“Bleh!” He mocked, tongue lolled out of his mouth. Sophia squeaks, swatting her palm against Oliver’s arm. “Hey, we don’t hit. Sophia, I don’t want to go to the park.” Oliver said leaning down so his forehead was against hers. Sophia kindly taps her temple against his. Oliver chuckles softly, giving her forehead a sweet peck. “Sophey Tophie.”

He lifts Sophia off his lap, setting her on the floor in front of him.

“I suppose… it would be nice to get out of the house.” His eye drifted to a calendar on the interior sidewall of the sitting room. He couldn’t remember when he circled that day. Sophia excitedly bounces up and down. “What are you a rabbit?” The little ginger doesn’t respond, bouncing her way to the front door.

Oliver rolls his eyes. Upon realisation, he sprang up from the sofa.

“Sophia, you need a coat!”

-

The two children squinted against the hazy Yorkshire rain. The rain was cool against their exposed skin. It felt nice, refreshing even. It ran through their hair, smoothing out Sophia’s auburn waves, mopping Oliver’s ash brown locks. It plastered small individual strands to each of their faces.

Oliver chatted away as they went down the muddy, winding path. Chatting isn't quite the right word as Sophia never spoke. It had only taken him two minutes to go off on a tangent about something or other.

Sophia, only kind of sort of listening, pedaling her hand-me-down trike. His voice disappeared into the white noise, allowing her to quietly enjoy the English landscape.

The countryside stretched and weaved as far as the eye could see. Rustic English cottages and cobblestone farm houses dotted the grassy hills. The land gently rolled up and down the valley, merging with the uneven, mist filled moors half way up the emerald green mounds of earth.

Dew, white and clear, decorated the damp droopy grass the land glittered, sparkling under the orange purpling sunlight.

The houses of the humdrum sleepy town were few and well spaced out. One could walk a good half a mile before reaching their neighbours' property. Those closer to the center of town were flats, pushed together in neat lines, occupying the space over the small, often family owned shops.

Oliver and Sophia arrived at the park in twenty minutes. Sophia having to struggle, pedaling through the mud had set them back. However, neither of the children seemed to care. Sophia hopped off the trike and clicked off her helmet, abandoning both on the pavement. She couldn’t wait to explore the soggy park.

For the next 20 minutes they hung out at the park, Sophia wandered the grassy playing field picking at wild flowers while Oliver practiced his kicks. In the following ten, Sophia ran up the stairs then went down the slide. She’d dust herself off, then go round again. The next five minutes she sat still, a bit tired, content to watch the villagers while Oliver puttered around.

“Oi! Sophia, I’m goin’ to the loo. I’ll be back right back!” Oliver shouted from the far side of the futbol field. The park had no bathroom, so he’d have to walk clear cross the road to Brews Brothers’ Pub. The popular bar had an outdoor side restroom reserved for the public.

Sophia watched Oliver leave until he became nothing more than a speck in the distance.

The quiet times brought a certain comfort to Sophia. It was the perfect time to watch people revel in the coolness of other humans’ lives. Usually the park was a buzz with townsfolk, mostly children. They melded together and dotted the public lawn like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. But now there was little life to distinguish the little village from Oradour-sur-Glane, France.

The night air, though cool, had a biting sharpness to it. No thanks to the rain. Sophia sniffs through her nostrils, inhaling the almost intoxicating spring air. Sitting on the bench, her little legs swung over mud coated grass. Misty rain was still falling steadily, and the temperature had dropped considerably.

Sophia wasn’t bothered though.

Reaching for a short stick she traces some shapes in the ground. She nods her head, humming a tune she couldn’t quite place.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you actually know how to fly the TARDIS.” A voice, female with a thick Scottish accent, said.

Two foreign voices cut through the cold silence. Her eyes dart down the path. From where she sat she could hear them, the voices, bickering. About what, she had no clue.

Out of mist in the distance strode what appeared to be a young couple. The man seemed tall. His dark brown hair was long, stuck to his forehead in a droopy fashion, much like Ollie’s. Despite looking like a young man, he wore clothes that reminded Sophia of one of the town retirees; a Donegal tweed sport jacket with elbow patches, an off white dress shirt, rolled up deep blue trousers and… and bow tie?

Bow ties are for Sunday, Sophia thought, eyes narrowing at the approaching pair.

His partner appeared to be much more put together. Auburn hair, just a smidge less vibrant than Sophia’s framed a pale Scottish face. An irradiated cross expression dominated her features. Her voice wasn’t high nor low, it perfectly suited her in an indescribable way. And unlike the man to her right, she wore clothes appropriate for her age.

The pair stopped in the middle of the path, continuing to argue.

“Of course, I know how to fly the TARDIS sometimes she- she just has a mind of her own.” The lanky man argued, earning an eye roll from the ginger.

“We’re supposed to be England,” She grouched. “What about Churchill? This looks like— are we in Scotland?”

Sophia scoffed, shaking her head, tourists. She watched as the man licked a finger, held it against the wind, then popped it back in his mouth.

“No, no. I’m sure we’re in England.”

The finger crossed her arms over her chest in a cool way.

“Shouldn’t there be I dunno fighters, soldiers, something? I’m getting sheep.” She said looking round the area. She wasn’t wrong there were sheep, white puffs mindlessly grazing on the hills. When she looked back at the man, he was squatting. In his right hand he held a good chunk of mud.

“Wha—What are you doing?”

“Definitely in England. Westerdale Yorkshire, to be more precise. Right country wrong period. Does something seem off to you?” He asked, running a thumb over the mucky mud, cautiously examining it.

His partner snorted indignantly.

“Something or… someone? No don’t eat the—”

Sophia quickly pushed her head down, crinkling her nose. Adults are weird. She turned her attention to her dirt scribbles. She didn’t understand what they were on about, anyway. Hopefully they’d be on their way soon. They didn’t belong.

There’s a weight increase, bending the planks of the bench. An electric chill ran up Sophia’s spine, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The reaction wasn’t from the cold. There was a weight increase bending the planks of the bench.

“Well hello there, I’m the Doctor. What’s your name.”

Surprise was never an emotion Sophia handled well. Her shoulders went rigid, her entire body defensively readying itself. Her sweet eyes become stoney. Her breathing felt as if it was becoming more shallow with each breath. The guarding alarms inside her mind we’re going crazy halting the thinking gears of her brain.

The man held his hands up resignedly. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” There was a gentleness to his tone, a kind of concern. Sophia couldn’t be sure. No matter something about him. She let her shoulders go loose, but the rest of her still felt tense. “Would you mind? I have a few questions.”

Sophia allowed herself to relax a little more, not completely but more.

“Doctor!” The scot’s voice rang up briefly, sending Sophia back into defensive mode. “You can’t keep talking to children you don’t know.” She sounded like a mother chiding her young child.

Her comment sparked a minor argument between the pair.

Sophia took the time to lean back and take the pair in full, particularly the man. He was a little more normal-ish looking up close. Normal enough. There was something about his eyes she couldn’t quite describe.

Sophia observed the two curiously, unaware that the fear, once crushing her chest, was steadily subsiding.

“I introduced myself this time. Oh yes,” the Doctor swiftly turns to Sophia, “this is Amy.”

“That’s not how it works,” Amy grumbled.

Her partner ignores her, keeping his attention on Sophia. “There’s something… something about this place. Don't know. I think-" He spoke fast, flaggishly moving his hands about. “Well I know it’s something. Too many ideas. Head’s bit cloudy.” He knocked on his temple.

Sophia, though a little behind, shifted uncomfortably.

“Need to narrow it down…” he trailed off. Sophia, her left palm on her thigh, absently traces along each finger with her right index. He observes Sophia with a kind, sort of calculating, gaze.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?

Concurrently, Ollie was on his way back from the toilet. He dribbles across the park, knocking a futbol between one foot and the other. “He’s going for the full court folks.” He deepened his voice, trying to mimic the vocals of a proper sports announcer. “He’s at the 75 marker, will he go for the assist?” He sped up, using a lace touch to control the ball. “He passes to,” Oliver knocks the ball clear cross the field.

“No one.”

He’d get his ball back tomorrow. The silence made his blood as cold as the icy waters of a polar plunge, as he strode across the park to where he had left Sophia.

Everything was still hazy and cloudy from the English rain. Billions of trillions of icy drops dripped down his neck and fell off the flaps of his slicker. In this de-focused world, he could just make the outlined silhouette of Sophia.

“Sophia. Sophia?”

He goes taut, stopping in his tracks. For a moment his brain glitches. His eyes went wide, mouth falling slightly ajar. Although he was staring at Sophia, he was seeing more than he expected.

“Sophia, what do you think you’re doing?” His voice was steady, but had a sharpness to it. “Talking to strangers?” He holds a hand out, which Sophia compliantly takes within seconds.

“And you lot.” The ginger seemed taken back by Oliver’s frigidity. A tween scolding two strange grownups, one of them a Scot, bit startling. The gentleman, however, seemed off in his head, silently mouthing the same word over and over. “You can’t just be talking to people you don’t know, numpties.”

“Oi, watch it.”

Oliver’s eyes sourly narrow. “You’re not from around here, are you?” He deadpanned.

“Just passing through. Hello, I’m the—”

“You should keep passing,” Oliver interrupted. Stepping between Sophia and the pair. Sophia could only watch as Oliver spoke to the two adults. “Leave town before it gets dark.” He warned, picking Sophia up, holding her on his hip.

“Is everything okay?” The gentleman asked, stepping up from the bench.

Though his expression held a casual indifference, his skin goes colourless. He let out an understated sigh, bowing his head and turning to leave. “I have to get Sophia home. It's almost supper time.”

Sophia beats her head against Oliver's shoulder, hitting it just hard enough to make the older child wince. He rolls his eyes, but turns back to the pair. “If you are going to stay… it’s only fair.” He sounded like a toddler forced to apologise.

“I must warn you.” He let his face fall in seriousness.

“Beware what lies in the mist of the Moors.”

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Testimony of Ingo Michehl – assault by Japanese leader caused lung collapse

▲ Camp K, Macaama Hills

• This testimony has been very lightly edited to improve clarity.

STATEMENT ABOUT MY EXPERIENCE WITH CARP, THE STUDENT BRANCH OF SUN MYUNG MOON’S UNIFICATION CHURCH

How I joined

In October 1986, after completing my high school back home in Germany, I decided to travel the United States for three weeks to evaluate universities and to visit my host family in Auburn, California, where I had been an exchange student for 1 year in 1982. After visiting them, I went to San Francisco to meet with one of my “host sisters”, and to then move on to Yosemite, Southern California, Florida and finally back home. (I had a “Welcome America” ticket which gave me four flights in the U.S.)

Having just arrived in San Francisco by Greyhound, I went to Powell and Market Streets to observe the famous turning of the cable cars. As I was standing there looking around, I was approached by two Japanese “students” (though as I found out later they were not students), one of them being a woman in her thirties by the name of Hitomi Kanepa, who, since her husband left the Unification Church, has resumed her maiden name Saito. She is most likely at the present still at the Unification Theological Seminary in Barrytown, New York. She and her companion, Yoshihisa (I believe his last name is Nozawa), smiled at me with a bright and loving smile which rendered me completely unsuspecting, and when they invited me for a “a cup of tea” at their “international student club”. I, considering myself an international student, accepted their invitation.

▲ Powell Street, San Francisco

I was impressed by the luxurious location of this student club in a marble-walled office building, as well as by the people who seemed very energetic, bright, intelligent and ... international. Steve Greene, a British man in his thirties, said that he had been involved in this student organization for about seven years doing volunteer work as a staff member. His altruistic ambition impressed me. He gave me a short lecture about the principles of “CARP” – their vision to unite students from all over based on the idea that truth is universal. Then I was invited to dinner at the “Bush Street Center”, where all of the participants were shown a slide show about a beautiful workshop site [north of Santa Rosa], Camp K (now known as Maacama Hills), with many obviously excited, joyful young people of all nationalities. After dinner we sat together in small groups of 3 or 4. After joining CARP I learned that these groups were composed of 2 or 3 members and one “newcomer” – for the purpose of pushing the guest to go to workshop that night.

We were encouraged to join the workshop to meet international people, to exchange ideas and learn about this exciting new vision. Having been to many music, exchange-program and school-related workshops, I consented to sign up for a 7-day workshop, although it meant altering my travel plans. The high energy at the center, as well as my having been somewhat lonely after traveling by myself for about 10 days, dispelled any doubts regarding this apparently harmless opportunity.

At no point was I told that this was part of Rev. Moon’s Unification Church, a religious organization, and that the purpose of the workshop was to recruit me as a full-time member of CARP, to serve the rest of my life for an average of 18 to 20 hours a day to further the cause of establishing a totalitarian theocracy under the leadership of the self-declared Messiah Sun Myung Moon.

I come from a well-protected, stable family background in Germany. My dad is an engineer, my mom is a loving housewife. I have never seen an illegal drug with my own eyes. I was rather naive and utterly unprepared for this kind of subtle and “loving” manipulation. Also, I had broken up with a girlfriend in Germany not too long before, which had left my heart shattered and vulnerable, starving for love.

In the camp, I was overwhelmed with the love I was shown by members. Everyone was serving each other, surprising each other with little “love bombs” (tokens of one’s affections such as secret notes of affirmation, etc.). I was to believe that is the ideal world family of true love – and I did. I did not notice that I was being isolated from the outside world. The schedule was rigidly regimented, including precise wake-up time, two 2-hour lectures in the morning, specific sports and game times in the afternoon, followed by two to three more lectures, sometimes until 8, 9 or even 10 PM at night. Having had a major in German and English literature in my German high school, and being by nature interested in philosophy and truth, I did not find it odd that we were being bombarded with all this one-sided information. In retrospect, however, this procedure reminds me much of the “thought reform techniques” used on American prisoners in North Korea who were indoctrinated with communism and turned against their own country and its values by the communist regime during the Korean War.

I was deprived of information from the outside world as a frame of reference. And also the location of the workshop was in a remote area, there was no TV, no newspapers and telephone calls were only possible after getting permission and were highly discouraged.

I soon found myself fascinated and entangled with the doctrine, feeling compelled to stay by the message that upon continuous repetition I had unconsciously come to accept. I was unable to overcome the fear I had been indoctrinated with, i.e. the fear of betraying God and of being invaded and destroyed by satan if I left this “heavenly fortress” (or “bootcamp”) that, I had come to believe, protected me.

The fear I had been “injected” with, and my desire to serve God, were from then on often used to manipulate my decisions, to eliminate choices which did not serve the group’s purposes – thus undermining my own freedom of choice.

My leaders in California, including Mr. Aokie (regional director), Myra Stanaecki, and a woman named Jossenta, upon learning that I was scheduled to begin my civil service (the mandatory substitute for military service) in Germany by December 1, 1986, had a meeting, and rather than advising me to return home, told me that ... “I should decide.” Since I had accepted their teaching, choosing the option of returning would have been equal to betraying God and committing spiritual suicide. As a freshly committed new member I would never opt for this choice – and they knew and relied on it.

All attempts by my father to reach me and to warn me, as well as to pressure the leadership of CARP to send me home to attend to my obligation in Germany, were blocked. Most of his messages did not get through to me. My father has kept all the records of phone calls with leaders in California, such as those to the people named above and to Tom Frohlich, which were kept secret from me. I was blocked from all negative information, and at the same time I was being programmed against my parents – that satan was using them to pull me out of the movement, to destroy my eternal spiritual life. My group leader at that time during 40-day actionizing) was Myra. She one day told me that my Dad had called and that I should call him back. But she also prepared me, saying that he might be very negative about the movement, and that my mother and brothers might also respond very emotionally and negatively against the movement – which is a normal form of persecution, since satan does not want us to do God’s Will. I did not believe my parents would not believe me that this is a legitimate group – but to my shock her “prophesy” proved 100% correct – which of course reinforced my faith in her judgment. I was numbed to the pain of my family and friends regarding my decision to evade the draft (which made me an outlaw in Germany) and to stay with the group in America.

After the 7 day workshop it was expected that I would stay for the “formula course”: 21 day workshop, followed by 40-day actionizing, then for 3 ½ years of MFT (Mobile Fundraising Team – soliciting funds for the group by selling products such as “laser etchings”which were pictures engraved on aluminum foil), then 3 ½ years of witnessing ... and then the rest of my life serving the group’s purposes in much the same ways. Of course I was “free to go (or run away)” – and betray God and True Parents!

Apart from inducing me to violate the law in my home country, I was also asked to join the MFT team and to break the American law by selling products without a permit, traveling from state to state, and soon to become an illegal alien when my visa expired. I was not the only illegal alien CARP entertained, working without wages for 18 to 22 hours per day, making an average of $200 to $300 per day. Most of the team members were foreigners (predominantly Japanese and European travelers who had been recruited during their vacations much as I had been.)

All 11 of us slept in a Ford van. We travelled at night and fundraised during the day. We heard of a few other teams who had serious accidents with even some people getting killed because “the driver had been invaded by satan”. What that usually meant was that the driver had fallen asleep behind the wheel. I met several members with severe health problems due to such accidents. And the medical care for them – as later for me when I developed back-problems due to carrying my 25 pound backpack day in and day out – was insufficient, if provided at all. How much more effective is it to have slaves working for you that don’t need ‘physical’ chains?!

Other illegal activities we were led to engage in through our leaders were such things as sleeping with 5 or 10 people in a one person bedroom (without paying the extra amount), sneaking into state parks to sleep there, use the showers and leave before they would open so we would not have to pay. All this was justified because according to Rev. Moon’s teaching, the end justifies the means – and we were working and living to help America and the World.

Rev. Moon himself once stated, upon being asked about “white lies” by a member, “If you tell a lie to make a person better, then that is not a sin. ... Even God tells lies very often.” [Master Speaks: Rowlane Farmhouse, England, 1974] This may account for the practice of “heavenly deception” we were taught in order to accomplish the group’s goals. So when I later went to recruit new converts, I likewise hid the true identity of the group – “for the better of the newcomer” who would otherwise not join. The end justifies the means.

Another example of “Reverse Psychology”: My last leader, Mr. Tetsuo Yoshizumi in Chicago, once came to me after my not having completely followed one of his instructions. He stuck a few hundred dollars into my shirt pocket, pushed me and yelled “I don’t want you in my center any more! You are satan! Go back to Germany – with satan! NOW! Pack your stuff and GET OUT!”

I was shocked! If I obeyed his command I would be committing “spiritual suicide” We had been taught that upon leaving the church satan would invade us completely, he would destroy our family, cause us to become insane or die because of some horrible accident. At meetings we would continuously hear testimonies from leaders about members who would not “unite” with their leaders (called CF’s or Central Figures).

One story the regional director of Chicago, Rev. Hong, one of Mr. Moon’s first disciples, told us was that upon disuniting with his directions, a member’s child had just been born without any ears. Another disobedient member had developed cancer – satan’s punishment.

What would you have done in my situation if you had been indoctrinated with all these very real fears? Well, some part of me was rebellious, saying “OK! If all my work is not enough, and you really want me to leave – I’ll go!” However, another part of me, which was dominated by fear, guilt and low self-esteem which my leader had beaten into me (verbally as well as physically), was stronger. Consequently I lowered my head and said, “I repent! I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again!” But that was not enough! He wouldn’t accept it, telling me with an ice cold voice that I was insincere and arrogant – until I cried. Only after what seemed like an agonizing eternity he showed “mercy” and accepted my repentance “one last time! The next time you know what will happen!” He gave me a fasting condition (I believe it was a three day water-fast. At other times it had been 40 hours or even seven days of fasting to repent and separate from satan.

Another time I was just about to do my two hours of prayer conditions which would be finished at about 2 AM – when he told me through his assistant that I had to add another two hour repentance prayer because of some goal I had not accomplished. He added with emphasis that if I “failed”, that is if I fell asleep for even one minute, I would have to do it over again until I succeeded. So, feeling almost dead, I finished at 4 AM that night – only to rise as usual at 6:20 AM for the standard morning service, during which we would be expected to pray with a loud voice. He would listen, and if our prayer was not deep or loud enough, he would rebuke us and make us do it over again.

Perhaps due to my exceptionally high fundraising average, I “graduated” early from MFT, and was sent to Chicago at the beginning of 1989 to witness, that is to recruit new members, at the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC). After flying to Germany for a very short time to get a new visa, I was enrolled in language school so I could get a student visa. Although I had been promised that I would be able to study, I was later only allowed to enroll at a junior college to take easy, non-time consuming classes in order to maintain my visa. I was made to feel guilty for even spending this time of studying “for myself”, instead of my “public mission”. I was not allowed to pursue a degree, and finally I had to drop school when my leader felt I was spending too much time there.

Each of the foreign CARP members had mailed in 200 applications for the green card lottery, and I had won a green card. Yet, because my German passport had expired and I could not get a new one without returning to Germany, my leader, Mr. Yoshizumi, forbid me to go, saying that I had made some “bad condition” again. It was more likely he knew that I would have to deal with the German government which was still looking for me since I evaded the draft, and that would mean my parents and friends might eventually have gotten a hold of me.

This happened in the spring of 1992. During my stay in Chicago I had to visit a chiropractor for a while because of the severe back problems I had developed during MFT – which I am still struggling with today. Again I was made feel guilty for “wasting public time” and “enjoying the massages while brothers and sisters were working so hard for God’s Providence”. I stopped going. Besides witnessing all day and preparing lectures until 2 AM during the week, I still had to fundraise each weekend, selling pictures from Friday to Saturday. Also I had to sell flowers each Holiday, regardless of the temperature. On Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Eve our flowers, the water in which they were standing became frozen solid. It’s amazing to me that despite the insufficient clothing we only got stiff faces and extremities instead of frost bite. The wind in Chicago gets VERY cold. Since I was a top fundraiser I was fortunate enough to have my own vehicle in which I hid when the weather got too terrible.

On New Year’s ’93 I was “blitzing”, selling flowers bar to bar in Chicago with my Central Figure who was driving the van. He dropped me off at different locations. I could not go back until I had sold out both buckets of flowers that remained – which took me until 4 AM. I remember the empty and sad feeling walking out of a bar I had just gotten kicked out of when I heard the popping of champagne bottles and joyful congratulations when the clock turned to 12 AM and the new year began. I walked outside and ... cried. I felt so lonely and homesick, full of despair and crushed. But as so often I caught myself and redetermined to accomplish my goal ... for God and True Parents. After all, I was sacrificing myself for the sake of the world.

How I left

Having been in Chicago for over three years, I was still having a very difficult time with my leader, Mr. Yoshizumi. I often could not understand his broken English and because I still included my own ideas in trying to accomplish his directions. I could not “deny myself completely” and I still had a spark of self-esteem left, which to him was arrogance. The weekend of Easter ’93, April 9-11, I again had to sell flowers on my usual pitch in South Chicago Heights. However, on Easter Sunday I also had to travel to Quincy, IL, about 6 hours Southwest of Chicago, to conduct a meeting for the network marketing mission I was pioneering. I had planned it several weeks ahead, but the night before, my leader told me that I could only go if I sold out all my flowers except for $20 or $30. So I “blitzed” the bars until about 4:30 AM Sunday morning, trying to sell my last few bunches. Knowing that I had to be in Quincy by 1 PM I stopped, because I knew that I needed at the very least 2 hours of sleep to be able to drive the 6 hours non-stop. So I distributed the last few bunches to the other team members’ buckets, took a nap from about 5 to 7 pm and left. I conducted the meeting in Quincy, slept for about an hour there and returned late at night – only to get up at 6:20 again the next morning, Monday.

As I was washing up after morning service, Mr. Yoshizumi suddenly was standing in the bathroom. He scolded me for disobeying his orders. “WHY did you disobey my order? I TOLD you you could only leave if you sold all flowers! But you distributed some to the other members!” He hit me and pushed me twice. Each time I fell with my back against a sharp, protruding corner of the bathroom wall. I was devastated, too weak and tired to even think. I was angry inside but I pushed it aside. I blocked it out of my mind. It was simply too much to take. Again I had to fast and repent. A day or two later I could hardly walk or breathe because of intense chest pain. Each step hurt tremendously, even each bump in the road I hit while driving the car. But I had to continue to make my appointments and fulfill my mission.

As my pain got worse and I began to feel cold and miserable, I called a Filipino doctor friend of mine, Dr. Juliet Dumlao, whom I had become acquainted with while fundraising. As I described my symptoms to her over the phone, she was very worried and said I should go to a hospital immediately because I might have had a heart attack. At the time I did not connect my symptoms at all with being pushed against the wall. I couldn’t do that, I replied (because of my mission work), so she ordered me with a doctor’s authority to at least go to bed. I said OK – but knowing my leader I did not do so until 10 PM, after finishing the most important tasks. Nevertheless, when he learned of my early return he ordered me to his office. I said I could not come because I was having cold sweat and I was very weak, but his assistant, Mr. Yone, insisted. So I dragged myself to his room and explained my pain and my conversation with the doctor. He was furious. “How come you are so incredibly selfish? You don’t care about our spiritual children you are killing every day (which meant that I couldn’t “save” or convert them through my lectures) – but you call a doctor for yourself!” He yelled and screamed at me but I was so sick I could only stand there and receive it. When he finally felt it was enough he graciously permitted me to rest some the next day.

All this was still not enough to make me leave, since my commitment was not to any person, but to God and the truth. I could only leave if I came to believe that the Divine Principle, the teaching of the Unification Church, was not the truth, and that Rev. Moon was not the Messiah. Thank God, this lifesaving information was finally supplied by a Christian engineering student at the UIC campus. I met him when I was distributing flyers, and on our first appointment on April 20th and in following meetings he pointed out to me that the DP is in clear contradiction to the Bible. Finally I came to realize that the DP could not be the truth, since, because we believed in the Bible as a revelation from God, He cannot contradict himself with a later revelation.

I left on Mother’s Day, May 9th, after selling out over $2,000 of roses as my last commitment to the church. Lesly, whom I had informed about my intention to leave and had asked for a place to stay, was able to oblige, so I stayed with him for a few days. However, because I was still coughing, we went to the Lawndale Christian Health Center in Chicago. I was worried that I might have picked up a tuberculosis virus. The test turned out negative, but when the doctor did an x-ray, he noticed that my left lung was collapsed to almost 20%, which was at the border of being fatal. He said, if I was lucky it would reinflate by itself, but if it had been more than 20%, I could have died. Puzzled about the cause he asked if I had had any trauma to my back recently. At first I denied this, but when he illustrated his hypothesis, I realized that I had indeed received a trauma injury recently, which I had completely blocked out of my mind. It was the incident in the bathroom when my leader had pushed me!

Since the incident had already happened almost a month previous, the deflation may well have been over 20% at the time. He said that I should wait for about 10 days. If it did not reinflate by itself by that time, he would need to introduce a hose through the back to suck the air out and reinflate the lung. I was terrified, but fortunately it DID reinflate.

Back in Germany, the prosecution against me was still under way, but thanks to indescribable efforts on part of my dad, the government finally dropped the draft and I only had to pay a $1,500 fine ... on top of the approximately $15,000 to $20,000 my dad had spent in lawyer’s expenses and phone calls, etc.!

Summary of some of the unethical practices I experienced during my time in CARP/the Unification Church:

a) Fraud – The deceptive, manipulative tactics of recruitment, including mind control, used to get and keep me in the group and the hiding of the true identity and religious nature of the group. This cost me the loss of seven of the most important years of my life, during which I could neither get a proper education nor earn any money for my future family.

b) Assault, personal injury and mental cruelty – such as the bathroom incident, etc.

c) Health problems as consequence of rigorous fundraising requirements: back problems (lower back pain, worsened scoliosis), extreme tension headaches, sleep disturbances. I almost died after my pneumo thorax condition because, like several other members I know of, I was forbidden to see a doctor.

People involved:

Tetsuo Yoshizumi 
(my leader in CARP who assaulted me)
 Unification Theological Seminary
, 10 Dock Road, 
Barrytown, NY 12507
 (his last address; I was instructed to use his name to do the network marketing business)

Jim McAuley, M.D. (the doctor who examined me)
 Lawndale Christian Health Center
 3860 W. Ogden Ave.
, Chicago, IL 60623


Juliet M. Dumlao, M.D. (the Filipino doctor)
 1159 Westgate
, Oak Park, IL 60301


Note 1. I still have the copies of my X-rays which show the partial lung collapse, and the doctor at the Christian health center, as well as Dr. Dumlao should be able to verify my claims. (Dr. Dumlao was the doctor I first called when I could hardly walk due to the pain in my chest – a day after the incident where I was pushed against the wall.)

Note 2. The “Women’s Federation for World Peace” is founded and headed by Mrs. Hak Ja Han Moon, Mr. Sun Myung Moon’s wife. Although to the public it is declared as being “separate” from the Unification Church, inside the group it is viewed as the same. It is a means through which to recruit new members and gain public respect. According to speeches of Mr. Moon it is OK to lie to the public because “the end justifies the means.” A practice known as “Heavenly Deception.”

____________________________________

Ingo Michehl has a website:

Introduction: http://minet.org/www.trancenet.net/moonism/intro.shtml

Unificationism/Moonism
: A Threat to Democracy, Freedom ... and Families http://minet.org/www.trancenet.net/moonism/index.shtml

"Blessing" ceremony in Washington, DC http://minet.org/www.trancenet.net/moonism/wedding.shtml

Deutsche Seiten http://minet.org/www.trancenet.net/moonism/deutsch2.shtml

He has many other pages which can be explored.

____________________________________

Moonwebs by Josh Freed (the book was made into a movie)

Video: Ticket to Heaven movie

Barbara Underwood and the Oakland Moonies

Mitchell was lucky – he got away from the Unification Church

My Time with the Oakland Family Moonies – by Peter from New Zealand

Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

Ford Greene – the former Moonie became an attorney

Papasan Choi and Boonville’s Japanese origins

[ciriceart]

OC profiles: the Lawson family

From the now-defunct semi-interactive comic/creative writing projects, “Hunger, Nevada”, “Far From Any Road”, and “Saudade”.

The plot of these three stories cover topics and conflicts such as learning to relate to those around you, breaking toxic cycles, smalltown stagnation and the isolation of close-knit communities, and metaphorical (sometimes literal) body horror monsters that slowly poison towns and families. I wrote these stories from the ages of 14 to 21, and they're all very much a reflection of myself and my perspectives/outlook at those times. I still go back and revisit certain areas, but can't see myself rewriting them in full any time soon. I feel like that would be a disservice to my past self - I used these to sort out and explore my own feelings and hangups, and they served their purpose, but I still draw and talk about the boys more often than I expected I would when I drew my first doodle of Ellis and Lawrence in 8th grade detention. This post is just an infodump about the family of the main characters. I'm not getting into plot details just yet. Though it is worth noting, this was at the height of my Silent Hill hyperfixation, and Ellis and Lawrence began life as the protags of my imaginary Silent Hill fangame for which I made an entire gamefaqs walkthrough because I did not know how to write or draw too well. That doesn't really matter too much now, I just think it's fun.

The Lawson family consists of Francis (or Frank) and Amalia Lawson, and their two sons, Ellis and Lawrence.

Frank is a large man, about 6’3 with green eyes, short auburn hair,  and a beard. His skin is somewhat pale but has a minor farmer’s tan from working outdoors, and there’s a spatter of freckles across his entire face. He sometimes wears rectangular half-frame glasses and uses a walking stick.

Amalia is about 5’4 and stocky, with dark brown, almost black hair cut in the patented Mom Bob(tm) with bangs and dark eyes. Her face is somewhat oblong with round, soft features and her skin is a warm mid-to-light brown.

Ellis ranges in age from 17 to 26 across plots. His facial structure favors his father. He’s about 5’10,  has very light brown skin, freckles on his face, arms, chest and shoulders, dark eyes and auburn hair. As a teenager, his hair reaches to about his jaw with an off-center part, and he keeps it short and parted on the side as he gets older. He usually at least attempts to comb his hair back but half of it just falls back in front of his face anyway. Sometimes sports various non-serious injuries such as scratches and bruises. He’s rough-and-tumble.

As a teen, most of his outfits consist of torn up jeans, skater shoes, and a plethora of graphic or band tees. Sometimes an old flannel stolen from dad, or black canvas jacket. As an adult, he wears mostly intact but faded black work pants, black or brown work boots, a plain T-shirt and often an unbuttoned overshirt with either short sleeves or the sleeves rolled up.

Lawrence also ranges in age across stories, from 9 to 17. His facial structure favors his mother. He has pale skin, freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, green eyes, and auburn hair in a short, choppy buzzcut that he later grows out to reach past his shoulders as he gets into his teens. As a child, he’s very short and scrappy, and then becomes gangly and awkward as a teenager.

As a child, his wardrobe is typically all childish graphic tees and cargo shorts or jeans, all picked out by his parents. As he gets older, he becomes introverted and shy, always covering himself up in an absurd number of layers – he's often seen wearing a short-sleeved shirt with long sleeves underneath, either a flannel or sweater, and a massively oversized forest green jacket with a red fleece collar. He usually sticks to plain, slightly baggy jeans and sneakers.

--

Frank and Amalia married in their mid to late 20’s and moved to Frank’s hometown of Ansley, [state redacted].

Frank works in a hardware store and as a repairman. Some years ago, Frank suffered a spinal injury, resulting in chronic pain and his use of a walking stick. He still works at the hardware store and takes repair jobs, though he’s unable to work as often or for as long as he used to.

Ellis drops out of high school in the second quarter of 11th grade to work full-time at the hardware store and begins picking up smaller repair jobs around town. Lawrence, being much younger, is not employed but occasionally does smaller tasks such as sweeping up or organizing shelves after closing hours, or tagging along with his brother or dad on repair jobs to help where he can.

Amalia works at a packing and shipping facility in the city. She works overnight, six days a week with Mondays off. She’s usually home about an hour before her sons have to get up for school. Amalia’s pack a day smoking habit and Frank’s temper are the subjects of most conflicts, but they never progress past passive aggressive remarks or heated discussions. The family occasionally relies on financial help from a man named Mike, whose family has been friends with Frank’s for several years, to make ends meet. He’s often the reason that their heat and water stay on.

The Lawsons are a practicing family of Amicists. They regularly attend service at The First Church of the Shoal United in the next town over. More on Amicism at a later date.

Ellis has a lot of pent up resentment toward authority figures and “grown-ups” in general, even into his own adulthood, due to Backstory Reasons I won’t get into here.

James, Marie, Robin, and Brian are Ellis’ friends from high school. They mostly sit around smoking pot and watching bad movies, sneak out to drink at the park after curfew, and attempt to skate in vacant parking lots.

James was held back in middle school and is one or two years older than the rest of the group. Most parents in town still call him Jimmy and think he’s a very nice boy. If asked to describe him, his long line of ex-girlfriends would say “he’s so nice, but GOD he’s so dumb.” Marie was closer to Robin and James than she was to Ellis, so they didn’t hang out outside of the group at all. She thought Ellis was kinda weird, but not a “bad weird” so she never mentioned it or complained. Robin is that sort of midwestern emo girl in everyone’s math class who’s an artist, but all she draws is semi realistic eyes with elaborate eyeliner in her English notes. She regularly gets into arguments with Ellis and James on what genre different bands count as. Brian is the obvious stoner friend who would be kinda chill to hang out with if he weren’t so loud and annoying about how his parents totally don’t even care and just like, totally let him do whatever he wants.

Dropping out of high school to work a fulltime job, having no interest in college, minimal relationship experience, and staying in such a small and rural town leads to Ellis becoming socially isolated and unable to fully relate with people his own age. He slowly falls out of touch with his friends and people he knew from school, preferring surface level interactions with older coworkers, relatives and friends of the family.

Lawrence, as a result of his older brother’s attempt at parenting while Frank and Amalia are working, learns to be untrusting and uncooperative as well. He picks up a smoking habit by age 14, often stealing them from Ellis or from their mom's purse when she’s home, and sneaks out of his and Ellis’ shared bedroom through the window at night.

Lawrence is a nice kid, but struggles to make friends. Throughout all of middle school and into high school, he only manages to befriend two others named Catherine and Donnie.

Donnie is Brian’s little brother. He and Lawrence aren’t actually friends, but they tend to tag along when Ellis and Brian hang out at each other’s houses. Catherine has known Lawrence since they were in third grade, but they never hung out until they got put in the same advanced math class in middle school.

As he gets older, Lawrence begins to neglect his few friendships and social life in favor of fiction; most notably stories and unfiction focusing on the occult and supernatural, as well as a video game series called Sprout Friends, a puzzle game involving farming and anthropomorphic fruits and vegetables. If he isn’t hiding out on the rooftop of the house at night, he’s locked in the bedroom playing one of multiple Sprout Friends titles, or hunting for strange occurrences around town during the night.

--

Fun fact: Ellis' middle name is Layne, and Lawrence's middle name is Elijah. I thought it would be cute if their middle names had the same first letters as each other's firsts.

[buirbaby]

Thistle & Thorn: The Letter

Rating: General

Masterlist

Dawn always brought blisteringly bright sunlight with it, lancing through the sheer curtains and smacking Nessia right in the face. Summer in the highlands was mild, temperatures typically peaking just beneath 20°C (the 60s°F), the cracked window trailing in a refreshing breath of fresh air that caused the shades to dance. Rolling in her quilts, untangling herself from the fussed sheets, and nearly falling out of the bed to land upon the hard wooden floor, ivy green eyes peeled toward the window as talons scrabbled at the edge of the sill and an unfamiliar owl poked its head past the threshold and into her domain.

"Allo there," Nessia yawned, finally dislodging herself from the hazard of her restless sleeping arrangements. Her eyes pulled over the creature groggily, inspecting the tawny feathers banded with black, ear tufts quivering as the eagle-owl blinked pumpkin orange eyes at her. "Hae'na seen ye before. Post usually goes downstairs by the kitchen, big windows over the sink. Hoggle typically handles—" she explained, pausing when the owl offered a letter toward her. "Or is this for me?"

The owl preened, feathers lifting momentarily before it allowed her to take the parcel and bunkered down in the sunlight that streamed against the window, basking in the warmth.

Nessia hummed, turning the letter over before realizing what it was, her fingers becoming clumsy and wrists quivering in blistering excitement as she started to vibrate at the sight of the Hogwart's crest. Now, she'd known that one day that the school would send her a letter, just as all young witches and wizards in the area received one. However, she'd felt anxious because she didn't display her magic as brazen or spectacularly as Logan had when he'd been her age. Hoggle had told her all about how he'd caused a mess of the manor, from causing statues to come to life from laughs that echoed like lion's roars and knocked paintings from the walls. The most that Nessia had ever done was hiccup out a bumblebee, which Hoggle said was much more preferable to Logan's messes.

Breaking the seal, Nessia's eyes became watery, as if she'd gotten potting soil in them again from rubbing her face with filthy hands. This was no farce, written in beautiful emerald script was a letter addressed to her, welcoming her to Hogwarts for her first year, and hosting a list of supplies required as a student. Finding the acceptance form in the very back, Nessia scrabbled for an inkwell and signed her name, aware that the resting owl was roosting for the journey back and likely to also send her own reply so that she could officially be added to the roster. She wondered if anyone ever declined.

"Och," she placed the new letter before the owl, an orange eye blinking open suspiciously. "When yer all good and rested, can ye take this back? Ye can stay here as long as ye need. Here's some water too," Nessia grabbed one of her pails and filled a cup she had laying around in her room, pushing it up her desk toward the raptor. "Mind the plants, but make yerself at hame."

The owl shook its feathers out and gave a low, trilling hoot before bending down to lap up some of the offered water. Nessia took the pieces of parchment, threw on a proper dress—which was little more than a corduroy sack over her shift—and burst out of her room with more fervor than the typically quiet girl displayed. Sputtering around a corner, her socks slipped beneath her and she slid an extra few paces before a hand snapped out and gripped the bannister, redirecting her path so that she could sprint toward her grandfather's solar.

Located on the opposite side of the heirloom cottage, the home that she'd grown up in as long as she could remember, even when her parents had been alive. The MacDougal Manor, situated within the misty rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands, flanked by Loch Linsor and relatively removed from neighbors muggle and wizard alike. Despite the sheltered, rural location, the home was a hive of familiar faces including Hoggle, the house elf, to other friends and servants. In the lake was a pod of merrow, many of which didn't mind popping above the surface to spare an afternoon of conversation with Nessia, to their gardener, a centaur named Rowan who was estranged from the local clan and happily made his home amongst the MacDougal family.

Even if their own grounds were limited to those that worked and kept stock of the care and daily routines, they were often frequented by visits that related to her grandfather's connections. He had been an important man in his prime and despite the years of his youth slipping through the hourglass that was time, many still came to him for advice or whispering happenings within the shadows.

Being so early in the morning, Nessia hadn't expected it to be another day where Bhan was entertaining a guest, sputtering to a graceless halt in front of the oaken door wrought with intricately carved designs depicting the MacDougal alliance with the centaurs and merrow of this area of the highlands. Their family had always had close ties with other Beings (even if the merrow and centaurs disregarded this classification), including their own house elves which lived a much more comfortable life than most elves in similar positions. She had only just raised a tanned fist to knock upon the door when she overheard voices on the other side.

"He's escaped Azkaban?" it was her grandfather, Angus, hissing in frustration at the revelation. "How in Merlin's name? If I werenae so hoachin' I'd join the hunt for him meself. Where aboot did he get loose?"

"Further south and put a little more faith in the department assigned to hunt werewolves," the other person retorted calmly.

"Faith?" Angus huffed in indignation. "I had faith that the sleekit dug wouldnae escape from Azkaban in the first place!"

"Things happen, Angus."

"Things happen, me arse. When I worked for the Ministry this wouldnae happened. Folk be gettin' too relaxed noo that Ye-Ken-Who is pushing daisies. Noo the Ministry gets all gallus and let's a bloody lycan loose. How many ye think will be turned or killed, eh?"

"Angus, I only came here to deliver the news so you could keep your eyes and ears sharp. I doubt he'll come up here, not when there's nowhere to hide and far too many centaurs roaming the moors," her grandfather's companion sounded bone weary, exhausted by toiling with the idea that innocent people were going to be cursed, maimed, or killed.

"Makin' a habit o' eavesdropping?"

The sound of Hoggle's voice made Nessia leap up, fumbling her letters before giving the house elf a bashful, guilt ridden look. "I-I," she stammered quietly, worried that those inside the solar would hear her. "Got me letter to Hogwarts. I only wanted tae show Bhan."

"The MacDougal has a guest. Come downstairs fer now and break yer fast," Hoggle shook his head dismissively, but a tight smirk betrayed the elf's amusement by the girl's dolefulness. "A letter tae Hogwarts noo? Suppose it's aboot time ye had yer own turn there."

"Do ye ken anyone who works there?" Nessia trotted after the house elf, his ragged tartan swaying behind him, pinned in place by a rusty pennancular pendant that Hoggle took deep pride in.

"Got a few cousins who do work in the kitchens," Hoggle admitted, giving her a sideways glance. "Course they're nothin' like me."

"No one is like ye, Hoggle. Everyone's different," Nessia pointed out chipperly.

"Nay," he shook his head, batty ears swaying from their position where they'd been slicked back like hair. "The MacDougals are a fine clan. Good witches and wizards. Treat all their servants right. Hogwarts is good too, but... most places dinnae treat me kind like people. The MacDougal gae me a room, a stipend, clothes—this is a job. For other elves its servitude, slavery and they bow willfully. We were made that way... tae want tae serve. I wouldnae trade whit I hae here for anything. Me cousins... they're happy, because the folk at the school are kind and they dinnae ken better. So they might seem a bit odd compared tae me."

Nessia cocked her head, having never met another house elf aside from Hoggle. Truth be told, she thought all of the elves were servants who had their own respective quarters and free time. But slaves? Her wide lips pulled down in a frown and her steps started to trudge as she contemplated the situation others of Hoggle's kind might be subjected to. "I'm sorry, ye sound sad."

Hoggle blinked. "Is na yer fault, Nessie. Jus' the way things be."

"That's wrong though. Just like it's wrong that the centaurs and merrows are classified as beasts," Nessia huffed.

The house elf's lips tugged up in a smile. "World needs more witches who think like ye, Nessie. Be a much kinder place."

"World would be weak if it were more like me," Nessia muttered, mostly to herself as the pair stepped into the kitchen. Yet another one of her favorite rooms in the house, with high ceilings, a long table in the center of the room that functioned as both an island and where informal meals were hosted. With a wave of a knobbly hand, a stool danced toward Hoggle and he hopped up onto it.

"The world needs kindness, Nessie. It doesnae make ye weak," Hoggle assured her. "Yer bhan is kind."

"But he's also braw," she countered, plopping down on a barstool by the island.

"Och, yer bum's oot the windae, int it?" a third voice joined the conversation, the tall visage of her adult brother sauntering into view as he fixed his tie. The siblings, while having the same parents, reflected each parent in their own way. Nessia took after their mother, with tanned skin, thick curly black hair, and a flat nose-smattering her nose like a constellation was her father's Scottish freckles and the MacDougal green eyes were another telltale sign of her heritage. Whereas Logan was a shade fairer, strong jawed, tall and broad, a head of russet curls hashed with strands of auburn and gold. Whilst he looked more akin to their father, Bhan always claimed he had their mother's fire burning in his heart. Despite their differences, they did share their mother's nose.

"Ah umnae!" Nessia squeaked, cheeks darkening at the insinuation that she was talking rubbish.

"Whit hae ye got there?" Logan gestured to her folded parchment while he was adjusting the cuff links on his shirt.

"Oh! Me letter to Hogwarts," she stood on the pegs of the stool and leaned over the counter to wave it at him.

In just three strides, Logan met her and took the parchment from her, whistling low as he thumbed through it thoughtfully. "Who wouldae thought they'd accept a lil mandrake like ye. Did ye send a letter back sayin' ye'd only want tae study plants?"

"I can learn other stuff," Nessia grumbled, crossing her arms as her brother.

"Well, if that's the case, when ye get yer want, how aboot I teach ye some spells?" he offered, handing the parchment back and pouring himself a cup of tea that Hoggle had on the stove.

"I thought I couldnae practice magic outside o' school," Nessia recalled smartly.

"In front o' muggles. Otherwise, who's gaunnae stop ye? Most other students are na lucky enough to hae a big brother who's an Auror," Logan retorted glibly.

"Am not tryin' to be an Auror," Nessia reminded him.

"Och, yer too wee tae ken whit ye'd like tae do yet," Logan played off dismissively. "I do ken we hae a lot of the supplies ye need here—like the cauldron, scales, phials, telescope. I might even hae some of the books, I ken ye have the One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi one in yer room."

Nessia gave a stout nod, pleased that she wouldn't dirty new books, as she had the uncanny ability to smear dirt on them as well as the inclination to make notes in the margins. Even if the clan had a manor, comparatively Nessia wouldn't claim they were the richest or most influential family. Most of the sacred twenty-eight turned their noses up at the accepting tendencies the MacDougals practiced. They lived comfortably, but if items could be repurposed or recycled, there was no use in wasting it. Both Nessia and Logan had been raised to be appreciative of what they had, what they acquired, and to not discard belongings without regard. An old book still held the same words as a new one and personally, the old one had more character.

"Suppose I'll need tae get a wand and robes, ye were a skinny malinky longlegs when ye went tae school," Nessia pointed out.

Logan sputtered into his mug, Hoggle chortling at the description.

"Keep the heid, young master," Hoggle taunted before the man could offer rebuttal.

"Whit's this noo?" Heads swiveled in the direction of the voice from under the awning, Angus having his hands propped up on his hips as he surveyed the crowd and began carving his path toward the tea kettle. "Yer gaunnae be late fer work, eh?" he prompted, turning verdant eyes to pin Logan where he stood, still gobsmacked from Nessia's prod.

"It's an important day. Na everyday that yer little sister gets an acceptance letter to Hogwarts," Logan preened, taking a glance at his watch.

"Sounds like an excuse tae me. Whit time are ye supposed to be in?" Angus countered suspiciously.

Logan grumbled. "Och, I'll go!" With a snap the man's silhouette rippled inward and he disapparated from the kitchen, fluttering a nearby towel that was folded over the oven handle.

Plates were beginning to float from the stove, landing soundlessly on the island as Hoggle moved as if he were conducting an orchestra. Silverware, plates, and cups followed—the door banging open, followed by the clopping of hooves as Rowan entered.

"Mornin'," he greeted, pausing to wash his hands in the sink.

"So ye got yer letter to Hogwarts? Aboot time," Angus remarked, returning to the island to glance over the parchment. "Might be time tae head to Diagon Alley for the rest o' yer supplies. Hoggle, ye think ye can scrounge up the auld books? I ken Logan had a few of these."

"O' course," Hoggle agreed.

Diagon Alley had been a less than often frequented place of Nessia. To be honest, it was busy, overwhelming, and cramped. Nothing about London was favorable to her, especially when she was so accustomed to the wide open moors and the loch that spanned her home. Additionally, it was humid and frizzed up her curls, turning them into a deplorable helmet. Usually, she let her bhan go without her, but managed to suppress a sigh because she knew that this outing would result in acquiring one of the most important items as a witch: a wand.

"Dinnae look so driech," Angus chuckled.

"It's gaunnae be gross, I jus' ken it," Nessia pouted, spooning hash onto her plate and settling on a scoop of eggs to join it. "Hogsmeade is closer, innit?"

"Tis," Angus mused. "I jus' thought ye'd want the full experience."

Nessia arched a brow at him. "Full experience? I'd prefer na tae sweat me breeks off."

"Lassie dinnae care fer the Sassenachs," Rowan observed mischievously. "Cannae blame ye for that."

"Most o' yer peers are gaunnae be Sassenachs," Hoggle wagged a wooden spoon at her.

"Well, if I can put off meetin' em for as long as possible-" Nessia suggested lightly, shoving some food into her mouth.

"Feart not," Angus declined. "We're gaunnae go to the Alley."

Nessia let out a plainative groan and nearly choked on her eggs, chasing it down with orange juice. The rest of breakfast went on as usual before she was sent off to get ready for the afternoon. London was going to be quite a bit warmer than the highlands, which forced her to choose thinner robes that she preferred to wear. Bundling her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck to save her the embarrassment of it being frazzled to hell, Nessia slipped on a pair of Wellies and trundled grumpily out of her room, the owl having left before she returned.

Upon passing her grandfather's solar, Nessia paused momentarily to reflect on what she'd overheard. Lycans? Escape from Azkaban? She hadn't caught a name, but a shiver traced down her spine at the thought of werewolves roaming the countryside in search of unsuspecting victims. Living in the highlands, she was reminded duly of the protection she was afforded so far north, so removed, and by plenty of other creatures that would chase the werewolves across the moors before letting them bunker down and cause a ruckus.

Waiting by the main hearth, Angus had already dressed in his afternoon robes, including a small sash in the clan's tartan which slashed across his breast. Adjusting his balmoral cap, his heavy brows raised at his granddaughter.

"Try na tae look too enthused," he retorted sarcastically, mustache twitching up at the 11 year old's dismay.

"It's gaunnae be driech, Bhan," Nessia whined, dipping her hand into the basin filled with Floo powder. "And they talk weird."

"Whit if we're the ones who talk weird?" Angus challenged.

"Doubtful," stepping into the fireplace, the sand sifting between her fingers, Nessia tossed the powder down with pizzazz. "Diagon Alley!" Careful to speak clearly, envious green flames lanced up in front of her, obscuring her vision completely. Holding her breath to prevent breathing in the fumes and ash, she narrowed her eyes in an effort to witness her voyage up out of the tippy top of her home's chimney. Arms pinned, up becoming down, skipping from north to south, Nessia groaned when she made impact with the public fireplace of the Alley.

Immediately, she was rebuffed by the humid air of London, the cool and refreshing summer of the highlands replaced by an unusually hot day, peaking at the high 20s (nearly 80F). Pushing a few stray curls from her forehead, Nessia grimaced and stepped out of the way as the chimney above her thundered with the warning of another traveler approaching. Never a pleasant experience, her nose wrinkling as she huffed a sneeze and barely managed to move as a wizard threw a haughty glare in her direction. Rolling her eyes, she waited another moment before her grandfather materialized, dusting off his robes and tartan, ruffling his mustache and sneezing just as loudly as she had.

The mimicked fashion made her grin widely and he chuckled. "Blasted Floo. Never been tae fond of it," he grumbled, striding up to meet her.

"I dinnae think anyone 'likes' it, Bhan," Nessia pointed out to his chagrin.

"Shoulda just disapparated," he muttered, rubbing beneath his nose again. "Noo, where do we need tae go?"

Unfolding the list from her pocket, Nessia could already feel sweat beading on the back of her neck. Maybe she'd worn too heavy an outfit, the corduroy like a smothering blanket amidst the humidity. Thank Merlin Hogwarts was in Scotland. "Robes, parchment, note books, a wand-" she recited, aware that most of the other supplies could be scavenged around the MacDougal grounds. Hand-me-downs didn't bother her too much, though it wasn't as if they couldn't afford newer items; Nessia just didn't see a point when there were perfectly good ones at home.

"Generic supplies," Angus admitted. "Och, well let's get started then. Get ye some robes, 'course yer wand—it's the most important item ye'll get. Maybe if yer not too cheeky, we can stop for some icecream."

Nessia beamed in spite of the blistering weather and flanked her grandfather as they started through the brimming streets of Diagon Alley. From the sloping roofs held up by only magic, defying gravity's expectations, to the gayly hued robes that bespeckled the populace, she settled into the hum of activity. From the freshly baked pastries that filled her with fragrant thoughts of Hoggle making holiday desserts to the owls ruffling their feathers within their cages, she relaxed slightly, keeping close beside her grandfather who parted the crowd as if he had a wand out and was thrusting folks aside. Be it the prowess the broad man moved with or just the heavy expression he always wore, most steered clear of the highlander. He was easily recognizable from his hints of traditional garb and the pride each shoe fell with.

Nessia wished she possessed an ounce of her grandfather's confidence or vindication, but as close as they were they couldn't have been more unlike each other. He was outgoing, strong, ambitious, wise, and willful. Nessia was quiet, reclusive, and shy. Only those that she knew did the girl have the heart to sass, but under the scrutiny of strangers she felt nervous and sweaty. The sheer idea of having to go to school without him made her falter. For today she should have been rejoicing, as excited as the other children around her that she would be going to school soon and beginning the next endeavor of her life. Truthfully, Nessia was terrified.

"Bhan, whit house do ye think I'll be in?" she asked him as they continued down the road toward the wand shop.

"Dinnae, bit o' a toss up for ye. Yer smart, so maybe Ravenclaw. Yer also too nice fer yer own could, ye could be in Hufflepuff," he answered honestly, which made her frown slightly.

"Weren't ye in Gryffindor, Bhan?" she prompted.

"Aye, do ye think ye'll be put into Gryffindor?"

Nessia wanted to be in the same house as her grandfather, almost as if it'd prove that there was more to her than the demure plant-loving witch, but she didn't think herself very brave. Just contemplating how desperately she wanted to be in the house made her eyes prickle with tears, which she quickly blinked back. "I hope Ravenclaw," she decided, knowing that Logan wouldn't let her live it down if she got placed into Hufflepuff. Not that the house sounded bad, but when her family came from a long history of Gryffindors, it made her balk at being placed in the 'softest' house at Hogwarts. After all, she was a highlander and only Ravenclaw or Gryffindor would do.

"Dinnae fash. Ye'll do well wherever ye are, lassie. Ye ken I'm proud of ye, even if ye got placed in Slytherin. No house will change me mind," Angus assured her, tapping her on her nose, having noticed that she was fighting back tears.

The shop in front of them was dusty, but then again, many of the store fronts around here were. It was strange, considering how busy Diagon Alley was, that time was rarely allocated to clean off store fronts or afford a new repaint. Considering all it would take was a swing of a hand or wand to set brooms or dustpans to work, Nessia cocked her head as she stared at the grimy pillow in the display and itched her nose at the anticipation of stepping into the shop. Hoggle would have lost his mind.

Bell tinkling upon their arrival, Nessia shielded her eyes—not because the shop was particularly bright, in fact it was rather dim. No, it was the chain reaction that her presence caused, a box on the wall jetting out amongst the rank and file and pinging right into the side of a rickety desk. An elderly man jumped, his thin white hair going astray as he glanced from the box, the mess the wand had created by acting so spryly—spilling at least two dozen others from the wall—before bending down to pick it up.

"Mr. MacDougal," the shopkeeper smiled, placing the box up on the counter and glancing between them. "I don't think either of you will be spending very long here."

"Nice tae see ye, Ollivander," Angus greeted, palming his granddaughter's back and thrusting her forward from where she'd frozen. "Seems yer wands got minds of their own."

"I see it... from time to time," he smiled gently, turning his wizened eyes down toward Nessia. "This must be Nessia? You look a lot like your mother when she came to get her first wand."

"You remember her?" Nessia's trepidation was trumped by the man's memory of a mother she barely recalled. Both of her parents had been killed when she was little, amidst the wizarding war that had made for a tumultuous childhood for her.

"I remember every person I sell a wand to," Ollivander winked, lifting the lid to the box and revealing a wand. "She had a 12", dragon heartstring cored wand, made from red oak. A very handsome wand."

"Whit happened with that wand?" Nessia inquired, gesturing to the one that had flown clean off the shelf.

"Ah, well let's take a look," he picked up up, holding it to the oil lamp beside him, scrutinizing the ribbing and the fine lattice work of knots around the grip. "Made from vine. They have a tendency to display their attraction to potential partners. I've only seen it happen a few times before, but they're not always quite a brash as this one."

At the insinuation that the wand had reacted to her, Nessia's tanned cheeks darkened and she sputtered. "M-me?"

"Certainly not your grandfather. I'm afraid this wand would not suit him," Ollivander betrayed. "This one has been collecting dust for a while. A very long while," he insisted, reaching over to offer it to Nessia. "I made it many years ago, while I was still experimenting with other cores aside from dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, or phoenix feathers. Honestly, I thought it might never sell. Griffin feathers are quite particular, perhaps even more so than phoenix feathers. Prideful creatures."

Accepting the wand, a tingle lanced up her hand, into her elbow, and caused the girl to shudder all over as if a strong gust of cold highland wind had knocked right through her. She could smell the rain on the moors, fresh air whistling through her thick curls, and roasted apples over a fire. A smile curled her lips and she opened her eyes to glance curiously at the wandmaker.

"A perfect fit," Ollivander declared. "It would seem MacDougals are always the quickest shops. I seem to remember when my father had a wand nearly jump into your hands, Angus."

Her grandfather snorted, removing his wand to offer it to the artisan, who ran his fingers along the wood with a sad, but pleased reminiscent expression upon his face. "Nessie's a MacDougal through and through," he puffed up in pride. "Griffin feather, ye hear? Makes sense, a good deal of griffins migrate to the highlands in the warmer seasons."

Always having felt that maybe being a witch was not suited perfectly for her, Nessia clutched the wand. She couldn't have wished for anything more than this perfect union with the unique wand. A tendril of confidence bolstered the girl's frail spine and she grinned up at her bhan. A griffin feather? Of all the cores, she wouldn't have expected such a braw one to choose her, but her heart soared like the creature it was made from.

"I always thought your core was so strange. How my father managed to acquire will-o-wisps and fashion it into a wand always eluded my skill," Ollivander commented, turning Angus' wand over a few times. "I would have expected the reverse for the two of you, but such rare cores are fickle and don't sell often enough to warrant making them in masses. I realized this once I had taken over, but it still warms my heart to see these wands finally find their partners."

"Served me well, it has," Angus assured him. "And dinnae forget that I wasnae always how I am noo. Nessie's got a much better head on her shoulders than when I was a lad," he patted his granddaughter affectionately.

"You were a bit naive if I recall correctly. Bright eyed and bushy tailed," Ollivander chuckled, returning the wand as he began drafting up a hand written receipt.

"Bhan?" Nessia gasped, as if the idea of her grandfather being anything other than the strident retired Auror that she'd known for the entirety of her life.

"We all grow up, Nessie. I was no exception," he mused, mustache twitching in amusement. "Mr. Ollivander is one of the few who still remembers. Though I hae no doubt Professor McGonagall might as well. We went tae school together."

"I think there are still quite a few more who do, but you're unwilling to admit," Ollivander smiled. "That'll be 10 galleons."

Mr. Ollivander packed up the wand for Nessia, which he shared was about 13.5" and had a relatively hard flexibility to it, but he assured her that the wand was rather delighted to have her. Keeping the bundle tucked close to her chest, she followed her grandfather through the streets which had only grown more busy and sweltering as the afternoon peaked. Past the shops with the pets again and to the robes shop. They passed the front of a second hand store, about to continue when a voice called out.

"Oh! Mr. MacDougal—"

Nessia didn't recognize the voice as one of the typical visitors to their homestead and glanced up inquisitively toward her grandfather who froze and wrinkled his nose. A bemused smile tucked on her face as he turned mechanically and forced a pressed, but polite look onto his face. "Allo there," by the second hand shop was a man with a head full of bright, coppery red hair. "Been a while, Arthur. How's the Ministry?"

Arthur was tall, had a face full of freckles, and beamed excitedly up towards Angus. Beside him were two boys, both of which appeared to be of similar age to Nessia, but she didn't know for certain. Just as ginger as their father, they spared her curious looks. One tall, the other a little shorter and broad. Subconsciously, she waned toward her grandfather, but still stared nonetheless.

"Not half as well since you left for good, but it's nice to see you. I hear you don't often leave the highlands, so I'm surprised to see you in London," Arthur admitted politely. He didn't look like an Auror, but Nessia supposed that was a rather rude thing to think by assessing his weathered robes.

"Me granddaughter, Nessie, starts Hogwarts this year. We came tae get the last few things we needed. Logan had quite a bit o' supplies she can put to good use again," he patted her back. "These yer bairns?"

"Ah yes, my eldest Bill, who is in his third year. My second eldest, Charlie, is starting this year. Perhaps the two of you will be in the same classes or house," Arthur suggested, motioning to his sons respectively. "Boys, this is the legendary Auror, Angus MacDougal. He headed the Aurors for many years, fought against Grindelwald and helped during the Wizarding War with intel. I'm surprised you didn't stay around, join the Wizengamot-"

"Bunch o' pompous pr-" Angus started at the mention of the Wizengamot, cutting himself off before he cursed. Nessia snickered behind her hand. "Ah, too many years workin'. Aboot time I enjoy me home, avoid the stress of the Ministry. How's work been for ye, Arthur?"

"Good!" Arthur chirped, but even Nessia caught the fleeting anxious look on the man's face and her grandfather stiffening. "Busy as always," he chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

"Well, it was nice to see ye. Nessie and I still hae to get some supplies before headin' back north. Tell Molly and the other bairns I've said allo."

"It was nice tae meet ye," Nessia squeaked quickly, following Angus' lead, but still finding her manners. "I'll see ye at school."

"Will do. It was nice to see you," Arthur said, parting ways.

Once out of earshot, Nessia glanced up at her grandfather. "Ye dinnae seem tae happy to see him."

"Arthur is... very passionate," Angus grumbled. "He's a good man, but he's obsessed with muggles. Half the time I see him, I worry I'm gaunnae be stuck listening to him prattle on for hours."

"Oh, he's not an Auror?"

"Oh, nay, nay," Angus shook his head. "Works for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Tae be honest, that department's a bit ignored and underfunded... Ministry doesnae see the importance of it much, but we could learn so much from the muggles if we allowed our folk to study with better pay. Used to run into him when I grabbed me morning tea. Realized who I was, was a bit feart at first, but warmed up when he realized I wasnae gaunnae bite his head off. I suppose many other Aurors got their heads far up their own arses. Think they're better than people like Arthur. If any of them had as much passion for their job as Arthur, perhaps we wouldnae had so much of an issue with dark wizards like Ye-Ken-Who."

"Clan MacDougal always mingled with muggles."

"Aye, before Catholicism took hold. We had tae hide our abilities after, but we remained friendly with the muggle clans in the highlands," he added duly. "But not every wizardin' family thinks the same as we dae."

"I ken," Nessia shuddered. "That's why ye never accept those invitations that come from those other families. The Malfoys? Rosiers?"

Angus hummed in agreement. "Jus' posturin' to them. 'Look at what we have', when they dinnae work a day in their lives. Jus' takin' up space and lookin' pretty."

"They dinnae work? Whit do they dae?"

"Merlin kens," Angus rolled his eyes.

Madam Malkin's had a violet store front, a dapper, well dress family in the store display. She thought this one was considerably less dusty, as the mannequins were probably changed out enough that they didn't have enough time to collect half as much dust as the pillow in Ollivander's window. A plump, bright witch hummed around the shop and had her laden with packages as Angus commented about how thick the cloaks were and that a true highlander wouldn't need these to brave the winters in Scotland. While growing rosy cheeked at her grandfather's complaining, they acquired the necessary materials and hurried to collect the last few miscellaneous items. Without having to struggle with books, a cauldron, and the other items they had at home, they were able to easily settle down at the ice cream shop for a much needed treat amongst the heat of a strangely warm afternoon in London.

The path to the Floo hearths was a little choked up, various other patrons just as eager to head home after a successful day in acquiring their needs on Diagon Alley. While waiting in line, Nessia glanced up toward Angus.

"Bhan, we dinnae hae tae come back here, dae we?" Sweat was pouring down her neck, trickling down her back.

"Nay, not til September when ye hae to catch the train."

"The train!" Nessia whined. "But Hogwarts is not too far frae home."

"It's aboot the experience. Ye may meet yer best friends on the train," Angus wagged a brow at her.

Grousing quietly to herself, Nessia didn't shed light on the anxiety she felt surrounding the idea of having to find somewhere on a train to sit, let alone deal with not knowing a single soul. Sure, she knew the names of those two boys, but she didn't know them. To be fair, she didn't really know anyone. It was easy to get lost amongst her jungle at home, the pages of her journal, and the garden outside. There was Hoggle, Rowan, and Logan. Plus the merrow in the loch, which were quite conversational once she'd learned how to understand them. The centaurs were a bit standoffish, but they'd been polite to her.

Hoggle had located the books she needed for school, a couple of which were nearly falling apart because Logan had abused the spines. While the pages were intact—minus his maddened scribblings in a few books—she had to do some repairs of her own to prevent them from breaking further and threatening to actually spill necessary reading material everywhere.

"Knock, knock future Puff," Logan announced his presence, rapping upon the frame of her open door as he poked his head into the jungle.

"Och, ye dinnae ken that yet," Nessia huffed, blowing a few strands of hair from her face as she was sewing another binding back into place.

"Where else would ye go?" Logan stepped in, teasing his younger sister. "Ooh, sorry there. Those look as if they've weathered bein' beat by hippogriffs."

"Oh, yer sorry? Might've fixed 'em before ye handed em down tae me," Nessia quipped, but honestly wasn't that upset. The books still functioned.

"Well, how aboot I make it up to ye?" he offered.

"Ye gaunnae buy me new books?"

"How aboot I do ye one better? Ye got yer wand today, didn't ya?"

Opening the box in front of her, Nessia pulled out the pale wooden wand. "Aye, but I'm not supposed to practice magic outside of school."

"Not around Muggles," Logan corrected. "And if I remember correctly, there arenae any here. Yer perfectly allowed tae practice at home and we're quite remote. If anyone questions it, ye got me to vouch for ye."

Her brother's beguiling reassurances did little to quell the twanging nerves, plucking like an out of tune violin as she contemplated taking the bait. "Whit are ye gaunnae teach me?"

"A few defense spells—Och wait!"

"I dinnae need those. I'm not ye! I'm not gaunnae get into any fights—" Nessia objected immediately.

"Better to ken them and not need them than to be dumped on yer arse. Yer a MacDougal. Like it or not, we have a reputation to uphold and while Bhan will not say anything aboot it, I want to be certain no one picks on ye," Logan interrupted, raising a hand to deflect her disquiet.

"No one is gaunnae pick on me," Nessia snorted. "It's not like when ye went to school."

"Slytherin is still just as nasty as when I went. Yer better off, Nessie."

He wasn't going to drop it, causing her to groan at his insistence. "Fine, but I ken I'm gaunnae be foul at spellwork. Never been good at it before."

"Ye never had the chance tae really try. C'mon, let's go oot in the garden."

[justformyself2]

Notting Hill.

A/N: Wow, who also need a good story to be pumped for the apocalypse? raise your hand please!

Not really sure if you guys know about this story, but June 27,2020 is the date, look it up lol. You know what else we could be doing before going to hell once for all for lusting so much over John Krasinski? 

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BLACK LIVES MATTER NOW AND ALWAYS.

Well, now that i said what i said, let me finish by telling you, this is an important story for me. The past months have been extremely rough and i struggled like never before to fight for something i love to do not be consumed by dark thoughts, regardless of the past, i’m proud to be posting this right now, no matter how long it took for me and how minimal it may seem, goddamn i feel happy to create and write, and for you guys, in whatever you need to do, dream of doing, don’t let dark thoughts guide you into staying stuck, shine, do what you love, we all have the capacity.

This is my participation on my friend’s @lullabieswrappedinlies​​ rom-com writing challenge (go check her out, she is so damn creative and amazing)

This story is based on the movie Notting Hill and will be added on my masterlist. or tell me you want to be tagged if you want to keep up.

BEFORE YOU JUMP IN BE ADVISED

. Pairing: Reader x John Krasinski.

. It contains strong language.

. Click here for soundtrack of movie if you are in your feelings today

                                                   JOHN’S POV

“John, we will be ready in five.”

“Ok.”

I press the phone once again against my ear, listening to her heavy sigh. It is easy to mold her face into my brain with dexterity. The bushy eyebrows, casting a shadow under piercing blue eyes, seeking to grab my soul, she succeeding to combine it all with a condescending smile on her lips. Condescension which I have to kiss it off.

“Well, if you want to go, then go.”

Deep down, she was still trying, and I can’t take that for granted.

“I don’t want to go. I need to go, an enormous difference. It’s work.”

I aim to be the diplomatic debater, the mediator, and the opponent. She is better than me at being the third party, perfecting the act of passive-aggressiveness in chosen phrases, fuming through her nose on the other side of the line. An act I wish to interpret as a genuine breathed laugh with no second intentions; my five minutes seemed to multiply.

“Call you later?”

I say.

“Yes.”

She answers

“Love you.”

She hanged up.

                                                            --------

                                                      Y/N POV

“This book is so weird and sexist, holy shit.”

You put the phone down, and Nova throws another eighties romance book into the cardboard box with its copies.

“Language.” You sing at her in a scolding tone. 

“Sorry.” She sings back. “But you know I’m right. They are always pairing a young girl with some fifty years old, control freak who prey on them with their big, strong, tan hands.”

You giggle, and she looks satisfied.

Regardless of the narrative that anyone could quickly review, it was ‘in’ right now, as Agnes said, and what her bookclub wanted. “Un plaisir coupable.” she completed; the thin red lines that were her lips stretched in a laugh, causing her blue contacts to squint. 

Soon enough, the scavenging for the material began, and you found the yellow pages, delivered with weird smells, phone numbers, and addresses written on the inside of the covers, but still readable.

“They paid and are coming to pick them up tomorrow. It’s the only thing I care about right now. Also, don’t let her catch you saying that you hear me? I will help finish this then we can close before your mom shows up and kill me when she finds out you are here.”

You move from behind the counter, seeing the digital hour hit past ten pm on the laptop.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, she already knows.”

The unconcerned Nova grabs a box, and you grab another following her quick steps, twisting to the right almost at the end of the hall, entering a room that was once a decent private office before it became nonfunctional. 

The reserved bookshelf for Agnes club waited empty, a last-minute metal book rack next to the bay window. To create an illusion of a comfortable place for a book club, orange curvy chairs, which Alexis begged to be thrown out, along with the red Arabic carpet left behind with the chairs by the old owner. Every time you enter the space taking a deep, immediate, frustrated breath, Alexis wins a point.

You place the box down, looking at your niece.

“Kyle?”

You ask, and Nova hums softly, doing the stocking job.

 Kyle, more than a name it was first a banned topic usually discussed between a limited couple of sentences. His name was a warning, along with his unrequested presence at random, unannounced times. It became harder since Nova wasn’t at a manageable age anymore. It was tough at fifteen, and as the time passes by, sweetness gains the bitterness, and innocence, gone.

“Well, you know you will always have a second bed, Donkey misses you.”

You gain a laugh while she finishes her box.

“Oh God, can’t believe you still keep him there.”

You shrug impulsively, paying attention to your own hands, arranging the books and their horizontal titles on a pile.

“It was your favorite toy, why would I throw it away?”

“You know why.”

 A pause and a deep breath came from her, triggering the thought, long forgotten about, that people still expected you to be mourning over material remains.

“It’s okay to throw away with the rest of the others, it’s been a long time.”

Her auburn hair was now being tied in a bun. Your fifteen-year-old niece, holding a peaceful outside appearance, didn’t mind sounding more mature than you wanted to admit.

 “Good... then we can donate, not throw it away.”

“Even better.”

She agrees quickly, stomping on the empty cardboard box.

Nova turns out the lights as you awaited for her, leaning against the glass door on the entrance, blowing hot humid air into your cold fingers and watching over nothing other than a middle-aged man with a red beanie walking a Greyhound on the other side of the empty street. 

Notting Hill wasn’t known for its nightlife. It was almost a deserted city by eight and in the light of day, Portobelo Rode fruit market brings it to life. On weekdays, stalls and its hay baskets, packed with succulent fruits and greens, filled the streets along with shouted invites, half prices and sweet-soured smells invading each corner; on weekends the baskets shape-shifted to antiques of all kinds, genuine or handmaid, the crowd and the stalls multiplied in the small village. 

In-between buyers and sellers of what you could harvest or find in your gramma’s basement there was your store, a bookstore, one corner away from your home, squeezed in the middle of Linda’s cafe and a self-employed yoga instructor that recently rented Mr. Walsh’s house, a retired Navy who moved to Greenwich with his daughter-in-law three weeks ago; his red door house now held a big white plaque with ‘Sivananda Yoga’ written in cursive gold letters, phone number and social media included under the picture of a woman in the lotus posture.

“A yoga studio, nice!” Says Nova, coming closer to the four steps leading up to the red door.

You close the store and covers her shoulders with your arm when the icy wind started building up.

“We could try it someday, your mom-.”

“Hates trying new things.” She completed. “Don’t even bother.”

 “That is where you are the wrong baby. It may seem like this now, but I wish you could have seen your mom in her prior days. Wow... She was glorious.”

The feeling of wandering eyes aiming at your face became stronger as you carried her along the street under your embrace.

“Before my dad, I guess.”

A tiny part of your soul lighten up, recognizing itself in your niece’s words, but there was no place to fuel her fiery tone.                                                                                           

“To be honest, I don’t know, but people change Nova, everyone eventually, even the ones we thought we had figured out, including ourselves.”

“Whatever, I don’t want him back in the house again if she puts him back, I’m moving with you.”

The decisiveness in her voice sent bad vibrations along your back. 

Unusual memory mechanism. Alexis visited your mind, vivid as if you could see her across the street you were crossing, she waiting and shivering at your front door because you forgot the spare key in the store again. 

After the scolding she would show a rose-colored box from Fincher’s cafe under her arm, comporting the most amazing banoffee pie, your favorite pie from your favorite place. 

Fincher’s cafe, that was once located two blocks away from where you two lived was closed when the old owner went bankrupt and reopened in Queensway street, she would drive there every weekend to bring that rose-colored box under her arm and wait for you on the couch, once the spare key was in the fake birdhouse, with the TV turned on and the plates placed on the center table next to the wine.

“See, I don’t think that will happen.”

“How could you know? Didn’t you just said people change?”

“And love changes people, your mother has more for you than you could ever imagine and without measuring efforts. She wouldn’t make any decision that would hurt you, trust me.”

Nova quickly disengage from the conversation, staying on mute abruptly, leaving a temporary gap for thoughts of doubt to occupy. Your heart is worried, but a grown-up, worried heart shouldn’t be shown while trying to pass a sense of security. That included waiting for Nova to fall sleep before calling Alexis.

You climb the four steps and opens the blue door, face to face with smiling Rudolph from last Christmas, hanging by a thread along with Santa, waiting to be taken down as the feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“I ate at home so if you don’t mind I will go to bed now.”

Unreeling the red knitted scarf, the tenth big piece Alexis attempted to make at her knitting fase, Nova doesn’t look behind once. You watch her back as she went upstairs to the guest room, her special fort at five, and now her hideaway at fifteen, with fewer toys and Donkey, an old stuffed toy still sitting in the shelf waiting for no one in a room cleaned every week.

You dismiss the purple scarf from around your shoulders, the third big piece on your sister’s collection, not as good as the tenth, but it warmed you inside to observe her trying to hide a proud smile in seeing what she made wrapped around Nova and you.

A stupidly cold breeze hits the back of your neck before you turned around to close the door, the phone rings along with squealing tires of a black car on the other side of the street.

                                                           1

[moirai-au]

Timeline: arc 6 - Aftermath, about a week after the Orator is defeated

Warnings: shippy, Davil, vague mentions of alcoholism and self-harm

Taglist: @immabethehero @bupine​ @tabbynerdicat @i-maybe-exist @its-ethan-bro @sandinthetardis @honestlyitsjustkenna @taikeero-lecoredier @idkwheresanti

if any of yall (18+ only for the love of god please) wanna see the ns*w version, it’s over here.

“And you still won’t tell me where we’re going, or what we’re even doing.”

“Nope! That’s the whole concept of a surprise, babe.”

Cecil pursed his lips, unamused. He closed the book he’d been finishing just a moment prior and set it aside, on the growing pile of useless volumes right next to the desk. It wasn’t as big or as comfortable as the one in his own apartment, but it made do. “You do know I still have three other idiots to take care of here, right?”

“They’ll be fine, trust me. Charlie can take care of himself, Mars barely does anything but sleep for now, and Ollie’s watching over him. You can leave for a few hours without the mansion burning to the ground, you know.”

Cecil raised a brow. “...Were you even here for the last month and a half?”

“Painfully present, yeah,” Dave chuckled. “Remember the smell of the oven melting? I still don’t understand how the kid pulled that one off.”

The older man groaned. “For someone who wanted to reassure me, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

“Oh c’mon! It’s gonna be okay, I’m sure of it. Besides, you really need a break.”

“I do not!” Cecil protested, distractedly scratching at his appearing stubble. Dave peered up at him with a deadpan look, considering his wrinkled clothes, his emaciated face and the dark rings under his eyes. “...Really? You know what, it doesn’t matter,” he shook his head, his blue eyes hardening. “This is me putting my foot down, not a negotiation. I’m not gonna sit here and let you run yourself into the ground like this. You’re coming with me, and that’s final.”

 The doctor stared at the younger man, taken aback- he’d never heard him use this tone before. it was firm, confident, and evidently left no room for complaint. “...Fine.” he heard himself say before he even realized it. Verdammt. Maybe he was more tired than he thought, giving in that easily.

Or maybe Dave just had this natural sense of authority Cecil had never seen before, because he’d never actually needed it. It actually made sense, considering he was a father.

Thinking about it now, it was obvious. Cecil could’ve hit himself.

“Great!” David beamed, his previous sternness gone as fast as it had arrived. “Just lemme grab a few things first, and pack warm clothes. I’ll get my car.”

“I- your car?” the doctor repeated, his confusion growing- just how far was Dave planning to take them? The smaller male only winked in response, an impish grin on his tanned face. “You’ll see.”

 ***

 It was an abnormally warm night for mid-december.

Well, warm as in… not freezing. Enough above zero that you could stand outside comfortably with a thick enough sweater kinda warm. When-even-are-seasons-anymore-climate-change-is gonna-kill-us-all kinda warm.

“I don’t get it.” Cecil mumbled as they exited the car, making a valiant effort to tone down his annoyance. “Why have you brought us here?” There truly was nothing here, other than miles and miles of rolling hills, some train tracks a few yards away, and a forest somewhere East.

Dave didn’t respond- he just smiled up at him, a hand holding the strap of the backpack he’d brought along. A giddy smile that made Cecil’s stomach flutter a little. Then he silently pointed upward, looking at him expectantly.

Cecil frowned, nonplussed, reflexively following the other’s movement; what was he-

What… was…

 He was looking up. Up, up into the endless sky. And he kept on looking, jaw growing slack, arms falling to his sides.

Because there was just so many stars so many stars more than he’d ever seen in his entire life, it was like he was ten all over again looking up through the window and babbling about rocket ships and aliens and how he was going to see it all one day-

 “You okay in there, hot stuff?”

Cecil snapped out of his stupor, looking down to see David smirking smugly at him- he was holding a thermos in each of his hands, and there was a blanket laid on the grass, big enough for the two of them. So that’s what he’d packed in his bag. “How-” he cleared his throat, “How did you…”

Dave only winked, tapping a finger against his temple. “...Oh.” the doctor realized. Right. They’d all been in each other’s heads.

“It’s mostly faded by now,” Dave shrugged, setting the warm containers on a corner of the blanket, “Those are your memories, and nobody should snoop through them… but that one stuck with me. And I- I really wanted to surprise you, y’know?”

Cecil nodded, not the slightest trace of anger or annoyance on his features. He just looked up again, silent, pale moonlight lighting up his milky white skin.

Then he looked back at him and Dave was pretty sure he was going to die on the spot.

 Cecil was smiling. Not the cocky, arrogant smirk he sometimes wore. Nor the small, timid one he managed to draw out of him once in a blue moon.

An actual, genuinely happy smile that went up to his grey, dark-rimmed eyes, crinkled up and sparkling with joy. Oh, fuck me, he thought.

 Could one fall for the same person twice?

 “Thank you,” Cecil breathed out, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. “I… You… I’m sorry. For- for getting annoyed, I know I shouldn’t, you don’t- you deserve better.”

Ah, shit. This tall motherfucker was actually going to make him cry at this rate. “Shit man,” Dave choked, stepping closer to Cecil. “Just- c’m’here.”

He wrapped his arms around the taller man’s middle and pulled him close, tilting his head up to welcome the German’s lips on his own, the older man’s slender hands settling on both sides of his face. The kiss was slow, tender, yet filled with latent intensity and passion. They somehow ended up on the blanket, sitting ever-so close and filling the chilly air with wanton sighs and hums, carried away by the cold breeze.

 They eventually pulled back, catching their breath- they were both flushed, eyes slightly glazed over, as they looked at each other with gentle devotion. “I must say…” the doctor murmured, still a bit lightheaded, “This is… quite the break.”

Dave chuckled fondly, before pecking playfully at his lover’s forehead. “Told you you needed it. You’re running yourself ragged Ceec, no wonder you’re on edge.”

“Still, I shouldn’t keep taking out my frustration on you. It’s not right.”

Dave hummed. “Yeah, I know. But you’ve gotten better at it, really. Just gotta keep going forward, yeah?” He tucked a strand of greying hair behind Cecil’s left ear. “ ‘sides, you know I won’t just stand there and take it if you really start to be an ass.”

Cecil snorted. “So I’ve seen. You’d probably snap me in two.”

“Damn right I could! Look at that scrawny ass, I could kick it into the sun.”

“Mmh, I don’t think so. You like it too much, as you keep telling me.”

“Aw shit, he figured it out,” Dave fake-whispered, before they both broke out into laughter. “Oh, also,” he gasped when the hilarity subsided, “this isn’t just a break. S’also a celebration!”

“A celebration?”

 Dave smiled, holding out a thermos to the older man. He looked proud of himself. “Happy one month clean, handsome.”

It took him a few seconds to understand, but when he did, he reflexively rubbed at his arm, feeling his face warm up significantly as he accepted the offering, taking a sip. Mmh, black coffee, no cream and no sugar. Just how he liked it. “Ah… yes, thank you.”

“And I’m almost three months sober!” the father cheered, wrapping an arm around his partner’s neck to pull him closer. “Man, look at us. We’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Cecil chuckled, a little smile gracing his lips as he looked up at the inky skies above. “I… guess we are.”

 They laid down next to each other, their shoulders bumping together as they huddled under the extra blanket Dave had brought along. Alone, together on that grassy hill more than an hour away from the city, they tried to find as many constellations as they could while Cecil offered trivia and anecdotes on each of them, like the Earth’s sky map had been burned into his brain at a young age. 

But then again, with the doctor’s photographic memory, it might’ve just been.

 Ursa Major. Altair. Alpha Centauri. Supernovas. Nebulae. His eyes shone with almost feverish enthusiasm as he talked, making him look so much younger, so alive, as Dave listened with rapt attention.

Then, as the older man was going over the specifics of the supermassive black whole at the center of the Milky Way, Dave rolled them over, coming to a stop to stand on all fours above Cecil, smiling lovingly.

The German stopped rambling and blinked up at him- with his hair uncovered and framing his face in auburn curls, his deep blue eyes crinkled up in amusement, and the myriad of stars surrounding him, David looked like he belonged in a Van Gogh painting. Beautiful. Almost ethereal, yet so real, so… tangible. Oh how he wanted to frame the moment so he could keep it forever.

He gulped. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Before he could stop himself, his finger mindlessly started to trace invisible lines between Dave’s freckles, drawing a surprised giggle from the man. 

 His very own milky way. Full of constellations for him alone to name. All within his reach.

 “Shouldn’t you look up? The stars are up there.” he mumbled, thoughts not quite straight. Dave laughed, clear and deep. “Don’t need to. I can see them in your eyes. That’s more than enough for me.”

Silence. Cecil huffed. “That was the corniest thing you’ve said yet.”

“C’mon, you know you like it. You’re blushing.”

“Shut up and kiss me again, you dumm.”

 Dave happily complied.

***

It would be dawn soon. As they stared at the endless space above them- mostly void, partially stars- sipping hot tea and coffee from their respective thermoses, huddled together under a thick woolen blanket to shield themselves from the chilliness of that winter night… they felt like they’d brushed with eternity.

“Hey.” Dave whispered, breaking the comfortable silence.

A quiet hum of acknowledgement.

“Do you.. regret not going? Up there.”

“Mmh. F’course, a little still. T’was my dream.” the German mumbled, words slurring together. Right. Of course he did, dumb question. “But…”

The father blinked. “But…?”

“Wouldn’t have met… Mars. ‘liver.” A pause, an intake of breath. “Met you.”

 Dave bit his lip, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. He wiped at the wetness at the corner of his eyes, smiling so hard it almost hurt. “Y-Yeah. I guess so.” He squeezed his lover’s hand underneath the blanket. “Ceec…?”

 A quiet, soft snore was his only reply. Dave chuckled quietly and turned his head- Cecil was out like a light, lips slightly parted, his usually sharp features smoothed over and relaxed.

The smaller man gently reached out to cup the other’s sleeping face, his thumb slowly stroking over his cheekbone- just watching. This wasn’t a sight he was graced with often; they might have been sharing a bed for a few weeks now, but the doctor always went to sleep later than he did, and always got up before him, by the pale light of dawn… that is, when he even bothered to sleep at all.

That was the main reason why he’d dragged his partner out on this little trip- Cecil had been working himself to the bone again, going over piles and piles of old books in search for an explanation, for any information on Mars’ abilities and his newfound… condition. To no avail so far, which was driving the older man even more frantic. Between this, trying to cater to everyone’s physical and mental wellness, and the logistical nightmare that was the latest addition to their little group- an honest-to-god time-traveler… well, he looked like the slightest breeze would knock him over.

In short, he’d been in need of a break. Badly. Preferably the kind that would knock some sense into that big brain of his. Since they both had gotten together, Dave had been trying to get Cecil to take better care of himself, to stop skipping meals, to finally sleep a decent amount each night… hell, he’d started to see some actual progress before Mars was kidnapped and everything had gone to shit. 

He couldn’t let his efforts go to waste, especially not now. Not in such a delicate time, when they were all still recovering. And now, looking at Cecil, sleeping deeply and peacefully for the first time since the kid had disappeared almost a month ago… Dave was glad he hadn’t given up.

 And that he’d filled that thermos with decaf, but Ceec didn’t need to know that.

 Dave sighed contentedly as he snuggled closer to the other, burying his face in his chest and drawing the blanket higher over them both, letting himself be lulled into a comfortable drowsiness. Their backs would probably be sore from sleeping on the hard ground... but that was a problem for future them.

[flightfoot]

Useful Tyrant’s Tombs quotes

So I know I’m gonna be writing analyses on this book in the future, so I decided to go ahead and pull potentially useful quotations now so I don’t have to hunt for them and type them up later. I figure others might get some good use out of them too though, so I wanted to share them! (I’ll admit though, some of the quotations aren’t ones I think I might use, a few I just put because I really like them)

This song really wasn’t about me at all. (I know. I could hardly believe it, either.) It was “The Fall of Jason Grace”. In the last verses, I sang of Jason’s dream for Temple Hill, his plan to add shrines until ever god and goddess, no matter how obscure, was properly honored. (46)

I realized they weren’t just grieving for Jason. The song had unleashed their collective sorrow about the recent battle, their losses, which - given the sparseness of the crowd - must have been extreme. Jason’s song became their song. By honoring him, we honored all the fallen. (47)

I shuddered. “A caffeinated Meg. Just what I need. How long have I been out?”

“Day and a half.”

“What?!”

“You needed sleep. Also, you’re less annoying unconscious.” (55)

Her expression closed up like a hurricane shutter. “Nightmares. I woke up screaming a couple of times. You slept through it, but...” She picked a clod of dirt off her trowel. “This place reminds me of... you know”

I regretted I hadn’t thought about that sooner. After Meg’s experience growing up in Nero’s Imperial Household, surrounded by Latin-speaking servants and guards in Roman armor, purple banners, all the regalia of the old empire - of course Camp Jupiter must have triggered unwelcome memories. (56)

“Meg and I have been talking, the last day or so, while you were passed out - I mean, recovering - sleeping, you know. It’s fine. You needed sleep. Hope you feel better.”

Despite how terrible I felt, I couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been very kind to us, Praetor Zhang. Thank you.” (58)

Frank must have read my pained expression.

“It would’ve been much worse if it hadn’t been for you,” he said, which only made me feel guiltier. “If you hadn’t sent Leo here to warn us. One day, out of nowhere, he just flew right in.”

“That must have been quite a shock,” I said. “Since you thought Leo was dead.”

Frank’s dark eyes glittered like they still belonged to a raven. “Yeah. We were so mad at him for making us worry, we lined up and took turns hitting him.”

“We did that at Camp Half-Blood too,” I said. “Greek minds think alike.” (63)

Frank took my arm gently. “One foot in front of the other. That’s the only way to do it.”

I had come here to support the Romans. Instead this Roman was supporting me. (71)

Millennia ago, I’d killed four of my father’s favorites because they had made the lightning bolt that killed my son Asclepius. (And because I couldn’t kill the actual murderer who was, ahem, Zeus). (73)

I had never been a fan of felines. They were self-centered, smug, and thought they owned the world. In other words... All right, I’ll say it. I didn’t like the competition. (76)

No. Of course. The legion had no high priest, no pontifex maximus. Their former auger, my descendant Octavian, had died in the battle against Gaia. (Which I had a hard time feeling sad about, but that’s another story.) Jason would’ve been the logical next choice to officiate, but he was our guest of honor. That meant that I, as a former god, was the ranking spiritual authority. I would be expected to lead the funeral rites. (87)

The golden eagle of the Twelfth loomed over my shoulder, charging the air with ozone. I imagined Jupiter speaking through its crackle and hum, like a voice over shortwave radio: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.

Back in January, when I’d fallen to earth, those words had seemed horribly unfair. Now, as I led Jason Grace to his final resting place, I believed them. So much of what had happened was my fault. So much of it could never be made right.

I meant to keep that promise, if I survived long enough. But in the meantime, there were more pressing ways I needed to honor Jason: by protecting Camp Jupiter, defeating the Triumvirate, and, according to Ella, descending into the tomb of an undead king. (88)

I began to speak, the Latin ritual verses pouring out of me. I chanted from instinct, barely aware of the words’ meanings. I had already praised Jason with my song. That had been deeply personal. This was just a necessary formality.

In some corner of my mind, I wondered if this was how mortal felt when they used to pray to me. Perhaps their devotions had been noting but muscle memory, reciting by rote while their minds drifted elsewhere, uninterested in my glory. I found the idea strangely... understandable. Now that I was mortal, why should I not practice nonviolent resistance against the gods, too? (91-92)

In the center, behind a marble altar, rose a massive golden statue of Dad himself: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, draped in a purple silk toga big enough to be a ship’s sail. He looked stern, wise, and paternal, though he was only one of those in real life.

Seeing him tower above me, lightning bolt raised, I had to fight the urge to cower and plead. I knew it was only a statue, but if you’ve ever been traumatized by someone, you’ll understand. It doesn’t take much to trigger those old fears: a look, a sound, a familiar situation. Or a fifty-foot-tall golden statue of your abuser - that does the trick. (94-95)

“My time,” I said. “For what, exactly?”

She nipped the air in annoyance. To be Apollo. The pack needs you.

I wanted to scream I’ve been trying to be Apollo. It’s not that easy! (95)

I stared up at Large Golden Dad.

Zeus had thrown me into the middle of all this trouble. He’d stripped me of my power, then kicked me to the Earth to free the Oracles, defeat the Emperors, and - Oh wait! I got a bonus undead king and a silent god, too! I hoped the soot from the funeral pyre was really annoying Jupiter. I wanted to climb up his legs and finger-write across his chest WASH ME! (98)

Lupa’s message seemed too good to be true. I could contact my fellow Olympians, despite Zeus’s standing orders that they shun me while I was human. I might even be able to invoke their aid to save Camp Jupiter. (98)

I studied the old prophecies set in the floor mosaic. I had lost friends to the Triumvirate. I had suffered. But I realized that Lupa suffered, too. Her Roman children had been decimated. She carried the pain of all their deaths. Yet she had to act strong, even as her pack faced possible extinction.

You couldn’t lie in Wolf. But you could bluff. Sometimes you had to bluff to keep a grieving pack together. What do mortals say? Fake it till you make it? That is a very wolfish philosophy. (99)

Seeing her again, my heart twisted. She had once been a lovely young woman - bright, strong-willed, passionate about her prophetic work. She had wanted to change the world. Then things between us soured... and I had changed her instead.

Her appearance was only the beginning of the curse I had set on her. It would get much, much worse as the centuries progressed. How had I put this out of my mind? How could I have been so cruel? The guilt for what I’d done burned worse than any ghoul scratch. (105)

“Put on your sheet.” Meg threw a toga in my face, which was not the nicest way to be woken up.

I blinked, still groggy, to the smell of smoke, moldy straw, and sweaty Romans lingering in my nostrils. “A toga? But I’m not a senator.”

“You’re honorary, because you used to be a god or whatever.” Meg pouted. “I don’t get to wear a sheet.” (108)

I got dressed, trying to remember how to fold a toga, and mulled over the things I’d learned from my dream. Number one: I was a terrible person who ruined lives. Number two: There was not a single bad thing I’d done in the last four thousand years that was not going to come back and bite me in the clunis, and I was beginning to think I deserved it. 

The Cumaen Sibyl. Oh Apollo, what had you been thinking?

Alas, I knew what I’d been thinking - that she was a pretty young woman I wanted to get with, despite the fact that she was my Sibyl. Then she’d outsmarted me, and being the bad loser that I was, I had cursed her.

No wonder I was now paying the price: tracking down the evil Roman king to whom she’d once sold her Sibylline Books. If Tarquin was still clinging to some horrible undead existence, could the Cumaean Sibyl be alive as well? I shuddered to think what she might be like after all these centuries, and how much her hatred for me would have grown. (109)

No one laughed or called me crazy. Gods didn’t intervene in demigod affairs often, but it did happen on rare occasions. The idea wasn’t completely unbelievable. On the other hand, no one looked terribly assured that I could pull it off.

A different senator raised his hand. “Uh, Senator Larry here, Third Cohort, Son of Mercury. So when you say help, do you mean like... battalions of gods charging down in their chariots, or more like the gods just giving their blessing, like, Hey, good luck with that, legion!?”

My old defensiveness kicked in. I wanted to argue that we gods would never leave our desperate followers hanging on like that. But, of course, we did. All the time. (119)

Frank looked crestfallen, which made me feel bad. I hadn’t meant to take out my frustrations on one of the few people who still called me Apollo unironically. (121)

I had loved everything about her - the way her hair had caught the sunlight, the mischievous gleam in her eyes, the easy way she smiled. She didn’t seem to care that I was a god, despite having given up everything to be my Oracle: her family, her future, even her name. Once she pledged to me, she was known simply as the Sibyl, the voice of Apollo.

But that wasn’t enough for me. I was smitten. I convinced myself it was love - the one true romance that would wash away all my past missteps. I wanted the Sibyl to be my partner throughout eternity. As the afternoon went on, I coaxed and pleaded.

“You could be so much more than my priestess,” I urged her. “Marry me!”

She laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am! Ask for anything in return, and it’s yours.”

She twisted a strand of her auburn locks. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be the Sibyl, to guide the people of this land to a better future. You’ve already given me that. So, ha-ha, joke’s on you.”

“But - but you’ve only got one lifetime!” I said. “If you were immortal, you could guide humans to a better future forever, at my side!”

She looked at me askance. “Apollo, please. You’d be tired of me by the end of the week.”

“Never!”

“So, you’re saying” - she scooped up two heaping handfuls of sand - “if I wished for as many years of life as there are grains of this sand, you would grant me that.”

“It is done!” I pronounced. Instantly, I felt a portion of my own power flowing into her life force. “And now, my love-”

“Whoa, whoa!” She scattered the sand, clambering to her feet and backing away as if I were suddenly radioactive. “That was a hypothetical, lover boy! I didn’t agree- “

“What’s done is done!” I rose. “A wish cannot be taken back. Now you must honor your side of the bargain.”

Her eyes danced with panic. “I-I can’t. I won’t!”

I laughed, thinking she was merely nervous. I spread my arms. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Of course I’m afraid!” She backed away farther. “Nothing good ever happens to your lovers! I just wanted to be your Sibyl, and now you’ve made things weird!”

My smile crumbled. I felt my ardor cooling, turning stormy. “Don’t anger me, Sibyl. I am offering you the universe. I’ve given you near-immortal life. You cannot refuse payment.”

“Payment?” She balled her hands into fists. “You dare think of me as a transaction?”

I frowned. This afternoon really wasn’t going the way I’d planned. “I didn’t mean- Obviously, I wasn’t-”

“Well, Lord Apollo,” she growled, “if this is a transaction, then I defer payment until your side of the bargain is complete. You said it yourself: near-immortal life. I’ll live until the grains of sand run out, yes? Come back to me at the end of that time. Then, if you still want me, I’m yours.”

I dropped my arms. Suddenly, all the things I’d loved about the Sibyl became things I hated: her headstrong attitude, her lack of awe, her infuriating, unattainable beauty. Especially her beauty.

“Very well.” My voice turned colder than any sun god’s should be. “You want to argue over the fine print of our contract? I promised you life, not youth. You can have your centuries of existence. You will remain my Sibyl.I cannot take those things away, once given. But you will grow old. You will wither. You will not be able to die.”

“I would prefer that!” Her words were defiant, but her voice trembled with fear.

“Fine!” I snapped.

“Fine!” she yelled back.

 I vanished in a column of flame, having succeeded in making things very weird indeed.

Over the centuries, the Sibyl had withered, just as I’d threatened. Her physical form lasted longer than any ordinary mortal’s, but the pain I had caused her, the lingering agony... Even if I’d had regrets about my hasty curse, I couldn’t have taken it back any more than she could take back her wish. Finally, around the end of the Roman Empire, I’d heard rumors that the Sibyl’s body had crumbled away entirely, yet she still could not die. Her attendants kept her life force, the faintest whisper of her voice, in a glass jar.

I assumed that her jar had been lost sometime after that. That the Sibyl’s grains of sand had finally run out. But what if I was wrong? If she were still alive, I doubted she was using her faint whisper of a voice to be a pro-Apollo social media influencer.

I deserved her hatred. I saw that now.

Oh, Jason Grace... I promised you I would remember what it was to be human. But why did human shame have to hurt so much? Why wasn’t there an off button? (131-134)

I had ruined every one of my relationships, brought nothing but destruction and misery to the young men and women I’d loved. (135)

“I appreciate a good boon as much as the next person. But if I’m going to contribute to this quest and not just cower in the corner, I need to know how” - my voice cracked “how to be me again.”

The vibration of the arrow felt almost like a cat purring, trying to sooth an ill human. ART THOU SURE THAT IS THY WISH?

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “That’s the whole point! Everything I’m doing is so-” (138)

I was tired of others keeping me safe. The whole point of consulting the arrow had been to figure out how I could get back to the business of keeping others safe. That used to be so easy with my godlike powers.

Was it, though? another part of my brain asked. Did you keep the Sibyl safe? Or Hyacinthus and Daphne? Or your own son Asclepius? Should I go on?

Shut up, me, I thought back. (140-141)

He laughed. “Just take care of yourself, okay? I don’t think I could handle a world with no Apollo in it.” 

His tone was so genuine it made me tear up. I’d started to accept that no one wanted Apollo back - not my fellow gods, not the demigods, perhaps not even my talking arrow. Yet Frank Zhang still believed in me.

Before I could do anything embarrassing - like hug him, or cry, or start believing I was a worthwhile individual - I spotted my three quest partners trudging toward us. (142)

As we passed a silver lake nestled between the hills, I couldn’t help thinking i as just the sort of place my sister would love. Oh, how I wished she would appear with her Hunters!

Despite our differences, Artemis understood me. Well, okay, she tolerated me. I longed to see her beautiful, annoying face again. That’s how lonely and pathetic I had become. (146-147)

What sort of parents would let their children ride such nightmarish creatures? Maybe Zeus, I thought. (150)

I now understood the lines from the Burning Maze: I would face death in Tarquin’s tomb, or a fate worse than death. But I would not allow my friends to perish too. (166)

Then I wondered if Lavinia simply felt more at home in the wild than she did at camp. She and my sister would get along fine (169)

Also, the way she was looking at me, I got the feeling that her grumpy facade might collapse into tears faster than Tarquin’s ceiling had crumbled. (169)

I saw and heard nothing, but I took Hazel’s word for it. “Go. You’ll move faster without me.”

“Not happening,” Meg said. (170)

Home. Such a wonderful word.

I had no idea what it meant, but it sounded nice.

[...]

I dreamed of homes. Had I ever really had one?

Delos was my birthplace, but only because my pregnant mother, Leto, took refuge there to escape Hera’s wrath. The island served as an emergency sanctuary for my sister and me, too, but it never felt like home anymore than the backseat of a taxi would fell like home to a child born on the way to a hospital.

Mount Olympus? I had a palace there. I visited for the holidays. But it always felt more like the place my dad lived with my stepmom.

The Palace of the Sun? That was Helios’s old crib. I’d just redecorated.

Even Delphi, home of my greatest Oracles, had originally been the lair of Python. Try as you might, you can never get the smell of old snakeskin out of a volcanic cavern.

Sad to say, in my four-thousand-plus years, the times I’d felt most at home had all happened during the past few months: at Camp Half-Blood, sharing a cabin with my demigod children; at the Waystation with Emma, Jo, Georgina, Leo, and Calypso, all of us sitting around the dinner table chopping vegetables from the garden for dinner; at the Cistern in Palm Springs with Meg, Grover, Mellie, Coach Hedge, and a prickly assortment of cactus dryads; and now at Camp Jupiter, where the anxious, grief-stricken Romans, despite their many problems, despite the fact that I brought misery and disaster wherever I went, had welcomed me with respect, a room above their coffee shop, and some lovely bed linens to wear.

These places were homes. Whether I deserved to be a part of them or not - that was a different question. (171-172)

Meg huffed, “It’s still light outside. You slept all day.”

“Not turning into a zombie is hard work.”

“I know!” she snapped. “I’m sorry!”

[...]

Just a few minutes ago, Meg had been happily insulting me and gorging on jelly beans. Now... was she crying?

“Meg.” I sat up, trying not to wince. “Meg, you’re not responsible for me getting hurt.

She twisted the ring on her right hand, then the one on her left, as if they’d become too small for her fingers. “I just thought... if I could kill him...” She wiped her nose. “Like in some stories. You kill the master, and you can free the people he’s turned.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. I was pretty sure the dynamic she was describing applied to vampires, not zombies, but I understood what she meant.

“You’re talking about Tarquin,” I said. “You jumped into the throne room because... you wanted to save me?”

“Duh,” she muttered, without any heat.

I put my hand over my bandaged abdomen. I’d been so angry with Meg for her recklessness in the tomb. I’d assumed she was just being impulsive, reacting to Tarquin’s plans to let the Bay Area burn. But she’d leaped into battle for me - with the hope that she could kill Tarquin erase my curse. That was even before I’d realized how bad my condition was. Meg must have been more worried, or more intuitive, than she’d let on.

Which took all the fun out of criticizing her.

“Oh, Meg,” I shook my head. “That was a crazy, senseless stunt, and I love you for it. But don’t beat yourself up. Pranjal’s medicine bought me some extra time. And you did too, of course, with your cheese-grating skills and your magical chickweed. You’ve done everything you could. When we summon godly help, I can ask for complete healing. I’m sure I’ll be as good as new. Or at least, as good as a Lester can be.”

Meg tilted her head, making her crooked glasses just about horizontal.”How can you know? Is this god going to give us three wishes or something?”

I considered that. When my followers called, had I ever shown up and granted them three wishes? LOL, nope. Maybe one wish, if that wish was something I wanted to happen anyway.

[...]

“I don’t know, Meg,” I confessed. “You’re right. I can’t be sure everything will be okay. But I can promise you I’m not giving up. We’ve come this far. I’m not going to let a belly scratch stop us from defeating the Triumvirate.”

She had so much mucus dripping from her nostrils, she would’ve made Buster the unicorn proud. She sniffled, wiping her upper lip with her knuckle. “I don’t want to lose somebody else.”

My mental gears weren’t turning at full speed. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that by “somebody else,” Meg meant me.

[...]

Now, aside from all the bad memories the Roman trappings of Camp Jupiter might have triggered for her, she was faced with the prospect of losing me. In a moment of shock, like a unicorn staring me right in the face, I realized that despite all the grief Meg gave me, and the way she ordered me around, she cared for me. For the past three months, I had been her one constant friend, just as she had been mine.

[...]

What a horribly insufficient friend I had been.

“Come here.” I held out my arms. “Please?”

Meg hesitated. Still sniffling, she rose from her cot and trudged toward me. She fell into my hug like I was a comfy mattress. I grunted, surprised by how solid and heavy she was. She smelled of apple peels and mud, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t even mind the mucus and tears soaking my shoulder.

I’d always wondered what it would be like to have a younger sibling. Sometimes I’d treated Artemis as my baby sister, since I’d been born a few minutes earlier, but that had been mostly to annoy her. With Meg, I felt as if it was actually true. I had someone who depended on me, who needed me around no matter how much we irritated each other. I thought about Hazel and Frank and the washing away of curses. I supposed that kind of love could come from many different types of relationships. (188-192)

Some of the pandai were young enough to have pure white fur, which made my head hurt, reminding me of my brief friendship with Crest, the youthful aspiring musician who’s lost his life in the Burning Maze. (193)

No matter what happened over the next twenty-four hours, I would not add to Meg’s worries. I would tough it out until the moment I keeled over.

Wow. Who even was I? (195)

she hesitated, then generously decided not to add except for Apollo, who slept through it all (199)

A third group sledded down a dirt hill on their shields.

Hazel sighed. “That would be my group of delinquents. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to teach them how to slay ghouls.” (203)

I cleared my throat. I’d faced much bigger audience. Why was I so nervous? Oh, right. Because I was a horribly incompetent sixteen-year-old. (205)

I shot at the nearest target - then at the target next farthest out, then at the next - firing again and again in a kind of trance.

Only after my twentieth shot did I realize I’d landed all bull’s-eyes, two in each target, the farthest about two hundred yards away. Child’s play for Apollo. For Lester, quite impossible.

The legionnaires stared at me, their mouths hanging open. We’re supposed to do that?” Dakota demanded.

Lavinia punched my forearm. “See, you guys? I told you Apollo doesn’t suck that much!”

I had to agree with her. I felt oddly not suckish.

The display of marksmanship hadn’t drained my energy. Nor did it feel like the temporary bursts of godly power I’d experienced before. I was tempted to ask for another quiver to see if I could keep shooting at the same skill level, but I was afraid to press my luck. (205-206)

I’d spent a lot of time worrying about the fate of New Rome and Camp Jupiter, the Oracles, my friends, and myself. But these hackberries and crabgrasses deserved to live just as much. They, too, were facing death. They were terrified. If the emperors launched their weapons, they stood no chance. The homeless mortals with their shopping carts in People’s Park would also burn, right along with the legionnaires. Their lives were worth no less. (215)

Honestly, I didn’t know much about dryad life cycles, or how they protected themselves from climate disasters. Perhaps if I’d spent more time over the centuries talking to them and less time chasing them...

Wow. I really didn’t even know myself anymore. (216)

“Why does a strong friendship always have to progress to romance?” (228)

Whether I died today, or turned into a zombie, or somehow managed to live, I would rather face my fate with my conscience clear and no secrets. For one thing, I should tell Meg about my encounter with Peaches. I should also tell her I didn’t hate her. In fact, I liked her pretty well. All right, I loved her. She was the bratty little sister I’d never had. (232)

I crossed my arms. “Well, I’m glad we had this talk, so I could unburden myself of all the things you already knew. I was also going to say that you’re important to me and I might even love you like a sister, but-”

“I already know that, too.” She gave me a crooked grin, offering proof that Nero really should have taken her to the orthodontist when she was younger. “S’okay. You’ve gotten less annoying, too.” (243)

“Lester, I need intel,” she said. “Tell me how we defeat these things.”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “Look, back in the old days, ravens used to be gentle and while, like doves, okay? But they were terrible gossips. One time I was dating this girl, Koronis. The ravens found out she was cheating on me, and they told me about it. I was so angry, I got Artemis to kill Koronis for me. Then I punished the ravens for being tattle-tales by turning them black.”

Reyna stared at me like she was contemplating another kick to my nose. “That story is messed up on so many level.”

“Just wrong,” Meg agreed. “You had your sister kill a girl who was cheating on you?”

“Well, I-”

“Then you punished the birds that told you about it,” Reyna added, “by turning them black, as if black was bad and white was good?”

“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound right,” I protested. “It’s just what happened when my curse scorched them. It also made them nasty-tempered flesh-eaters.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Reyna snarled.

“If we let the birds eat you,” Meg asked, “will they leave Reyna and me alone?”

“I- What?” I worried that Meg might not be kidding. Her facial expression did not say kidding. It said serious about the birds eating you. “Listen, I was angry! Yes, I took it out on the birds, but after a few centuries I cooled down. I apologized. By then, they kind of liked being nasty-tempered flesh-eaters. As for Koronis- I mean, at least I saved the child she was pregnant with when Artemis killed her. He became Asclepius, god of medicine!”

“Your girlfriend was pregnant when you had her killed?” Reyna launched another kick at my face. I managed to dodge it, since I’d had a lot of practice cowering, but it hurt to know that this time she hadn’t been aiming at an incoming raven. Oh, no. She wanted to knock my teeth in.

“You suck,” Meg agreed.

“Can we talk about this later?” I pleaded. “Or perhaps never? I was a god then! I didn’t know what I was doing!”

A few months ago, a statement like that would have made no sense to me. Now, it seemed true. I felt as if Meg had given me her thick-lensed rhinestone-studded glasses, and to my horror, they corrected my eyesight. I didn’t like how small and tawdry and petty everythin looked, rendered in perfect ugly clarity through the magic of Meg-O-Vision. Most of all, I didn’t like the way I looked - not just present-day Lester, but the god formerly known as Apollo. (252-253)

“But you’re the- you used to be the god of music, right? If you can charm a crowd, you should be able to repulse one. Pick a song those birds will hate!”

Great. Not only had Reyna laughed in my face and busted my nose, now I was her go-to guy for repulsiveness.

Still... I was struck by the way she said I used to be a god. She didn’t seem to mean it as an insult. She said it almost like a concession - like she knew what a horrible deity I had been, but held out hope that I might be capable of being someone better, more helpful, maybe even worthy of forgiveness. (255)

I wanted to sing for Reyna, to prove that I had indeed changed. I was no longer the god who’d had Koronis killed and created ravens, or cursed the Cumaean Sibyl, or done any of the other selfish things that had once given me no more pause than choosing what dessert toppings I wanted on my ambrosia.

It was time to be helpful. I needed to be repulsive for my friends! (256)

I sighed. “You two are horrible influences on each other.”

Without taking their eyes off me, Reyna and Meg gave each other a silent high five. (265)

THOU HAST FOUND THY GROOVE. AT LEAST THE BEGINNINGS OF THY GROOVE. I SUSPECTED THIS WOULD BE SO, GIVEN TIME. CONGRATULATIONS ARE MERITED. (266)

“What did you do to him?” Meg asked.

I tried to look offended. “Nothing! I may have teased him a bit, but he was a very minor god. Rather silly-looking. I may have made some jokes at his expense in front of the other Olympians.”

Reyna knit her eyebrows. “So you bullied him.”

“No! I mean... I did write zap me in glowing letters on the back of his toga. And I suppose I might have been a bit harsh when I tied him up and locked him in the stalls with my fiery horses overnight-”

“OH MY GODS!” Meg said. “You’re awful!”

I fought down the urge to defend myself. I wanted to shout, Well at least I didn’t kill him like I did my pregnant girlfriend Koronis! But that wasn’t much of a gotcha.

Looking back on my encounters with Harpocrates, I realized I had been awful. I somebody had treated me, Lester, the way I had treated that puny Ptolemaic god, I would want to crawl in a hole and die. And if I were honest, even back when I was a god, I had been bullied - only the bully had been my father. I should have known better than to share the pain.

I hadn’t thought about Harpocrates in eons. Teasing him had seemed like no big deal. I suppose that’s what made it even worse. I had shrugged off our encounters. I doubted he had.

Koronis’s ravens... Harpocrates...

It was no coincidence they were both haunting me today like the Ghosts of Saturnalias Past. Tarquin had orchestrated this with me in mind. He was forcing me to confront some of my greatest hits of dreadfulness. Even if I survived the challenges, my friends would see exactly what kind of a dirtbag I was. The shame would weigh me down and make me ineffective - the same way Tarquin used to add rocks to a cage around his enemy’s head, until eventually, the burden was too much. The prisoner would collapse and drown in a shallow pool, and Tarquin could claim, I didn’t kill him. He just wasn’t strong enough. (269-270)

The emperors would’ve considered Harpocrates just another dangerous, amusing plaything, like their trained monsters and humanoid lackeys.

And why not let King Tarquin be his custodian? The emperors could ally themselves with the undead tyrant, at least temporarily, to make their of Camp Jupiter a little easier. They could let Tarquin arrange his cruelest trap for me. Whether I killed Harpocrates or he killed me, what did it matter to the Triumvirate in the end? Ether way, they would find it entertaining - one more gladiator match to break the monotony of their immortal lives. (273)

“Would that count?” Meg asked. “I mean, if Reyna doesn’t open the door herself, isn’t that cheating the prophecy?”

Reyna shrugged. “Prophecies never mean what you think, right? If Apollo is able to open the door thanks to my help, I’m still responsible, wouldn’t you say?” (274)

If Harpocrates was indeed waiting inside this shipping contained, I would make sure the full force of his anger fell on me, not Reyna or Meg. (276)

The god glared at me. He forced painful images into my mind: me stuffing his head into a toilet on Mount Olympus; me howling with amusement as I tied his wrists and ankles and shut him in the stables with my fire-breathing horses. Dozens of other encounters I’d completely forgotten about, and in all of them I was as golden, handsome, powerful, and powerful as any Triumvirate emperor - and just as cruel. (279)

Just because we both hated the Triumvirate did not make us friends. Harpocrates had never forgotten my cruelty. (280)

She sent Harpocrates her life story, captured in a few painful snapshots. She knew about monsters. She had been raised by the Beast. No matter how much Harpocrates hated me - and Meg agreed that I could be pretty stupid sometimes - we had to work together to stop the Triumvirate.

Harpocrates shredded her thoughts with rage. How dare she presume to understand his misery? (281)

Harpocrates was unmoved. He bent his will toward me, burying me in his hatred.

All right! I pleaded. Kill me if you must. But I am sorry! I have changed!

I sent him a flurry of the most horrible, embarrassing failures I’d suffered since becoming mortal: grieving over the body of Heloise the griffin at the Waystation, holding the dying pandos Crest in my arms in the Burning Maze, and, of course, watching helplessly as Caligula murdered Jason Grace.

Just for a moment, Harpocrates wrath wavered.

At the very least, I had managed to surprise him. He had not been expecting regret or shame from me. Those weren’t my trademark emotions. (282)

For the emperors, the potential loss of their fasces apparently didn’t outweigh the potential benefit of having me destroyed... or the entertainment value of knowing I’d done it to myself. (283)

They had left me the starkest of choices: run away, let the Triumvirate win, and watch my mortal friends be destroyed, or free two bitter enemies and face the same fate as Jason Grace.

It was an easy decision.

I turned to Reyna and Meg and thought as clearly as I could: Destroy the faces. Cut him free. (283-284)

Harpocrates rage pressed down on me, making my knees buckle. The air pressure increased, as if I’d plummeted a thousand feet. I almost blacked out, but I guessed Harpocrates wouldn’t let that happen. He wanted me conscious, able to suffer. 

He flooded me with bitterness and hate. My joints began to unknit, my vocal cords dissolving. Harpocrates might have been ready to die, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me first. That would bring him great satisfaction.

I bowed my head, gritting my teeth against the inevitable.

Fine, I thought. I deserve it. Just spare my friends. Please.

The pressure eased.

I glanced up through a haze of pain.

In front of me, Reyna and Meg stood shoulder to shoulder, facing down the god.

They sent him their own flurry of images. Reyna pictured me singing “The Fall of Jason Grace” to the legion, officiating at Jason’s funeral pyre with tears in my eyes, then looking goofy and awkward and clueless as I offered to be her boyfriend, giving her the best, most cleansing laugh she’d had in years (Thanks, Reyna.)

Meg pictured the way I’d saved her in the myrmekes lair at Camp Half-Blood, singing about my romantic failures with such honesty it rendered giant ants catatonic with depression. She envisioned my kindness to Livia the elephant, to Crest, and especially to her, when I’d given her a hug in our room at the cafe and told her I would never give up trying.

In all their memories, I looked so human... but in the best possible ways. Without words, my friends asked Harpocrates if I was still the person he hated so much. (288-289)

“Good-bye, Apollo,” said the Sibyl’s voice, clearer now. “I forgive you. Not because you deserve it. Not for your sake at all. But because I will not go into oblivion carrying hate when I can carry love.”

Even if I could’ve spoken, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I was in shock. Her tone asked for no reply, no apology. She didn’t need or want anything from me. It was almost as if I was the one being erased. (291)

Anger swelled in me. I decided I was done with the ravens’ bitterness. Plenty of folks had valid reasons to hate me: Harpocrates, the Sibyl, Koronis, Daphne... maybe a few dozen others. Okay, maybe a few hundred others. But the ravens? They were thriving! They’d grown gigantic! They loved their new jobs as flesh-eating killers. Enough with the blame. (295)

Reyna must have noticed my worried expression.

“You did good back there,” she said. “You stepped up.”

Reyna sounded sincere. But her praise just made me feel more ashamed.

“I’m holding the last breath of a god I bullied,” I said miserably, “in the jar of a Sibyl I cursed, who was protected by birds I turned into killing machines after they tattled about my cheating girlfriend, who I subsequently had assassinated.”

“All true,” Reyna said. “But the thing is, you recognize it now.”

“It feels horrible.”

She gave me a thin smile. “That’s kind of the point. You do something evil, you feel bad about it, you do better. That’s a sign you might be developing a conscience.”

I tried to remember which of the gods had created the human conscience. Had we created it, or had humans just developed it on their own? Giving mortals a sense of decency didn’t seem like the sort of thing a god would brag about on their profile page.

“I- I appreciate what you’re saying,” I managed. “But my past mistakes almost got you and Meg killed. If Harpocrates had destroyed you when you were trying to protect me...”

The idea was too awful to contemplate. My shiny new conscience would have blown up inside me like a grenade.

Reyna gave me a brief pat on the shoulder. “All we did was show Harpocrates how much you’ve changed. He recognized it. Have you completely made up for all the bad things you’ve done? No. But you keep adding to the ‘good things’ column. That’s all any of us can do.”

Adding to the “good things” column. Reyna spoke of this superpower as if it were one I could actually possess.

“Thank you,” I said. (299-300)

“We’re going to make it,” I said, like a fool.

Once again, I had broken the First Law of Percy Jackson: Never say something is going to work out, because as soon as you do, it won’t. (306)

When had I last felt “whole”? I wanted to believe it was back when I was a god, but that wasn’t true. I hadn’t been completely myself for centuries. Maybe millennia.

At the moment, I felt more like a hole - a void in the cosmos through which Harpocrates, the Sibyl, and a lot of people I cared about had vanished. (316)

I laughed - actually laughed - with satisfaction. It felt so good to be a decent archer again, and to watch Meg at her swordplay. What a team we made! (322)

This was how it ended, I thought bitterly. Not fighting threats from the outside, but fighting against the ugliest side of our own history. (323)

There had only ever been one choice. Deep down, I’d always known which god I had to call. 

“Follow me,” I told Ella and Tyson.

I ran for the temple of Diana.

Now I’ll admit I’ve never been a huge fan of Artemis’s Roman persona. As I’ve said before, I never felt like I personally changed that much during Roman times. I just stayed Apollo. Artemis, though...

You know how it is when your sister goes through her moody teenage years? She changes her name to Diana, cuts her hair, hangs out with a different, more hostile set of maiden hunters, starts associating with Hecate and the moon, and basically acts weird? When we first relocated to Rome, the two of us were worshipped together like in the old days - twin gods with our own temple - but soon Diana went off and did her own thing. We just didn’t talk like we used to when we were young and Greek, you know?

I was apprehensive about summoning her Roman incarnation, but I needed help, and Artemis - Sorry, Diana - was the most likely to respond, even if she would never let me hear the end of it afterward. Besides, I missed her terribly. Yes, I said it. If I was going to die tonight, which seemed increasingly likely, first I wanted to see my sister one last time. (332)

Ella rummaged in her supply pouches, pulling out herbs, spices, and vials of oils, which made me realize how long it had been since I’d eaten. Why wasn’t my stomach growling? (333)

The emperors obviously wanted to send a message: they intended to dominate the world at any cost. They would stop at nothing. They would mutilate and maim. They would waste and destroy. Nothing was sacred except their own power.

I rose unsteadily. My hopelessness turned into boiling anger. I howled, “NO!” (340)

A few months ago, I would have been happy to let Frank take this hopeless fight on his own while I sat back, ate chilled grapes, and checked my messages. Not now, not after Jason Grace. I glanced at the poor maimed pegasi chained to the emperors’ chariot, and I decided I couldn’t live in a world where cruelty like that went unchallenged.

“Sorry, Frank,” I said. “You won’t face this alone.” I looked at Caligula. “Well, Baby Booties? Your colleague emperor has already agreed. Are you in, or do we terrify you too much?”

Caligula’s nostrils flared. “We have lived for thousands of years,” he said, as if explaining a simple fact to a slow student. “We are gods.”

“And I’m the son of Mars,” Frank countered. “praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. I’m not afraid to die. Are you?” (345)

Commodus punched me square in the chest. I staggered backward and collapsed on my butt, my lungs on fire, my sternum throbbing. A hit like that should have killed me. (348)

My first punch left a fist-size crater in the emperor’s gold breastplate. Oh, I thought in some distant corner of my mind. Hello, godly strength! (352)

Commodus fought, but his fists were like paper. I let loose a guttural roar - a song with only one note: pure rage, and only one volume: maximum.

Under the onslaught of sound, Commodus crumbled to ash.

My voice faltered. I stared at my empty palms. I stood and backed away, horrified. The charred outline of the emperor’s body remained on the asphalt. I could still feel the pulse of his carotid arteries under my fingers. What had I done? In my thousands of years of life, I’d never destroyed someone with my voice. When I sang, people would often say I “killed it”, but never meant that literally. (360)

I cobbled together the last shreds of my courage. I channeled my old sense of arrogance, from back in the days when I loved to take credit for things I didn’t do (as long as they were good and impressive). I gave Gregorix and his army a cruel, emperor-like smile.

“BOO!” I shouted.

The troops broke and ran. (362-363)

I grinned at the newcomer. “Hey, sis.”

Then I keeled over sideways. The world turned fluffy, bleached of all color. Nothing hurt anymore.

I was dimly aware of Diana’s face hovering over me, Meg and Hazel peering over the goddess’s shoulders.

“He’s almost gone,” Diana said.

Then I was gone. My slipped into a pool of cold, slimy darkness.

“Oh no, you don’t,” my sister’s voice woke me rudely.

I’d been so comfortable, so nonexistent.

Life surged back into me - cold, sharp, and unfairly painful. Diana’s face came into focus. She looked annoyed, which seemed on-brand for her.

As for me, I felt surprisingly good. The pain in my gut was gone. My muscles didn’t burn. I could breathe without difficulty. I must have slept for decades.

“H-how long was I out?” I croaked.

“Roughly three seconds,” she said. “Now, get up, drama queen.”

[...]

I beamed at my sister. It was so good to see her disapproving I-can’t-believe-you’re-my-brother frown again. “I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse with emotion.

She blinked, clearly unsure what to do with this information. “You really have changed.”

“I missed you!”

“Y-yes, well. I’m here now. Even Dad couldn’t argue with a Sibylline invocation from Temple Hill.”

[...]

I checked my stomach, which was easy, since my shirt was in tatters. The bandage had vanished, along with the festering would. Only a thin white scare remained. “So... I’m healed?” My flab told me she hadn’t restored me to my godly self. Nah, that would have been too much to expect.

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the goddess of healing, but I’m still a goddess. I think I can take care of my little brother’s boo-boos.”

“Little brother?”

She smirked, then turned to Hazel. (382-384)

I suppose I’d been too focused on Thalia, wondering whether or not she was going to kill me and whether or not I deserved it. (388)

“You also saved me,” I said. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. Her flesh felt warm and human. I couldn’t remember the last time my sister had shown me such open affection. (389)

“It’s just a guess,” I admitted. “Frank went into that tunnel knowing he might die. He willingly sacrificed himself for a noble cause. In doing so, he broke free of his fate. By burning his own tinder, he kind of... I don’t know, started a new fire with it. He’s in charge of his own destiny now. Well, as much as any of us are. The only other explanation I can think of is that Juno somehow released him from the Fates’ decree.” (393)

“How did you survive the fire?” Hazel asked.

“I don’t know. I remember Caligula burning up. I passed out, thought I was dead. Then I woke up on Arion’s back. And now I’m here.” (395)

“Hey, Apollo, you- you know the difference between a faun and a satyr...?”

[...]

A moment later, his body collapsed with a noise like a relieved sigh, crumbling into fresh loam. In the spot where his heart had been, a tiny sapling emerged from the soil. I immediately recognized the shape of those miniature leaves. Not a hemlock. A laurel - the tree I had created from poor Daphne, and whose leaves I had decided to make into wreaths. The laurel, the tree of victory.

One of the dryads glanced at me. “Did you do that...?”

I shook my head. I swallowed the bitter taste from my mouth.

“The only difference between a satyr and a faun,” I said, “is what we see in them. And what they see in themselves. Plant this tree somewhere special.: I looked up at the dryads. “Tend it and make it grow healthy and tall. This was Don the faun, a hero.” (398-399)

She folded her arms and stared at the fire. “I don’t blame you, Apollo. My brother...” She hesitated, steadying her breath. “Jason made his own choices. Heroes have to do that.” (402)

“It seems so cruel,” she continued. “We lose someone and finally get them back, only to lose them again.”

I wondered why she used the word we. She seemed to be saying that she and I shared this experience - the loss of an only sibling. But she had suffered so much worse. My sister couldn’t die. I couldn’t lose her permanently.

Then, after a moment of disorientation, like I’d been flipped upside-down, I realized she wasn’t talking about me losing someone. She was talking about Artemis - Diana.

Was she suggesting that my sister missed me, even grieved for me as Thalia grieved for Jason?

Thalia must have read my expression. “The goddess has been beside herself,” she said. “I mean that literally. Sometimes she gets so worried she splits into two forms, Roman and Greek, right in front of me. She’ll probably get mad at me for telling you this, but she loves you more than anyone else in the world.”

A marble seemed to have lodged in my throat. I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded.

“Diana didn’t want to leave camp so suddenly like that,” Thalia continued. “But you know how it is. Gods can’t stick around. Once the danger to New Rome had passed, she couldn’t risk overstaying her summons. Jupiter... Dad wouldn’t approve.”

I shivered. How easy it was to forget that this young woman was also my sister. And Jason was my brother. At one time, I would have discounted that connection. They’re just demigods, I would have said. Not really family.

Now I found the idea hard to accept for a different reason. I didn’t feel worthy of that family. Or Thalia’s forgiveness. (403-404)

“My whole life, I’ve been living with other people’s expectations of what I’m supposed to be. Be this. Be that. You know?”

[...]

“But you showed me. When you proposed dating...” She took a deep breath, her body shaking with silent giggles. “Oh, gods. I saw how ridiculous I’d been. How ridiculous the whole situation was. That’s what healed my heart - being able to laugh at myself again, at my stupid ideas about destiny. That allowed me to break free - just like Frank broke free of his firewood. I don’t need another person to heal my heart. I don’t need a partner... at least, not until and unless I’m ready on my own terms. I don’t need to be force-shipped with anyone or wear anybody else’s label. For the first time in a long time, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. So thank you.” (405-406)

As we stood to accept the legion’s thanks, I felt strangely uncomfortable. Now that I finally had a friendly crowd cheering for me, I just wanted to sit down and cover my head with a toga. I had done so little compared to Hazel or Reyna or Frank, not to mention all those who had died: Jason, Dakota, Don, Jacob, the Sibyl, Harpocrates... dozens more. (413).

Usually I was against re-gifting, but in this case, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I couldn’t remember when or why I’d given the legion this bow - for centuries, I’d passed them out like party favors - but I was certainly glad to have it back. I drew the string with no trouble at all. Either my strength was godlier than I realized, or the bow recognized me as its rightful owner. Oh, yes. I could do some damage with this beauty. (415)

We’d have to trust the gods for some good luck. (Insert HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA here.) (422)

[tamorasky]

Mistress Anna Chapter 13

Rating: M

Summary: It wasn’t uncommon for the women to be eventually cast aside, Anna was just naive enough to believe it would never happen to her.

Relationships: Anna/Kristoff

Words: 4265

Canadian Frontier Au

AO3

Masterlist

Anna doesn’t see much of Elsa after the night of the fire. The two women do their best to avoid one another throughout the day. Elsa leaves early every morning and always returns well into the night. The younger sister carries out daily tasks around the house while taking care of Eliza, remaining vigilant to stay out of her older sister’s way. She isn't sure where she'll go once Autumn comes, only knowing her best option is to go east.

It was surprising to Anna, to say the least when Bulda asked if she would be joining them for the hunt that August. The young woman had only agreed after Bulda insisted that she needed to come south with the village and participate before she returns to Arendelle.

Anna rides with Angelique and the children in the back of the family’s cart, Gabriel leading the horses away from Ahtohallan . She smiles as Angelique’s little girls play with Eliza. Louise plays peek-a-boo with the toddler while Helene holds Eliza’s hands.

“Helene, be gentle.” Angelique scolds as she sees the middle child be slightly rough with Anna’s daughter.

“It’s fine, she didn’t hurt her.” Anna tries to reassure the woman seated across from her. Angelique shakes her head in response, brushing the hair out of her younger son, Guillaume’s eyes.  

“She’s started to think it’s okay to bite her brothers now.” Angelique rolls her eyes, pulling Helene back onto her lap. The raven-haired girl now perched on her mother’s lap tries to wiggle out of Angelique’s grasp. “If you keep acting like this, I’ll send you to ride with your Noohkoom et Koohkoom.

Grandmother and Grandfather

Anna stifles a giggle as the raven-haired girl gives up her fight, slumping against Angelique with a pout. The young woman looks back to Eliza and Louise, the older girl now wiggling Eliza’s toes with a smile.

Guillaume sits up with a toothy grin, quickly shuffling across the cart to kneel beside Anna. “Uncle Kristoff!” the eight-year-old shouts loudly. Anna looks over her shoulder to see Kristoff riding horseback next to the cart. He smiles warmly at his nephew, reaching over the gap between them to ruffle the young boy’s hair.

Kristoff urges his horse forward, weaving between the carts and various people on the road. He pulls up beside Sven and Elsa slowing, engaging with the two others. Anna watches as Sven speaks to the other two which causes Elsa to throw her head back with a laugh.

Anna hadn’t heard her sister laugh like that since arriving Ahtohallan, especially within this week. They hadn’t talked to one another since the fire. Anna had gotten what she wanted; Elsa had finally yelled at her.

You don’t belong here.

Those words have repeated in her head, again and again, nearly sending the young woman to the brink of madness. Anna knows she could go to Red River, where her mother was from. But she knows that if she doesn’t belong in Ahtohallan she will never belong in Red River. Hans had made sure to strip every ounce of her culture away from her to make sure she would never belong anywhere again.

Eliza’s shrieks pull Anna’s attention back to the small girl on her lap. A smile crosses Anna’s face as Louise begins to tickle the underside of Eliza’s feet. Angelique stares at Eliza, the desire to have another child evident across her face as she stares at the toddler.

“Do you want to hold her?” Anna asks, her legs slowly growing numb under the weight of her daughter.  

“I would love to.” Angelique lets go of her hold on her youngest child, reaching forward to pull Eliza onto her lap with a grin. The raven-haired woman coos at Eliza, pressing a kiss to the small girl’s cheek as she settles on Angelique’s lap. Eliza stares at the other woman wide-eyed, her chin slowly receding into her neck as she regards Angelique.

Despite her initial reluctance to settle with the other woman, Eliza finally relaxes in Angelique’s arms. The baby stays on Angelique’s lap for the remainder of the journey south to Les Montagnes des Cyprès.

The Cypress Hills

The convoy stops along the river when they reach the plateau, settling on the same fork of the creek they always have for the summer hunt. Anna holds the sides of the cart tightly as it comes to a stop, the rough wood digging into her palms as she does so.

Guillaume springs up from the bed of the wagon as it lurches forward to a stop, leaping off of the cart with glee to locate his older brother. Anna smiles at the boy’s excitement as he weaves through the various people, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Gabriel comes around to the back of the cart, lifting Louise out of the wagon with ease. The young girl sprints off, making her way to follow after her brother. Anna giggles as Angelique hands Eliza back to her, accepting help from her husband to slip off of the cart.

Anna refuses the man’s help, sliding off the cart with Eliza held tightly to her chest as she feels for the ground. Once she finds her footing on the grass, Angelique takes the young woman by the arm, holding her close. The two women walk arm-in-arm, trying to locate Bulda and Cliff in the crowd gathering around the creek.

As they inch closer to the river, Bulda’s voice carries through the crowd of people. Angelique breaks away from Anna, increasing her pace to find her mother. The auburn-haired woman stops, readjusting Eliza on her hip before continuing after her friend.

Reaching the site Anna can see the buffalo skin covering for the tipi lay on the grass, Kristoff and Sven carefully placing the poles on the covering; Kristoff secures the pole with the lifting tie at the center of the tent. Cliff stands over the other men, his hands tucked under his suspenders as he supervises his son and the Newfoundlander.

Bulda and Angelique stand off to the side, observing the bickering men, shaking their heads and laughing as the men struggle and argue. Anna approaches the two women, Eliza still perched on her hip as she comes to stand next to the older woman.

“You think papa forgot to pack a set of poles?” Angelique asks. Bulda raises her hands, exacerbated and stressing over the situation.

“All I know is that we pulled away from the lot, and I’m certain he left them by the side of the road.” Bulda sighs.

“He wouldn’t stop?” Anna asks, interjecting herself into their conversation.

“Men.” Bulda shrugs. The older woman pulls away from them, making her way to their cart to unload the woolen blankets. Angelique dramatically rolls her eyes, smirking at her friend while shaking her head.In the corner of her eye, Anna can see Louise approach her mother, shyly staring up at the young woman from behind Angelique’s skirt. Angelique places a hand on her daughter’s back, encouraging her to speak to the other woman.

“Anna, your arms must be getting tired,” Angelique states, giving up on her daughter to say the first word.

“It’s fine. I’ll put her down in a moment.” Anna insists. Unwilling to admit that her arms were getting tired; she doesn’t want to appear weak in front of these women.

“Nonsense.” The woman waves her hand, pushing her daughter forward towards Anna. “Give her to Louise, from what I hear Kai is sitting down to tell the children a story to keep them occupied while we get the encampment organized.”

Anna thinks for a moment of escorting the children to listen to the community Elder, knowing she has nothing to contribute to setting up the encampment. Instead, the young woman nods, reluctantly handing Eliza over to Louise.

Both women laugh as the seven-year-old takes Eliza from Anna, wrapping her arms underneath the toddler’s armpits and across her chest to carry her across the grass. Angelique withdraws from Anna’s side, making her way to help her mother unpack provisions.

She stands alone, her hands folded in front of her as she watches everyone around her keep busy with various tasks. Bulda and Angelique sort food, Anna knows she should help but feels as if she would only be in the way of their work. Her gaze is drawn back to the men. Sven takes hold of the long rope, as Kristoff lifts the tops of the poles, raising them high to the sky. Anna averts her eyes as Kristoff’s shirt lifts slightly, exposing his abdomen as he raises the poles higher while walking towards the base of the tipi.

Her cheeks feel flush, trying desperately not to think about the way Kristoff's muscles constrict as he raises the poles, nor how he would look now under his shirt after months of canoeing through Quebec. Playing with the skirt of her dress, Anna stares at her feet, her back resting against the back of Kristoff’s cart, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. She doesn’t know what she is doing at the hunt, she and Eliza should have remained in Ahtohallan.

“Water.”

Anna jumps at the sudden appearance of Kristoff’s voice, his deep voice rattling the young woman to her core as she looks up at him. “W-what?”

Kristoff huffs, nodding towards the cart. “Behind you.”

Looking over her shoulder, Anna sees a wooden bucket, filled to the brim with water. “Oh, …right.” She steps to the side, allowing the blonde man to access the back of the cart. Anna watches as he cups the water with his hands, noticing how droplets fall in his beard.

She resists the urge to reach up and brush the water out of the hair, knowing she had no right to be so familiar with him anymore. The young woman clears her throat, rocking on the balls of her feet.

“It’s warmer than I thought it be.” Anna comments, trying desperately to make small talk with Kristoff as he stands next to her. He looks down at her, his honey-colored eyes burrowing into her own.

He hums in acknowledgment, turning away from the cart to sit in the back. Anna feels a pit in her stomach as he doesn’t leave. Awkwardness filling the air between them as she leans against the cart once more. Anna opens her mouth to make a comment about the wind as well but closes it, deciding it is best if she says nothing.

The young couple watch as Cliff and Sven place the other poles. Cliff makes his way to the middle of the structure, grabbing the long rope to secure the poles together. Anna had forgotten about the entire process of raising a tipi. She recalls as a child waiting impatiently for Cliff to pitch the tent for both families.

In the corner of her eye, Anna notices another convey approaching. She had known that the Cumberland House convoy had been close behind their own but didn’t expect them to arrive so soon after their own.

“Is Louis coming south for the hunt?” Anna inquires, wondering if Kristoff’s younger brother might be with the Cumberland House convoy.

“He hasn’t come south for the hunts in nearly a year.” He responds, taking another sip of water. Without another word, Kristoff walks away from Anna, making his way back to his father and Sven, helping them with placing the covering over the poles.

A loud shriek resounds through the encampments, nearly stopping the bustling scene as it echoes through the crowd. For a moment, Anna thinks it might be Eliza’s, but she spots the woman rushing her way through the various people.

Anna watches this young woman weaving through the crowd, her hip-length chestnut hair flowing behind her as she runs towards their site. Kristoff’s cursing pulls Anna’s attention away from the young woman back to the men.

Kristoff holds a long pole, the other end abandoned as Sven turns away from him to face the young woman.

“Sven!” The brunette woman shrieks, nearly knocking Sven over as her body crashes into his. The brunette Newfoundlander begins to laugh as his arms wrap around the petite woman, lifting her off the ground with ease.

The young couple giggle gleefully as he sets her back on the ground. Sven places a hand on the back of her neck, crashing his lips to hers as he pulls her body flush to his. Watching the two of them, Anna smiles, remembering how passionately Hans once held her and kissed her like that. How she used to feel safe and secure with his arms wrapped around her waist.

She blinks away the tears, coming to terms that she would never feel Hans’ hands on her again. She would never feel that way ever again. Anna knew she had her chance with romance, now all that matters is Eliza.

Anna blinks, noticing the way Cliff and Bulda smile at the exchange between the young woman and Sven, and the way Angelique was practically bursting with excitement as the sight of the brunette. It suddenly dawns on Anna who this woman was.

Marguerite.

She could hardly believe that this beautiful woman before her is Marguerite. Kristoff’s youngest sister, who used to chase after them, begging to join in on the older kids’ activities. The young girl who used to clutch at Angelique’s skirts or Kristoff’s pants as she peered up at any stranger with judging hazel eyes.

Anna looks to Kristoff, noticing the way he rolls his eyes and shakes his head; the smile on his face revealing the happiness he felt for his friend and youngest sister. Angelique laughs, nudging her mother as she leans over to talk to Bulda.

“And you say Gabriel and I were bad.” Angelique teases causing her mother to chuckle. Marguerite breaks away from Sven, rolling her eyes as she faces her older sister.

“You two were!” The brunette exclaims, withdrawing from her lover. The two sisters giggle, ecstatic to be with one another again. Angelique envelopes Marguerite in her arms, the younger sister’s head coming to rest against her cheek as they clutch at one another.

Anna feels her heartache as she watches this exchange between the two of them. She wishes that her return home would have been more similar to this than what had transpired.

She blinks away tears, looking away from the scene as Marguerite comes to stand in front of her mother. Bulda cups her daughter’s face, regarding the young woman before pulling her into her embrace.

Anna wishes she could feel her mother’s arms around her one last time, for her mother to hold Eliza and dot on her. She wishes Iduna was here to help her readjust to their life, to their community. But she wasn’t. Anna had to do this one her own.

Bulda clears her throat, capturing Anna’s attention again as the two women come to stand in front of her.

“Daisy, you remember Anna.”

Marguerite smiles at the auburn-haired woman, taking Anna by the hands. “Of course, I do.”

“She’s visiting us while her husband is in London,” Bulda informs her daughter. With a strain, Anna fakes a smile and nods, confirming the lie she had been telling everyone for the past few weeks.

The brunette woman’s smile falters for a moment, staring at Anna. “How nice. I’m sure he misses you dearly. You married Mr. Westergaard from Arendelle, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Anna swallows the lump in her throat. Unable to be rid of the feeling that Marguerite knew the truth.

“He must be missing you and little Eliza dearly.” Bulda comments, placing a hand over her chest.

“Let’s not have Anna dwell on missing her husband, mama. I’m sure she doesn’t need to be reminded of it.” Marguerite pats her mother’s arms, indicating for the older woman to stop pressing the matter.

“Of course. I’m prattling on.” Bulda waves her hand. “Why don’t you two fetch more water while Angelique and I get everything set up in the tipi.”

“We’ll go further up the creek.” Marguerite states. Bulda and Angelique furrow their brows in a similar fashion. Quickly Marguerite clarifies “The water will be clearer to the north.”

“You’ll still have to boil it once you get back,” Angelique argues, unable to understand why her younger sister wishes to make more work for the two of them.  

“I know. I just want to go for a walk.” The younger sister huffs. “Grab Kristoff’s buckets; they are the best.”   “You better not lose those,” Kristoff calls as the men secure the covering to the tipi poles. Marguerite sticks her tongue out at her older brother.

“We won’t quit being a tuguy.”

Anna giggles at this, quickly covering her mouth to hide the smile crossing her features. She hadn’t heard that word in a very long time. Kristoff’s gaze snaps to Anna, the corners of his mouth quirking up at her laughter.

This is the Kristoff she remembers, the one who laughed at his younger sister and Anna’s antics as children. Not the brooding and short-tempered one she had seen for these past weeks.  

“Language!” Bulda scolds, lightly hitting her youngest daughter on her bicep. Marguerite laughs at her mother’s scolding, grabbing two buckets from the back of Kristoff’s cart.

“We’ll be back soon,” Anna says, following after Marguerite. The two women remain close to one another as they weave through the crowd. Anna expects any minute for the younger woman to break off to make her way to the creek, but she doesn’t. Instead, the two women continue further up the creek, away from the multiple convoys.

“I didn’t expect to go this far for water.” Anna jokes, breathily laughing as she notices how far they have gone from the plateau.

“We didn’t have to,” Marguerite says, finally stopping by the side of the creek. “I thought you might want to talk.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Anna’s face falls as the brunette woman peels off her moccasins, throwing them onto the grass.

Marguerite steps into the cold water, gazing up at Anna with a sigh. “I went through Arendelle a week ago to meet the new chief factor…and his wife.”

Panic overtakes Anna as she stares at the other woman, the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears as she considers her response. Marguerite shakes her head, wading out of the stream to come to stand in front of Anna.

“Are you going to tell your mother?” Anna quietly asks, looking down at her feet as shame overtakes her.

“It’s not my place to tell. I know how some of these people can be, judging others without looking at themselves. My family would never judge because of what happened to you, Anna.” Hesitantly Marguerite places a hand on Anna’s shoulder “You’re one of us.”

Anna scoffs, shaking her head in response. “Not according to my sister.”

The auburn-haired woman finally looks up, finding the courage to look Marguerite in the eyes. She expects to stare back into a cold, hard and unforgiving gaze. But instead, Marguerite’s eyes are full of understanding and warmth.

“Give her time, she’ll eventually come around.” The brunette woman offers her a smile. “But to come back to us and her, you need to tell the truth.”

Anna stares at Marguerite, wondering when did the little girl with the gap in her teeth get to be so grown-up. She sighs, nodding her head. “You’re right.”

“Besides!” Marguerite chirps, taking a step away from Anna. “If you stay here, you can marry my brother, and we can be sisters.”

Much to her surprise, this comment causes Anna to burst into a laugh. Remembering this is the Marguerite she recalls from their childhood. She regains her composure, her face hurting from smiling.  

“Which one?” Anna raises her brow, teasing the other woman.

“Kristoff, of course. Do you really think I’d subject you and your daughter to Louis?”

Anna giggles, unlacing her leather boots to discard them beside Marguerite’s moccasins as she shakes her head in response.

“No, that part of my life is over. I doubt any man would want to take another man’s child as his own.” Anna sighs. “Besides, Kristoff doesn’t want me. He’s made that clear since my return.”

“I know my brother very well. He’s an idiot. But, he’s a good man; I don’t doubt for a moment that he would treat you well and love your daughter as his own.” Marguerite says sincerely before submerging the bucket into the stream to fill it.

Anna reaches over, grabbing the full bucket from the other woman, handing her the second one. Her arms strain as she holds the full bucket while waiting for Daisy. “I’m starting to think coming out this far is a mistake.”

“It’s probably is,” Marguerite responds, emerging from the stream with the second bucket. With her free hand, the brunette picks up her moccasins, carrying them as she walks off. Anna follows close behind the younger woman, trying her best to ignore the water splashing on her skirt as they walk back to the encampment.

Both Anna and Marguerite lose half of the water in their buckets once they return to Bulda and Cliff’s site, where the first tipi is raised and a fire already burns.

“Put the buckets on the back of the cart, we’ll boil the water later,” Angelique instructs, passing the two of them with blankets in her arms. Anna follows Marguerite to her family’s cart, placing the buckets into the bed of the wagon.

Marguerite makes her way to Sven, standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. Staring in the direction of the men, Anna notices Kristoff has left the site.

Her attention is torn away when Louise and Guillaume emerge from the tipi, shrieking as the daughter chases after her brother. Looking around the site, Anna tries to locate where Eliza is since the children have returned.

She meanders to the tipi, peering into the entrance only to see Helene sitting with her mother and Noohkoom.

“Where is Eliza?” Anna questions, her brows knitting together at her daughter’s absence. Both Angelique and Bulda look up at the young woman.

“Gerda held onto her while you were away,” Bulda responds. Anna nods, pulling away from the tipi to find the Grants. Kai and Gerda’s site is only a short walk away, much to Anna’s relief. With nearly 250 people in the encampment locating her daughter could’ve been much more difficult.

As she approaches the site, Gerda kneels on the grass, feeding fire embers with dry blades. The thin older woman looks up at Anna, smiling at the sight of the young woman.

“Anna, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Taaishi Gerda. I heard you have my daughter.” Anna responds with a sweet smile, folding her hands in front of her.

“I did.” The grey-haired woman responds. “but Marie came and took her from me.”

Anna sighs; she should’ve known better than to have expected Eliza to stay in one place. “Well, I’ll go to the Bernard’s site and see if she is there.”

The young woman walks away without another word, trying to locate her daughter. She doesn’t panic, knowing that Eliza had to be with someone she knew.

Eliza isn’t with Marie and Pierre Bernard, or Phillipe Laurent and his wife, Theresa. Nor is she with the Dumonts, or the Cumberland House Sayers.

Anna finds herself going in circles by the time she reaches the sixth site that day, exhausted from walking and the intense heat building in the plateau. She wipes the sweat off of her brow with the back of her hand as she approaches the river. Making her way to the McKenzie family site.

She stops in her tracks, placing her hands on the curve of her hips as her back begins to ache. Huffing in frustration, she debates going back to Cliff and Bulda’s site to wait for Eliza to be returned to her. This is becoming futile.

Her hope comes flooding back as she hears a familiar giggle. Anna’s scans the crowd, trying to locate where her daughter’s giggles are coming from. Her gaze stops at the edge of the stream, where she sees Eliza being held by Kristoff.

Eliza giggles reaching out to grab at Kristoff’s beard, causing the man to pull his head away and point to something across the river, trying to divert the little girl’s attention away from his facial hair by pointing out the pelicans; with no avail. The toddler remains transfixed on his beard, pulling at the hairs.

Anna’s heart warms as the corner of Kristoff’s mouth curves into a smile while he stares at the little girl. Then to Anna’s surprise, Eliza wraps her chubby arms around Kristoff’s neck, holding herself closer to him.

She withdraws without saying anything, knowing Kristoff would bring her daughter back to the site. Anna settles beside Angelique while they make dinner, looking up as Kristoff returns with Eliza in his arms.

The little girl coos at the sight of her mother, reaching out towards Anna as Kristoff comes closer to her.

“Hi, Sweetheart!” Anna stands from the ground, taking Eliza back into her arms.

“I found her with the Fort Qu’Appelle Giroux family,” Kristoff comments, reluctantly handing the toddler back to her mother.

“I appreciate it.” She offers a small smile as Eliza begins to play with the buttons on the front of Anna’s shirt. Her heart flutters as he returns the gesture, a sense of familiarity returning to her as he regards her warmly.  

“Of course.”

She finds herself disappointed as Kristoff turns away from her, Eliza reaching after the man with a whimper. Anna looks at her daughter, brushing Eliza’s wisps of hair away from her forehead as she turns to make her way towards the site.

“Come on, my love, let’s see if Bulda has the tipi ready for you to have a nap.” Anna bounces her daughter with a smile, trying to lift the girl’s spirit. She carries her daughter towards the tent, meandering slowly as she spares a glance over her shoulder.

Anna watches as Kristoff stands next to Sven and Marguerite, shaking his head and scrunching his face in disgust as his little sister cuddles closer to Sven. Her chest constricts as he smiles again, something which Anna would never tire of.   

Notes: Tuguy is a Cree slang word which means dick/penis. Metis buffalo hunts were a really large affair, the largest recorded one was in 1840 with 1210 Red river carts and around 1,630 people.Thank you so much for reading <3 Thanks to Melanie and Johanna for giving me feedback on this chapter!!

[thedesignateddriver]

Nevermorered:“Fear of Storms”

This is for @nevermorered as a gift for their prompt “Fear of Storms”, which was a prompt that was so lovely to write, and it was so lovely to get to know them. I JUST got home from work, which is why I got this gift in just under the wire, but I hope you enjoy it no matter what time of the day you are reading it. This doesn’t have a title yet, not really, because I could not think of one that would stick--if anyone has a suggestion, please tell me!

I was so happy to participate and can’t wait to read everyone’s work! (If I post this on AO3, I’ll add a link!)

---

A dog could sense a storm coming.

A dog could sense a storm coming.

A well-bred working dog was one that did not cower in the face of noise, of danger, or violence—it stayed with its master and followed unflinchingly. But it didn’t matter how hard they were trained, and it didn’t matter if they obeyed and stayed still, a good hound would never lose that instinct that ran through them like the air they breathed: when a storm is coming, find shelter. Find high ground. There is a danger approaching.

It was an instinct, something settled deep in their bodies, a knowledge that need not be learned, a caution that could not be bred away.  

There is a danger approaching. A dog knew.

---

         A grey churn of clouds had been rolling towards them from the north, and Sandor had spurred Stranger harder the closer it came to them, swelling over the pines. The air had changed. He stiffened in the saddle, gripping the lead.

She, of course, noticed. She titled her head back to look up at him from where she was sat between his legs, crown of red curls bunching between their bodies.

           “Are you afraid of storms?” she asked.

           “No,” he snapped. “Do I look like a child to you?”

           “No. But you get so restless.”

           “I’m no fool, that’s why. It’s danger oncoming, could be in a hundred different ways—”

           “I know,” she sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that. You… when you get agitated about other thinks, it’s comes on quick, but when it storms, it seems like… like it’s slow, inside of you. As if it builds and you can’t get rid of it.”

           He was silent at that. It isn’t the storms he’s afraid of, he wants to say. He doesn’t.

           Since he’d spirited her away from the Eyrie, riding her away from Littlefinger before the cunt could even smell that a dog had snuck into the Vale, they had encountered a share of storms and downpours. A storm meant cover for their tracks, but it was also rougher going, more dangerous, both for Stranger’s footing through the forests and over slickened stones, as well as for the Little Bird. Arya had been small but hardier, hardened and bitter by the road north, and Harrenhall, and the Brotherhood. Sansa had suffered just as endlessly from the moment their father’s head had rolled, but not in the elements, and Sandor knew that. She was a wolf of the north, but she was also a lady. He’d been extra careful to get out of the rain in a cave or stay under the cover of trees. She never complained about the roughness, still polite with her “thank you’s” even after he snapped at her to stop saying them.

When the rain would pour in the darkness, she’d tuck in close at night, smaller body shielded and warmed nearer to him, rubbing against him in a way which no longer felt accidently. The water would soak her through and Sandor would watch the cloth cling to her body, curves that hadn’t been there before, and her little nipples press through hardened from the cold.

Storms were dangerous in that way as well.

The last downpour had caught them crossing open hills, the fog settling swollen over the pale grass. Much to his chagrin and despite his growling, she’d left her hood down. Though her teeth chattered and water had slipped down her neck to soak her dress beneath, she had been pleased to have the rain wash the last of that disgusting black dye out of her hair that Littlefinger had soaked it in. Though it was stupid, and vain, he’d allowed it. Secretly it pleased him just as much to see the black wash out in rivulets to reveal the auburn underneath, later drying like rich copper in the firelight.

But this was something entirely different. They were in the north proper now, and by looks of the distended and darkening sky crawling over them, winter had come for them. They both looked up at the sky, locked against each other in a slow sway on Stranger’s back. This was an empty and unfamiliar territory, and they were alone. Sansa blinked up at the clouds. Eye blue and clear. Sandor grew more uneasy.

           “There’s no avoiding this one.”

           “Aye. We’ve no choice but to keep riding.”

           It began snowing that night.

             ---

             The first night in the storm, they had found a cave, and lit a small fire, and slept next to one another. The snow was thin and quiet as it touched the earth. Sandor could not shake the disquiet.

           The second day, the sky had been empty of snow but heavy still with clouds. By midday it was falling, by evening falling more steadily. No sign of outpost. They’d found another cave, a little deeper than the previous one.

           The third day it had snowed straight through from daybreak to nightfall. The cold had sunken sharply into the ground and slid under his cloak and armor and clothes. When Sansa had to remove her hands from her cloak, her fingers would be red within minutes. She was flushed pink by the cold and shivered in her sleep.

           The fourth day, the snow came down sideways as the wind screamed. Sandor’s eyes burned and watered but he kept his eyes forward. He wrapped Sansa inside his cloak, having her press at tight as she could. She started sniffling by midday. When she’d lain down he’d run his hand over her back for warmth.

             The fifth day, Stanger slipped on ice and nearly threw the both them. The snow had not let up and the drifts were beginning to pile significantly. Sansa was coughing hard now. Her breathing rattled and by nightfall, with the snow coating her whole little body, she was not quite with him, not all the way. Sandor had rolled them together under every cloth and fur they had and unlaced the front of her dress and slid his hands up around her waist and back to try and get warmth back in her. She was soft and her skin was like cream, and damn him to all seven hells if he hadn’t imagined his hands on her like this a thousand times, but it is horrible because she is leaving him, she is sick and the storm wouldn’t end, and he begs with her to get better.

           The sixth day, it snowed and snowed and did not stop, as if every white star in the sky were collapsing down on them. Sansa had fever by mid-morning. They did not find the village until night had covered the North.

 ---

             Sansa thrashed on the bed, her white skin stained a splotchy grey. Sweat darkened a crown into her hair and slid into her collarbones. The fever was burning straight through her, and Sandor could feel the heat coming off of her without even touching her. He’d stripped her of dress and socks, down to just her shift and small clothes to try and cool her, and keep her from burning to death. Even then, she’d soaked through the white shift, sweat collecting on her thighs and chest, under her breasts. She had been in and out of consciousness all day

           She whimpered.

           “I know, Little Bird, I know.”

For the hundredth time, Sandor ran a cloth wet with melted snow down her brow.

When he’d carried her in limp into the inn, throwing his purse of coin at one of the maid girls and threatening grotesque physical violence if a room wasn’t prepared, it had been a blur. He’d settled her in the room, and gathered what he’d needed to treat her. It had been two days and Sansa only simmered in the sickness. She’d started vomiting this morning.

Sansa groaned and rolled limply to the side. Sandor moved a pail up to her, and she emptied herself, hardly anything now without food. She cried softly, exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Shrill unease slit through his stomach. He wiped her mouth. “Not a fucking, sir. Enough of that.”

She screwed her eyes shut, words sorrow slurred. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Enough of your fucking chirping, just get better. Gods damn you, just get better, you have to make it, Sansa.”

           She let loose a wet cough, and breathed through her mouth. He watched the swell of her ribs. She became quieter again.

           “Sandor,” she murmured. He strains his ears.

           “Sandor,” she repeats, “The night of the Blackwater… you…”

He chokes. She is dying. She is dying, and if her last memory is of the night the Blackwater burned, of what he did to her, he will kill himself. He will probably do that regardless. Her lips continued to move, but he couldn’t hear if she truly said anything. Minutes passed, and her movements slowed, then stilled. He held his breath and said nothing, just pulling her back gently to the center of the bed.

           The room was quiet.

           It was nothing more than a small hearth and a wide bed, a single window. In the silence, in the dark, he finally washed himself. Sandor laid down on the floor next to her.

           They had gotten so close to the end, and after so many years, so many years of her chained and festering in the heat of the south, waiting for a way home, she would die whimpering in her own sickness, north, but not far enough.

That had been the point of all of it, of all he’d done. All that time spent on the fucking Isle, to dig, and dig, and dig and never stop digging more graves, always—all so he could find her, at last, and dig one more. He had freed her only so he could put her in another cage, one she could never escape—the last cage, made of soil, where the earth would rip apart thread by thread. Her soft skin and auburn hair would disappear into the ground. No one would find her here, and no one would mourn her, a grave forgotten, a line of ink on a dead family tree.

           And then.

           And then Sandor realized it.

           Buried under the drifts of snow, which only grew greater by the hour, the ground would be frozen solid. There would be no grave because a grave could not be dug for her. Sansa would die and he would not be able to rest her in the earth, and the villagers would know her body would carry the sickness that had killed her. They would have to get rid of her corpse to prevent the spread of infection.

           If Sansa died, they would burn her body.

           Sandor stopped himself from screaming, but he could not stop himself from crying.

The thought of her body being so defiled, destroyed with blistering skin and charred opal teeth and splintering bones and lacy little eyelashes turning to embers, was too much to bear. She would turn to ash, and disappear with the snow, and become nothing at all.

If it was the last thing he did, he would not allow it.

           He would carry her away from here and lay her down among the pines and he would lie down next to her. He would be still with her and let the wolves devour them when they came. He would be still as the wolves took their lady back.

           ---

             Two days later, her fever breaks.

           It still fucking snowed, but Sansa was quiet and still, and she had her eyes open and watched him through her lashes the whole day. She is limp and weak, exhausted. He is there to stand guard and pull her back in case she begins to slide away.

           After he convinced the innkeep that Sansa wass not sick anymore, not dangerously, he manages to pay their serving girl enough to bathe Sansa. While he stays out of the room, he burns her clothing covered in her sickness, and find her a new shift, a new dress. He pays for a different room where the mattress is clean.

           She falls asleep again in the evening and will not wake up.

             ---

             He wakes to something dragging on his chest.

           The room is soaked in the darkness in the deep late of the night. The hearth has gone out. Alarm rears in him, but the touch is soft, and without seeing, he realizes it is Sansa’s hand.

           She was ghosting her fingertips over his upper chest and dip of his collarbone, over the hair there. The snowdrop touches of her skin, so small, light a fire in him. Even barely touching him, he could feel the shy hesitation, her arm hanging from the side of the bed. Sandor stayed still, controlling his breathing. He did not open his eyes to spook her, so he could not see, but he could feel her peering over the edge of the straw mattress. It is the sweetest thing he has ever felt.

           She shifted, letting her fingers flush closer to him. A few strands of her hair float down against his arm—it may as well have been lightning spun to silk for how it strikes him. Sansa’s fingers curled, dragging her knuckles through and pulling on the hair, as if to test the coarse texture. Sandor is already hard, and prays she cannot see well in this darkness.

           And then, she began pulling on the strings of his shirt, untying it gently, making the cloth looser and more undone, and she—

           He reaches up and grabs her hand, and she gasps. There is a panicked tug, but he holds her little hand still to his chest, engulfing it in his own. He opens his eyes, and after a moment searching in the dark, finds her wide eyes, staring down at him. They watch each other for a moment, breathing back and forth. It is the hours of the wolf, and there is no world outside this room, and they are both growing bold. It is only Sansa before him.

[turbobuckeye]

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[alydiarackham]

(Cover by me)

The Riddle Walker by Alydia Rackham (Book 2 Weaving of Time Trilogy)

Prologue

           The young man glanced in the dull, curved mirror. He frowned. It was covered with dust. Reaching out a leather-gloved hand, he swiped at the circular surface, clearing it so that it reflected better. Bending closer, he studied his face. It was young, white, carven, princely, and hard. He had sharp, aquiline eyebrows, his mouth was set and grave, his cheekbones high and defined, and his straight, brown hair hung down to his collar. He fingered a strand of his hair that was now bearing a bit of gray, which was slightly annoying. The same hand strayed to his right eye and gently pressed against the soft skin beneath it. He was already losing his sight there—and gaining it at the same time. His mouth twitched. He still was not used to this appearance, but it did not disconcert him. Quite the opposite. He had made this transition thousands of times, and he never grew tired of regaining strong muscle and sinew, and a staggeringly handsome face.

           He pulled a long, woolen riding cloak off of a wooden hook beside the mirror and slung it around his shoulders. He glanced down as he clasped it, striding down the dark, stone hallway and then kicking the door open. The door banged against the outside wall. Sunshine showered over him and warmed the top of his head. His clothes ruffled as a crisp, moist wind blew down off the hillside. The twittering of birds filled the air. He glanced up and behind him at the four gray towers of the castle, reaching high into the brilliant blue skies, each bearing a vibrant banner.

           Three men waited for him in the gravel yard, each atop a muscular, sleek black horse. One was the lord of this castle, a robust, red-headed, bearded man named Lord Ackhenhaill. The other was his firstborn son, Brody, a young, lean, blonde man who thought of nothing but hunting. The third was their guest, a dark-haired, good-hearted, battle-scarred Lord Alasdair MacDomnhaill, ruler of Tioramir and half of Scotland. The young man clasping his cloak concealed his smile. This was the man who would be receiving the bulk of his attention.

           “Good morning, my son,” Lord Ackhenhaill called merrily. The young man forced himself to acknowledge Ackhenhaill, reminding himself that the lord was talking to him, as his second son.

           “Good morning,” the young man answered briskly.

           “How did you sleep?” Brody asked.

           “Tolerably,” the young man replied, turning toward the servant who was bringing out his stallion. The young man snatched the reins from the servant, restraining himself from striking him in the face. The cowering stableman hurried away as the young man mounted.

           “It is such a glorious day,” Ackhenhaill took a deep breath as he cast his gaze across the sweeping emerald hills and blooming hedges.

           “It is indeed, finally,” Brody agreed. “Our horses haven’t had proper exercise since the rains.”

           “Shall we stretch their legs?” Alasdair suggested. The young man watched him carefully, observing the white dustings in his beard.

           “Are you certain you are up to it, my lord?” the young man asked, arching an eyebrow.

           “Haha!” Ackhenhaill crowed. “Up to it? Oh, I assure you, there is no bolder rider in all of Scotland!”

           The young man turned and grinned broadly at the bright-eyed, firm-jawed Alasdair.

           “Then I shall enjoy the challenge of keeping up with you, my lord!”

           Chapter One

"A Death and an Oath"

Western Scotland, 1335

              The candles had nearly burned themselves down. No one had bothered to replace them for hours, and so their light grew dimmer and paler, the shadows creeping out from the edges of the stone room and steadily venturing toward the center, where the MacDonald laird now lay. He was swathed in crimson sheets, guarded by wooden angels that formed the posts of his canopied bed.          

           The flickering light deepened the colors of the wood and the bedclothes, touching the faces of the angels so that they almost animated with sympathy. The laird himself remained motionless, his face drawn with grim effort, as if resisting a tide. He was not an old man. He should not be there on his deathbed, unable to move. He knew this, and in his heart, he railed against it. But no more so than his three sons.

           From oldest to youngest, they stood by their father's bedside: Dunmor, Bhaird and Oleron. All wore elegant black, remaining motionless, hanging on their father's every shallow breath.

           Bhaird, the middle son, stiffly glanced at his older brother. Dunmor's proud head bowed gravely, his curly, auburn locks obscuring his solemn eyes. The battle scar on his cheek seemed accentuated in this light, and in that small place on his jaw, his skin glinted where his close beard would not grow.  

           Bhaird turned a similar glance to his right, where Oleron stood. Oleron's clean-shaven, pale, cultured visage showed he was visibly pained; deeply grieved. His sapphire eyes glimmered with tears, and his well-bred jaw tightened. Bhaird risked a breath, returning his gaze to his father. None of them had spoken all day. And he knew that all day, they had each been remembering the day before.

              The day before had dawned brilliantly. Bhaird was already up before the cock crew, had dressed in simple riding clothes and boots, and run a brush through his hair. He strode to his bedroom window and pushed open the shutters, letting in the scent of lush moorland and the soft light of the spring sunshine. He had been looking forward to this day. Spring had officially arrived, and upon this day, every year since they had been able, he and his brothers had gone hunting for hart. His face clouded for a moment as he remembered that their father would not be accompanying them---he was away to a neighboring family clan, once again attempting to find a wife for Dunmor.

           Bhaird snorted as he snatched his belt and turned toward his door. Dunmor would never settle for someone his father picked out. After all, what did an old man know about beautiful young ladies?

           He flung the door open and trotted down the stairs as he fastened his belt, whistling as he went. His feet hit the corridor floor and he strolled easily down it, opening shutters to the morning whenever he saw them.

           Movement caught his eye ahead of him and he quit whistling. A willowy lady rustled along before him, her long, waving auburn hair hanging down almost to her knees, her emerald skirts brushing her ankles. She turned and saw him. Her dark, long-lashed eyes warmed and her lovely face beamed.

           "Good morning, Bhaird," Her comely mouth smiled wryly. "I can always tell it's you before I even turn around."

           "Oh, whatever do you mean, Lady Elinor?" he asked nonchalantly, coming up to her and offering her his arm. She took it and he clasped her hand in his, tucking her arm under his and pressing her hand naturally against his chest, as he always did. She glanced teasingly up at him.

           "You're loud," she answered.

           "Ha!" He pretended to be offended. "Perhaps I am, in comparison to my deathly-silent brothers."

           "Yes, Oleron especially is very quiet," Elinor admitted. "Which is considered a virtue this early in the morning."

           Bhaird just laughed again. Though his wit was usually sharp as a blade, he could never outfox Elinor in a battle of banter. He remembered the day Oleron had arrived with her; Bhaird had liked her instantly. However, with a deep, settled knowledge that he did not like to think about, he had realized that he himself had no chance with her. That had been confirmed upon Elinor and Oleron's marriage.

           For three years so far Elinor had showered the whole house with warmth and happiness. They had not had a lady in the household since Lady Kiera, the brothers' mother had died, and Elinor's presence did wonders for Tioramir. The place looked hospitable again---like a home---rather than some sort of cave, the appearance it had taken on when only men dwelt there. She cared for all four men, helping run the household and the kitchen, and often surprising them with the skills that she possessed in horsemanship and storytelling.

           "I must admit, though," Elinor commented as the two of them headed down the spiraling stairs. "You are louder this morning than usual. What are you so happy about?"

           Bhaird grinned.

           "My silent brothers and I are going deer hunting today," he answered.

           "Oh, yes. Oleron told me about that," Elinor recalled. "Where will you go?"

           "Just within the castle's lands," he answered. "The serfs find it sporting to watch."

           Elinor frowned delicately.

           "That reminds me; I'm due to go down to the village today."

           This was the part of Elinor that both confused and intrigued Bhaird. Elinor had brought with her more than just a sunny disposition and a new decor to the castle. She had also implemented what could be called "reforms." She required that everyone---lord or slave---bathe at least twice a week, wash his hair, wash his face daily, and scrub his teeth with odd, small brushes that she had made out of finely-cleaned horsehair. She also made weekly trips herself down to the village of Tioramir to teach the serfs' children to read. Some of these actions would be questionable, others intolerable, if Oleron did not always support her whole-heartedly, and if they all did not love her as much as they did.

           Bhaird did not get the chance to comment on her last recollection, for they now entered the smaller of the two dining rooms---the one meant only for the family. There were four windows on the western wall, allowing morning light into the tall, stone room without scorching anyone. Dunmor and Oleron sat waiting for them, a break fast of bread, butter, cheese, apples and blackberries spread out on the long table. Elinor lit up when she saw Oleron and let go of Bhaird. Oleron grinned at her.

           "Good morning, Ellie," he greeted her.

           "Good morning," she replied, kissing him lightly and seating herself next to him. Bhaird avoided watching this affectionate exchange, then moved around the table to sit by Dunmor.

           "Good morning, Dunmor," Elinor said brightly, settling her skirts. The eldest smiled warmly at her.

           "Hello, Elinor. I hope you slept well?"

           "Oh, indeed," she nodded. Dunmor seemed satisfied.

           "Let's eat," Bhaird cut in impatiently, reaching for his bread and butter. "It's high time we were on the hunt."

               "Lean forward more when you jump those hedges, Bhaird!" Oleron shouted over the dull pounding of hooves against the peat.

           "Be quiet and mind your own horse," Bhaird answered back, resettling himself in his saddle after that last jump.

           "Fine, but if you go tipping off again---"

           "Listen, someone who can't even shoot straight shouldn't be telling me---"

           "There he is!" Dunmor cut them off and pulled his horse's head hard so that he sliced sideways, toward the river. The three men rode abreast, Dunmor slightly out front. They all rode dark stallions whose manes and tails flung out behind them in the fresh wind. Bhaird’s horse’s name was Falcon. His father had given him to him years ago, and Bhaird had broken him. Of all the horses in the stable, Falcon listened to Bhaird best.

The cool air also lashed the hair and clothes of the men as they tore across the moor, leaping over stone walls and heather toward the woods.

           Far ahead of them, flitting like some member of the fairy-folk, dashed a sleek hart, his antlers now the only part of him visible over the brush. Ducking his head to avoid low branches, Bhaird darted into the trees behind Dunmor, hearing Oleron follow on his tail. Bhaird instantly had to check Falcon’s speed, for the footing here was treacherous, and a wild rosebush could fell a beast as easily as a snare. Fortunately, the hart had also realized this, and had slowed a bit as well. Dunmor, masterfully letting go of the reins and steering with his knees, brought his bow around front and slid an arrow from its quiver.

           A branch reached out and slapped Bhaird across the face. He frowned fiercely as he felt its sting, but quickly refocused on his brother. Ahead of them lay a small clearing. When the deer leaped into it, and was illuminated by the sunlight, Dunmor would shoot.

           Dunmor put the arrow to the string and pulled back. Bhaird sucked in his breath. Once again, his older brother would have the glory of bringing down the---

           The bellow of a horn split the air. Oleron's horse stopped instantly. Bhaird had to rein back and Falcon neighed in protest. Dunmor, momentarily flustered, took a moment before he leaned back in his saddle and called: "Ho!" Reluctantly, his stallion slowed to a halt. The deer darted away and was lost in the tangle. The horn sounded again. Bhaird glanced over at Oleron. He had gone pale. Oleron glanced at his brothers.

           "That is not good. That's---"

           "Right," Dunmor nodded crisply, putting away his weapons. "We had best head back."

           Instantly, Oleron turned his mount and pelted out of the woods. Dunmor spurred his horse past Bhaird's and followed their youngest brother. Bhaird glanced reluctantly back at the waving branches where the hart had vanished, then, his jaw tightening in disappointment, turned and galloped out of the forest as well.

           They made straight for the huts and smoking chimneys of the village, both Oleron and Dunmor disregarding any preparation before leaping the hedges. Bhaird trailed behind, not willing to risk Falcon’s knees, for he was older than the other two. They reluctantly slowed as they entered the walls of the village, for people were hurrying to and fro on their daily errands. Their hooves clattered on the hardened earth as they trotted through. Peasants leaped out of their path, and Bhaird was glad for it; if something was wrong, they would only get in the way.

           "Oleron!"

           A cry came from somewhere ahead of them, and Oleron's head jerked. Elinor came racing toward them, her hair windblown, one hand hiking up her skirts, the other clasping a piece of parchment. Oleron slid off the horse without thinking and ran to her. Bhaird blinked, and his heart gave a pang. Elinor was crying. Oleron grabbed her and she fell against him.

           "Oleron, it's your father."

           Bhaird went stiff. Peripherally, he saw Dunmor do the same. Elinor took a gasping breath and her face twisted.

           "Something happened while he was out riding with Lord Ackhenhaill. Ackhenhaill lost sight of him in the woods, and when he... Ackhenhaill...found him, Alasdair's horse was gone and he was lying unconscious in the rocks..."

           "Shh," Oleron pressed her to him, trying to comfort, but his face showed his terror.

           "It's too much the same..." Elinor whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "It can't happen to you, too..."

           Dunmor jumped off his horse. His boots crunched on the gravel.

           "May I see the message?" he asked huskily. Bhaird still could not move. Elinor nodded, biting her lip, and handed him the parchment, which by now was rather wrinkled. Dunmor smoothed it out with his gloved hands and read it carefully. His rugged brow furrowed darkly and he swallowed.

           "Well..." He cleared his throat. "They should be bringing him soon. They set out right after they sent the messenger."

           "They shouldn't have moved him, Oleron," Elinor murmured, shaking her head. "You never move someone who has hit his head or his back..."

           Oleron did not reply. He just wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.             "Come," he said quietly, took her hand and lead her to the horse. He got on first, then helped her mount behind him. He turned grimly to his brothers.

           "Let us meet them on the road to see that they carry him carefully."

             They had done so. But all of the careful bearing in the world had not seemed to help. Thus, the three young men had stood restlessly beside their father all the rest of the day, all night, and all of the following day. And now all four of them could sense that, despite their best efforts, the end was drawing near.

           "Dunmor..."

           The sons jerked. Their father had spoken. Dunmor quickly knelt down by the bedside and leaned earnestly toward his father.

           "Yes, I am here, sir," he assured him, taking his father's right hand in both of his. Alasdair turned his battle-scarred, bearded visage toward his eldest and managed a slight smile.

           "My son..." He spoke as if breathing were difficult. "You are now the lord of Tioramir, and the largest portion of my realm."

           Tears sprang to Dunmor's eyes.

           "Please, Father, do not speak that way---"

           "Do not interrupt me, Son," Alasdair closed his eyes and took another ragged breath. He opened his eyes and looked steadfastly at Dunmor. "Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?"

           Dunmor's visage, as war-scarred as his father's, but warmer and sadder, clouded with grief.

           "Yes, Father," he said surely, but his voice was not steady. Alasdair glanced past Dunmor. Bhaird took a small breath and his muscles readied to take Dunmor's place beside his father.

           "Oleron," Alasdair said. Bhaird stopped, disconcerted. He turned quickly to his younger brother. Oleron, just as surprised, blinked several times before moving forward. Bhaird stepped back, out of the way, fighting the feeling of offense that rose within him. Dunmor moved to back away as well, but Oleron rested a firm hand on his older brother's broad shoulder, knelt down close beside him and clasped both Dunmor and Alasdair's hands in his.

           "Yes, Father?" Oleron searched the older man's face. The old man smiled, reached up with his left hand and put it to the side of Oleron's face.

           "My dear son..." Alasdair sighed. "You, who have your mother's eyes...I am proudest of you."

           Dunmor cast his gaze downward. Bhaird just stood. Oleron's brow furrowed.

           "We have all striven to please you, my lord," he insisted. Alasdair's smile remained and he closed his eyes.

           "Yes, I know. But you have changed----changed in such a way that you have taught me many things. And you chose a wife! A wife that has brought so much happiness to all of us."

           Oleron's expression softened and he did not argue. Bhaird could see that Dunmor was pained by their father's comment, and only remained kneeling there because of the calm touch of Oleron's hand.

           "My precious, third son..." Alasdair whispered to Oleron. "You shall receive the western islands in my possession---Islay, Iona, Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailre---the ones you and I used to sail through when you were a lad." Alasdair's eyes caught a glint of fire. "Once you are established there, it should be easy work to take the other islands. Then you can truly enjoy them instead of worrying about your borders."

           "I shall enjoy them by remembering when we were there together," Oleron responded quietly.

           "Yes, yes, of course," Alasdair resigned, dropping his hand, his breaths beginning to rattle. "I need no oath from you. I know you shall accomplish what is honorable. Bhaird, come here."

           Stiffly, Bhaird knelt down, thinking that there was no room at the bedside. But then Oleron let go of his father and Dunmor's hands and opened his side to Bhaird. Bhaird edged in and Oleron put one arm softly around Bhaird's shoulders and one around Dunmor's. Alasdair's eyes became more intense this time and he regarded Bhaird from the depths of seriousness.

           "I bequeath to you, second son, a realm I have never seen. It is far away, across the sea, across the bridge that Finn MacCool built."

           Bhaird's brow furrowed and he leaned closer.

           "As you may know, my son, there is a land across the sea called Erin," Alasdair continued with difficulty. "There is a castle there in the county called Antrim, and its surrounding lands are vast. But there has not been one of the MacDomnhaill there for decades...I fear that all order has fallen to ruin." Alasdair spoke urgently. "I know that you will find a way to restore MacDonald rule to that savage place. Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?"

           Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then finally, he nodded.

           "Yes, my lord. I do."  

           Alasdair let out a long, relieved sigh and smiled.

           "You all have been good to your father. You have served me faithfully." He reached up a shaking hand again and touched Oleron's cheek. His brow furrowed strangely. "I love you---do you know that? It is I who am honored to have had you with me..." He lowered his hand and it settled on the bed sheets. His eyes beamed on Oleron. And then he was gone. Bhaird blinked. Nothing dramatic had happened---the light had simply extinguished behind his father's eyes. Alasdair's body went still and silent.

           No one moved for a moment, and then Oleron made a strangling sound as if he had been struck. Dunmor shot to his feet and froze, his shoulders tightening, his brow twisting. Oleron covered his face with one hand and leaned down onto the bed. Bhaird backed away, shrugging off Oleron's arm, stood and marched out of the room, leaving the door swinging open behind him.      

             "Bhaird? Bhaird!"

           He recognized Dunmor's voice through the blur in his mind but he did not stop pacing back and forth across the flagstones of the small, dimly-lit dining hall. Footsteps sounded hollowly in the corridor outside and then Dunmor appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.

           "Bhaird, why did you leave?" Dunmor asked raggedly.

           "What do you mean?" Bhaird snarled, stalking relentlessly, his head down. "We've been in that blasted room for two days now. The stale air was driving me mad."

           Dunmor seemed at a loss.

           "Oleron...Oleron thinks you are angry at him," he finally told him.

           Bhaird said nothing, just sharply kicked a dry piece of bread that the dogs had not found. Dunmor took a few steps into the room.

           "Are you?" Dunmor asked cautiously.

           Bhaird whirled, shooting his brother a steely look before returning his attention to his rapidly moving feet.

           "Should I be?"

           "No," Dunmor responded quietly.

           "Really?" Bhaird snapped with biting sarcasm. "And why not?"

           "He has done nothing to injure you," Dunmor gravely answered. Bhaird lifted his head and pointed viciously at Dunmor.

           "Exactly!" The speed of his pacing increased, but now he directed his tirade at his brother. "He has done nothing! How many times has he gone to battle for Father's causes? How many times has he captained ships for him? How many times has he met with enemies to see whether wars would begin or end?"

           Dunmor came silently closer and leaned sideways against the table, but Bhaird did not slow. His volume rose as his voice grew unsteady.

           "How many times did he take archery lessons? How many hours did he ride with him? How many often did he try so hard to please him that he ended up bruised or bleeding?" Bhaird gestured vehemently. "Oleron has done nothing! Not compared to you or me!" He stopped in front of Dunmor, his hands clenching into fists as he shouted. "Dunmor, I could have died for him! And Oleron always sat back here at Tioramir in Father's throne, eating grapes and whatever else and running gold through his fingers! All he did was flatter and contrive and...and get married---" Bhaird choked on that last bit, then let out a pained, shocked laugh, slapping his hands to his head. "And so, naturally, Father decides that Oleron is the one who inherits Islay and Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailne and Iona while I get some obscure piece of land across the ocean overrun by pirates and Gaels! And Oleron took no oath!" He flung his arm out in a despairing gesture, his voice at the edge of his control. He was shaking terribly. He turned his back on Dunmor and braced himself against the wall with his right arm, hanging his head. He swiped at his face. Dunmor approached him softly and stood near.

           "That isn't what is troubling you, is it, little brother?" he asked softly. Bhaird's brow tightened angrily and he lowered his head further.

           "What's troubling you," Dunmor sighed."Is that you think Oleron was the only one that he loved."  

           Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then, he finally managed.

           "Well? Is that not what it sounded like?" he said through clenched teeth. Then he heard someone shift his weight near the doorway.

           Bhaird stood upright quickly and turned around. Oleron was standing on the threshold, arms loosely at his sides, his face blank. Bhaird, trapped, felt a twinge of nausea, wondering how long his brother had been standing there. Oleron saw the turbulence on his brother's faces, for his expression of grief deepened. He shrugged helplessly and swallowed. He tried several times to speak, then shrugged again.

           "I..." He stopped a moment, for his voice was too unsteady. He took a sharp breath. "I'm sorry," he said simply. He stood for just another moment, then closed his hands into loose fists and cast his gaze at the ground. Hesitantly, he turned, as if waiting to be called back. Hearing nothing, he strode off down the hall. As his footsteps died away, Dunmor glanced at Bhaird, painfully chagrined. Bhaird said nothing in reply. Their hearts were too torn for them to move. Thus, they simply stood, their shoulders touching, as the single bell in the tower rang, signaling the death of the great MacDonald lord.

               Elinor lay in bed, staring straight up, watching the patterns that the twin candle flames cast on the red velvet canopy above her. The fire in the fireplace had smoldered down to embers, and the wide room, filled with comfortable furniture and pillows, seemed colder this evening. She shifted achingly and adjusted the covers so they were up around her shoulders. It was past midnight, she knew. But ever since she married, she could not sleep unless Oleron was by her side; especially when she knew he was in so much pain.

           The latch on the door across from the bed quietly worked. She sat up, brushing a strand of long hair behind her ear. The wooden door creaked softly open and she recognized Oleron's form within the shadows as he eased into the bedroom. She saw him lift his gaze and catch sight of her.

           "I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered apologetically.

           "I wasn't asleep," she assured him. He turned and shut the door, but his movements were limp and his shoulders sagged. Elinor felt herself tremble.

           "What happened?"

           He just stood, halfway turned, his hand on the latch. Elinor went cold. She threw off her blankets, stepped down onto the floor and padded softly toward him, her long nightgown whispering on the stones. She stood near him and urgently searched his dimly-lit face.

           "Oh, no," she murmured, her lip trembling. "He...He didn't..."

           Oleron bit his lip, then shook his head dumbly, leaning back against the door. Elinor could not speak for a long moment.

           "Oh, my sweetheart!" she finally gasped, reaching toward him. The effort was almost too much, but he accepted her brokenly, letting her wrap an arm around his neck and pull him to her. With quivering arms, he embraced her at last, then began to cry. She felt his hot tears against her neck and snuggled him tighter, stroking the back of his head.

           For an interminable time, the two remained there, rocking slightly back and forth. Then Elinor gently backed up, sliding her hands down his arms, and took his hands. She led him gently to the bed and urged him to sit on the edge. She then knelt, her hair spilling in a waterfall down her side, and slowly pulled off his boots.

           "Lie down." She touched his shoulder gently and he did as she asked, easing down onto his side. It was then she could see his tear-streaked face, and her heart broke.

           "Move over a little," she urged, trying to control her emotion, and he absently did so. She pulled the covers out from under his legs and draped them over him, then climbed in and lay on her side as well, her back to him. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in so she could feel his heartbeat against her back, the warmth of his arms all around her and his breath against her hair. She rested her hands over his, gently playing with his gold wedding band. Elinor could feel and hear him still crying almost silently, and she was so close that his sorrow swept over her until she could sense it in her muscles. Soon, burning tears of her own slid down her nose and face and she nuzzled closer to him. She did not speak, knowing that if he wished to talk, he would begin it.

           "My brothers are angry with me." His voice sounded so weak she barely recognized it. Her brow furrowed.

           "Why?"

           He took an unsteady breath.

           "Father bequeathed me several valuable islands in the west; his favorite islands. And he told me he loved me." His voice softened. "He only told me."

           Elinor swallowed, bewildered.

           "You mean...he did not say that he loved Dunmor and Bhaird?"

           Oleron was silent for a long time.

           "No."

           "I know he did love them, though," Elinor said quickly. "I could tell that he did, every day."

           "I know," Oleron agreed wearily. "But upon his deathbed...is not the time for a man to single out his favorite. It tends to...stick in a person's mind."

           Elinor groaned and closed her eyes briefly.

           "Yes, you're right. But I don't see why they should be angry at you." She fleetingly adjusted the bed covers. "You have nothing against them, do you?"

           "I love my brothers, Elinor," Oleron whispered, as if it was difficult. "They have no idea how much I love them."

           "I know that, too," she assured him. They were silent for a few minutes, allowing their tears to dwindle. Elinor took a deep breath.

           "I love you, Oleron, and I would never want to be anywhere without you," she began, her hand closing around the sheet. "But this is what is terribly frustrating for me about being here. When something like this happens, asking for a doctor is like delivering a death sentence. They don't even wash their instruments! Back home, we could have taken your father to the hospital, and they might have been able to do a surgery to repair his lungs or his back...But here; here, you can't do anything but wait to see if a man's own strength is enough to bring him through."

She shifted slightly. "I've thought about it before once or twice, in the middle of the night, and it scares me, Oleron. What if something were to happen to you---or me, or anyone---what would we do? What would we do if someone got cut or got sick or fell off his horse or slipped on the ice?"

           Instantly, she felt Oleron's arms tighten around her.

           "Don't say things like that, Ellie, please," he murmured earnestly. His voice stiffened. "What would I do if that happened to you?"  

           Realizing immediately that she had erred, and had instead increased is anxiety, she twisted gently so that she could see him, adjusting her shoulders so that their faces were only inches apart. She gazed at his worried countenance for a moment, then smiled tenderly, trying to be reassuring.

           "You would go back in time and rescue me," she whispered, running her forefinger across his eyebrow. "Just like you did last time."

           His eyes filled with emotion.

           "It doesn't work that way anymore, Elinor. You know that," he breathed. His eyebrows came together and his gaze searched her deeply. "Promise you'll never leave me."

        ��  "I made that promise three years ago, Oleron," she reminded him steadily. "You do not need to worry. I am never going to leave you."

           She leaned toward him and kissed him gently, then snuggled down to rest her head against his heart. They did not speak any more, and neither could they sleep, for Oleron's spirit was too heavy with sorrow, and Elinor was determined to do all she could not to let him feel alone.  

               Bhaird threw another cloak into his trunk on top of his other belongings. This was his fourth chest to pack this long morning and he was thoroughly sick of such a chore.

           "My lord, you mustn't just toss it inside," Macy, a young household servant, chastised. "There'll be no room for more important things."

           "Leave me alone, Macy," Bhaird snapped. Macy stopped in the middle of folding the cloak and stared at Bhaird, wide-eyed.

           "My lord?"

           "Leave me!" Bhaird commanded, pointing at the door. "I am not a child---I can pack my own chests."

           Stunned, for Bhaird had never spoken that way, Macy managed to nod numbly.

           "Yes, my lord," he murmured, set the cloak down carefully into the chest and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Bhaird's jaw tightened, he screwed his eyes shut and leaned both hands down upon the bed. He hung his head.

           He could barely breathe. It had been weeks since his father's funeral, and still the pain had not subsided. Instead, it churned and snarled within him, pulsing through his veins and tightening his chest. He could not be rid of it. It followed him all through the hours of the night, keeping him awake, tying his bedclothes in knots. Deep in his heart, he simply wanted to collapse onto his bed and sob, but would not allow himself. He could not be so weak. He was a MacDonald lord now, not simply a second son.

           He rose up and paced about the bare, stone-floored room, for he found that if he stood still too long his throat would simply close, and the dark shadow that was his grief and rage would overtake him. Forcing his mind to focus, he cast his gaze about his chamber, trying to think of anything else he ought to pack. But he could not think. His emotions were too blinding.

           This morning, he was leaving Tioramir, the castle where he had been born. And what tore him was---he wanted to leave. He never wanted to see this place again. And Oleron, his brother---well, he never wanted to see him again either. Yet, much to his consternation, the two of them were to travel together in caravan south-westward, for both of their newly-inherited realms lay in that direction.  

           He turned and kicked the chest so that the lid slammed shut loudly.

           "Macy!" he bellowed. "That's the last one. Have someone come up here and haul it

down."

           With that, he turned and yanked on his riding boots, strapped on his belt and sword and threw a cloak over his shoulders. He pulled the door open just as Macy and two other servants were entering. He did not acknowledge them, but carelessly marched down the stairs, ignoring their stammers of "Pardon, m'lord," and silently worked at his cloak clasp. He passed a window in the corridor that had an open shutter. Scowling at it, he moved and closed it, darkening the hall and shutting out the sounds of the birds.

               The great entourage stood waiting in the yard. Each young lord had two wagons to bear their portion of household inheritance and treasure, and each was taking four servants and twelve guards. The gray morning was rather cold, and a mist had settled within the gentle slopes of the deep emerald hills. The forests were still shadowed in soft darkness, and only a few songbirds had ventured to wake so early, and so their tunes sounded lonesome. The twenty-five horses, however, were fully awake, for they had early sensed that the day of travel had arrived. Their hooves scraped the gravel of the yard, and when they snorted, halos of warm breath surrounded their heads.

           Bhaird, shutting the small, creaking door behind him as he left the castle, tugged his cloak tighter around his throat, his booted feet crunching the hard earth as he walked. Glancing up, he spotted Elinor helping to pack the wagons. She was clad in a dark red traveling dress and a brown cloak. Her hair hung loose, and her face appeared careworn and pale, but no less lovely. Bhaird's steps slowed, his brow furrowing. He had not seen her much these past two weeks---she had been too busy comforting Oleron.

           A dart of resentment shot through Bhaird. How could she not have realized that they all needed her feminine comfort---not only her husband? It was not as if they had a mother, or a nurse to speak soft words to the older brothers as they grieved. This past fortnight, Oleron had had Elinor to keep him warm during the night, to embrace him there and ease his pain. Dunmor and Bhaird had been alone in their own chambers, staring at the ceiling. And during the day, Elinor had walked back and forth with Oleron, sometimes disappearing for whole afternoons. She had rarely spoken to Bhaird. He tightened his jaw, refusing to consider why this made him so deeply angry.

           She pushed a rolled-up tapestry into a small space in the wagon, then turned and saw him. She dropped her hands and took a step toward him, but his countenance was not hospitable. Elinor stopped.

           "Hello, Bhaird," she said quietly.

           "Hello," he answered tightly, moving toward Falcon.

           "How are you?" she asked hesitatingly.

           "Well enough to ride," he replied. He avoided her gaze so that he would not see the hurt on her face and checked the cinch on his saddle. Falcon snorted in discomfort and stomped his front foot as Bhaird tightened it .

           "Shut up, you," Bhaird snapped harshly. "You are not going to be tossing me onto my back. Not today." His throat closed as images of his father toppling from his own horse flashed through his mind. His eyes shut tightly and he bit his cheek.

           "Bhaird..." Elinor murmured. "Are you..."

           "No, Elinor," he said shortly. "Never you mind." He stormed back toward the castle, terrible feelings pulsing through him. He should not have spoken like that to her or Falcon. Yet he could not think of what else he could have said.

           He had almost reached the small door again when it opened and Bhaird almost ran into Oleron. Oleron was dressed in his black riding clothes embroidered with red lions---a princely gift from their father. Oleron was even paler than Elinor, and the darkness under his eyes made him appear as if he had not slept the whole two weeks. Bhaird tightened. He had not spoken to his brother all this time. Oleron slowed to a halt, but appeared too weary to jerk in surprise. He tiredly lifted his bright, sad eyes to Bhaird's.

           "Where is Dunmor?" he wondered, almost apologetically. Bhaird shrugged, reluctant to trade words.

           "I do not know. I haven't seen him yet this morning."

           Oleron looked as if he wished to say something else, but Bhaird made sure his expression forbade it, and so Oleron only nodded, his eyebrows coming together, and cast his gaze down.

           "Oleron! Here is your horse."

           Oleron's head lifted quickly and he gazed past Bhaird. Bhaird turned to see Dunmor, clad in long black and their father's MacDonald tartan, leading Oleron's ebony stallion. Dunmor did not look much better than Oleron, but strength seemed to rest beneath his sorrow, for he also appeared to be bearing a great weight. Still, his brown eyes warmed, and he actually smiled at his brothers. Tears suddenly threatened Bhaird, but he fought them. Oleron brushed past him and approached the eldest brother.

           "Thank you, Dunmor," Oleron said sincerely, taking the reins. Reluctantly, Bhaird drew near as well, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elinor take a few steps toward them. Bhaird sensed that the servants and guardsmen were ready; they now stood by their horses and wagons and had picked up their loads. They only waited in silence for the brothers to give farewells.

           Oleron stood before his eldest brother, head bowed, holding the reins in both hands, as if he did not know what to do with them. He then lifted his eyes and met his brother's, for Dunmor was very tall. A startling tear ran down Oleron's white face.

           "I had not thought to say goodbye to you so soon," he choked. He dropped his head again and his hands tightened on the reins. "Dunmor...I am too young for this."

           Without restraint, Dunmor took his brother in his arms and pressed him close.

           "None of us could have seen this, little brother," he spoke into Oleron's hair. "But I was always certain you would be a great man." He stepped back and took Oleron by the shoulders, looking him directly. "I know that you will not disappoint me."

           Oleron's jaw and brow tightened painfully, but he nodded with conviction. After just a moment, Dunmor dropped his hands and Oleron turned to gaze at Bhaird. Bhaird stood, not knowing what to do. Dunmor reached out his right hand to him. Shakily stepping forward, not wanting to stand near Oleron, Bhaird came to Dunmor's side. Dunmor reached up and took Bhaird by the side of the neck and brought him closer. For a long while, neither said anything as Bhaird desperately fought the tide within him. Then, Dunmor pulled him into an embrace as well---an embrace so like their father's that the tide nearly broke through.

           "Do not resent your brother forever," Dunmor whispered so that only he could hear. "He does love you."

           Bhaird felt stung, but would never force himself out of Dunmor's arms. Thus, after a moment, Dunmor released him. Oleron was weeping now, his head low, and Dunmor's cheeks bore tears. Dunmor then glanced past his brothers and opened his arms to Elinor. She ran to him, her hair and cloak flagging behind her, and buried her face in his chest. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

           "I hate it so much that we'll all be apart," she gasped into his cloak. "It shouldn't be this way."    

           Dunmor took a deep, shaking breath.

           "I know," was all he said. After a long, helpless moment, Dunmor let her go. She turned and grasped Oleron's hand.

           "May I ride with you for now?" she asked, wiping at her tears. Oleron nodded wordlessly. A servant brought Bhaird's horse near and so he mounted it. Oleron got on his horse first, then helped Elinor on behind him. Elinor reached down to Dunmor and he grasped her hand.

           "We will not be kept from you," she insisted. "Especially in the summers! It will be hard for you to leave here, but we will manage to see you as often as we can."

           "Good," Dunmor said earnestly. "Good. I will look forward to your visits."

           Elinor released his hand and he came to stand by Bhaird's horse.

           "I want to see you again someday," he said solemnly.

           "You will," was all Bhaird could think of, for he had gone cold---before this, he had never realized how distant Ireland truly was. Dunmor knew his brother's doubt, but did not speak. He merely nodded and backed away. He stood for a long moment, casting his saddened gaze over the entire assembly. He then took a breath and spoke, and the voice of the new MacDonald lord, admittedly gentler than his father's, rang out through the morning.

 “May you see God's light on the path ahead When the road you walk is dark. May you always hear, Even in your hour of sorrow, The gentle singing of the lark. When times are hard may hardness Never turn your heart to stone, May you always remember when the shadows fall— You do not walk alone.”

             Biting his lip hard, Bhaird turned Falcon, and was the first to lead the grieving caravan out of the castle yard and onto the moors. He only looked back once, and when he did, he beheld the gray towers of Tioramir cutting the sky, and Dunmor, standing alone, one arm raised in farewell.

Chapter Two

"Stolen"

             They traveled several days across the wild and chilly highlands, camping in niches in the valleys or among birch trees, trying to avoid the wind that tumbled over the hills at night. The going was slow, because of the wagons, and it was difficult to find terrain smooth enough not to upset them. Bhaird silently left that task to Oleron. He grudgingly had to allow that, though Oleron had always been much inferior to him in swordsmanship and archery, he was much superior to him in horsemanship, tracking and scouting. But rather than admit this, and suggest that Oleron lead the way, Bhaird had merely fallen back in the ranks, and settled for glowering at his younger brother's back.

           The first three nights were sleepless as all the others had been, but by the fourth, Bhaird was so sore and exhausted that he did manage to slumber for a few hours. He had his own small tent, for which he was grateful, and a warm bed of furs. This night, the wind howled without, sounding like someone lost out on the moor. The only light came from a small fire that had been built within the circle of tents, but the thickness of the tarp clouded most of it. Other, perimeter fires had also been set, but those were far enough away that they did not disturb him either.

           However, he had slept through only one watch when his tent flap was pushed aside.

           "My lord."

           Bhaird groaned and put a hand over his face, shielding his shut eyes from the intruding glare of the fire outside.

           "My lord, your brother requests your presence. He is waiting for you by the south perimeter fire."

           "Tell him to jump off a cliff," Bhaird growled. The guard hesitated.

           "My lord?"

           "Never mind, Gaskin," Bhaird muttered angrily, throwing his warm blankets off himself, snatching at his cloak and tossing it around his shoulders.

           "He also requests that you bring your bow."

           Bhaird stopped and squinted at the bearded man, not certain he had heard him properly.

           "What?" Bhaird said hoarsely, rubbing his face."What for?"

           Gaskin shrugged.

           "I don't know, sir," he said honestly. "I did not ask."

           Bhaird groaned again, shook his head, and grabbed at his bow and quiver. He did not bother to sling them over his shoulder as he pushed past Gaskin and stomped out into the chilly night.

           The wind cut through him, even down in this valley, and he cursed at his brother for dragging him out of his warm, fur bed. Who did he think he was, anyway? Dunmor?

           Bhaird, slouching his shoulders, shuffled down through the deeply shadowed camp to one of the perimeter fires where Oleron was waiting. The fire stood almost alone---it was the farthest reaching finger of the camp. Through the darkness, Bhaird could distinguish Oleron's form, sitting on a log with his back to him. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Bhaird approached the fire and stopped impatiently.

           "What is it, then?" he demanded.

           But his voice was cut off by a haunting wail that cut through the air. Bhaird stopped, stepping back quickly, his widened eyes darting about to search the forest beyond. Oleron turned his hooded head just slightly, and his blue gaze sliced across the distance between them.

           "Wolves," he murmured deliberately, before turning his icy attention back to the shades of the trees. "Have you not heard them?"  

           "No, frankly, I have not," Bhaird retorted, hating the fact that he had just shown his little brother a hint of fear. "I was actually sleeping for the first time in a month."

           Oleron ignored his tone, still staring into the blackness.

           "I shot at a few of them that came too near, but I believe I missed," Oleron said with almost eerie calmness, and it was only then that Bhaird noticed the bow that easily rested across Oleron's knees, and the quiver leaning on the log beside him. Bhaird raised his eyebrows.

           "Of course you missed," Bhaird could not resist jabbing. "When will you learn not to even try with that thing?"

           "That is why I sent for you," Oleron replied, not missing a beat, but still not looking at him. "I thought your bow might be useful."

           "Sent for me?" Bhaird barked, his temper finally getting the better of him. "You? Sent for me? I am the elder, here! Why should you be summoning me?"

           Oleron turned to him and cocked an eyebrow.

           "Because you were asleep and I was awake. Because I heard the wolves and you did not," Oleron stated. "Because I was out here and you were up there. And because you can shoot and I cannot."

           Fury rushed through Bhaird's whole body, but as a result he became utterly mute. Oleron turned from him, back to the woods.

           "But if you would rather go back to bed, feel free." Subtle sarcasm entered his voice. "I cannot see what would hold you here."

           Just then, three wolves joined in a chorus of howling---and they did not sound particularly far away. Bhaird stared at his brother. When Gaskin had first told him that Oleron was sitting by one of the perimeter fires, Bhaird had naturally assumed that his little brother was afraid to be out here alone. But now, watching Oleron with narrowed eyes, Bhaird did not get that sense at all. Oleron appeared completely calm, alert and still, an almost wolfish aspect of his own possessing his countenance. Also, the golden firelight accented a deep impact scar on Oleron's cheekbone---a scar that Bhaird had somehow formerly missed. Whatever his brother was, he was not afraid. Bhaird swallowed, trying not to show his disconcertion.  

           Grudgingly, Bhaird strung his bow, then eased forward and sat on another log across from Oleron. Neither of them spoke a word for hours as the ethereal night sounds of the menacing wood surrounded them. Oleron remained almost still, except for his ever-vigilant eyes.

           A branch snapped and dropped away from the fire, tumbling onto the ground near Bhaird's feet. Bhaird bent down and tossed it back into the crackling flames, causing the light to flare up and once more highlight Oleron's scar.

           "Where did you get that?" Bhaird found himself questioning. Oleron glanced at him inquiringly, and Bhaird tapped his own cheekbone. The right side of Oleron's face twitched slightly, and he turned away.

           "I got hit in the face."

           "With what?" Bhaird pressed. Oleron did not answer for a moment.

           "A fist."

           Bhaird blinked. He did not remember Oleron ever participating in a fight.

           "What? When was that?"

           Unexpectedly, Oleron smiled, as if he simply could not help himself. He actually chuckled.

           "Never mind. It really does not matter."

           Bhaird glared at him. He absolutely hated the way Oleron talked; as if he was some prince of men instead of just the spoiled third son of a lord---and his younger brother. Such insolence wiped all curiosity from Bhaird's mind. He turned his shoulders away from his brother, casting his attention out toward the beasts.

           Perhaps Oleron's arrows had frightened them earlier, or perhaps the presence of two armed men by the fire now was more intimidating. Whatever the reason, the wolves did not venture near again. By the time dawn arrived, their shadowy presences had faded away like wraith with the coming of the light.

             The next day, they arrived at the halfway point: the tumbling, roofless walls of a long-abandoned church. The caravan quieted as they approached, gazing up at the silent, ivy-covered, dark gray stones and elegant, broken-down windows. Oleron called a halt for a rest and a meal.

           In the bustle that followed, Bhaird caught sight of Elinor gracefully dismounting, then gingerly approaching the ruins, drawing her cloak around herself. The look on her flushed face stilled him. Her expression held a mix of wonder and sadness, and almost reverence. Silently, and unbeknownst to anyone else, she slipped through the church door and disappeared. Without thinking, Bhaird followed her.

           His booted feet were quiet upon the lush grass and foliage, and no sound accompanied him but the slight flapping of the hem of his cloak. Hesitating just a moment, he ducked through the narrow, low door and entered the utter stillness of the church.

           The earth had long ago swallowed the paving and replaced it with thin, tender grass. Slate stones from the fallen roof littered the ground. The steel gray of the sky above almost gave the impression of their being inside, and the day was so still and cool that no breath of air moved his hair or clothes.

           He glanced to his left where stood a great, tall window, the top broken down. A risen part in the floor just beneath the window was the only indication of where the altar had been.

           Elinor stood up there, on the platform, not moving, her back to him. He slowed to a halt and stared at her, suddenly awkward. He had not spoken to her since he had snapped so harshly at her on the yard of Tioramir.  And now, the longer he was quiet, the stranger he felt. Should he speak, or go back out and leave her alone? However, despite his best efforts, he found he could do neither, and stayed rooted to the spot.

           A shaft of sunlight briefly cut through the clouds, shining through the main altar window. Elinor turned her head slightly, so he could just see her profile, and the sunlight lit her up, shining in a halo around her head and gracing the edges of her garments. She caught sight of him, turned a bit more and smiled at him, looking for all the world like every angel he had ever imagined. He was struck.

           Oh, heaven, he suddenly realized, his breath catching. I am never going to see her again.

           He managed a feeble smile in return, knowing he had gone pale. She did not seem to notice, but turned her attention back to the decaying walls. She took a few steps toward him, her cloak and train trailing through the ferns behind her.

           "What is this place called?" she inquired softly, reaching out to touch a large, fallen stone.            "I do not know its original name," Bhaird admitted, his voice slightly listless. "For as long as I can remember, it has been called Rewyn." He took a breath. "The Ruin Between."

           The clouds covered the sun again, and the shaft of brilliance vanished. At the same time, a cloud passed over Elinor's face, and she turned to him.

           "Between?" Elinor wondered. He glanced at her.

           "Between...well, on the road between Dunmor's castle...and Oleron's."

           Elinor's shoulders sagged a bit.

           "That is a sad sounding name."

           Bhaird shrugged.

           "That's what it is," he murmured, casting his own gaze over the walls. "What it was long ago is forgotten. What it is now is rocks piled on top of each other. What it could have been, had it not been neglected...no one will ever know. It has no purpose, no potential...no future." Suddenly, he found himself staring into her concerned, intent, dark eyes, and his throat threatened to close. But he made himself go on. "Nothing will ever come of it. So why give it a grander name?"

           Elinor watched him for a long moment; not harshly, but deeply, and Bhaird found himself unable to break her gaze. Finally, she did it, and turned to leave. He closed his eyes and did not turn. Wordlessly, almost as an afterthought, she kindly touched his shoulder. A painful thrill ran all down his body, and he barely heard her leave.

           He forced his eyes open, but otherwise did not move, and stared hatefully around at the falling walls, bitterly resentful about what all of this said about the brother between.

              Three days later, they arrived. It startled them. One moment, they were struggling up a terribly rocky hill---leading their horses, cursing at the wagon wheels, catching things that tumbled out---and the next they stood gazing at a tremendous, four-towered castle, hung with banners, and surrounded by verdant hills and a quaint, many-chimneyed village. Beyond the castle stretched the breathtaking, silver sea; and shrouded in the morning fog, several dark, lush, rocky islands raised their heads above the distant waves. All of it was lit by the rich, shimmering, fresh sunlight of morning.

           "Oleron..." Elinor murmured in awe, leading her mare to the top of the hill, her hair lightly tossed by the cool, moist breeze. "It's beautiful."

           "Do you like it?" Oleron panted, leading his own horse up, and shoving his hood back.

           "Oh, yes..." she breathed, quite overcome.

           "Well," he shrugged. "Then it's yours."

           She looked at him, and he winked. Then, the first real smile she had shown in a month lit up her entire face. Bhaird felt jealousy pierce through him and he glanced away.

           It took great, painstaking effort to slide and wind their way down that hill. Finally, they reached a treacherous, narrow road, but compared to the uneasy footing they were used to, this road was a Godsend. The horses, sensing an end to their long journey, began tugging at the reins, and the carts clattered with an almost happy noise as they proceeded down toward the village.

           The lovely place was called Karliblagh. Bhaird had visited it once, when he was young. It had not changed at all, and appeared every bit as grand as he remembered---perhaps more so, for now he could appreciate the hard work it took to maintain an estate such as this, especially so close to the sea, where Vikings and other pirates always threatened to raid.

           Their horses' hooves clattered against the hardened earth of the central road, and as they entered, peasants began to emerge from their houses, or look up from their work. Bhaird noticed that the people living here looked prosperous. Their small homes were well-kept, their gardens flourished, their clothes appeared reasonably clean and carefully mended, and the scent of baking bread hung in the air. The peasants' faces lit up with realization and expectation as they followed the caravan's approach, and all of them gasped when a herald atop one of the castle turrets let out a welcoming trumpet call.

           Oleron lifted his head and took a deep breath, something sparking in his eyes. He smiled, then glanced at Elinor, who returned the look of anticipation. Bhaird shut all emotion out of his face.

            They arrived in front of the castle, which sported an impressive moat. A guard, poised between two flapping banners, leaned down and shouted through cupped hands. His voice rang through the village.

           "Who goes there?" he bellowed.

           Oleron cupped his hands around his own mouth to answer.

           "I am Lord Oleron MacDomnhail, son of Alasdair, Lord of the Isles."

           "And what brings you here, Lord MacDonald?" the guard questioned.

           "Lord Alasdair is dead! He has divided his realm between his three sons, and given Karliblagh into my hands as an inheritance!"

           The guard looked shocked. Several other guards darted over to gaze down at them, and they conversed with one another. Finally, the first guard called down again.

           "My lord! The gate shall be opened to you! Steward Ramphail will greet you in the courtyard!"

           About a minute later, the great, black drawbridge was lowered, the mighty chains clanking against the gears. With a final rumble, it nestled into the earth on the other side of the moat, making a wide enough bridge for the caravan to cross.

           The horses found this prospect slightly spooky, but in the end they entered the castle unscathed.

           Despite his foul mood, Bhaird had to marvel at the towering gray walls of the large courtyard. The windows in the walls were fairly large, and many servants were now hanging out of them at the prospect of catching a glimpse of their new master. The wain wheels and horse hooves clattered loudly against the stone, and every noise echoed. The servants chattered excitedly amongst themselves, filling the space with cheerful sound.

           "My lord!"

           Their attention was arrested by a finely-dressed, middle-aged, bearded man striding toward them. Without hesitation, he fell to one knee in front of Oleron, his right fist to his heart.

           "My lord, I am Ramphail, son of Laridhon, Steward of this castle and this township." He raised his head to smile broadly. "I met you when you were a boy---I doubt you recognize me, but I would know your face anywhere. Your father was my good friend." He took a deep breath. "It is my great pleasure to present and return to you the castle and realm of Karliblagh."

           Oleron dismounted and quickly bid the steward to rise. Oleron reached out his hand, and, after a moment's hesitation, Ramphail grasped Oleron's elbow. Oleron returned the grip, looking supremely serious.

           "Though the conditions which deliver this place to me grieve me deeply," Oleron said quietly. "I am relieved and comforted to find that Karliblagh has been cared for so diligently."

           Ramphail was delighted, and once Oleron had introduced Bhaird, Elinor, and his leading knights, Ramphail took a few rolls of official papers from Oleron and bid them all inside.

           Bhaird stiffly dismounted, and reluctantly allowed a stable boy to take the reins of his weary animal. Trying to walk straight and not wince or rub his back, for Oleron did not seem to be having any trouble, Bhaird followed Oleron and Elinor through the courtyard and through the towering, main oaken doors, which hung open to let in the light and the morning breeze.

           A narrow dimly-lit hallway suddenly opened up into a grand hall---and with it a black hole opened up in Bhaird's heart.

           The hall was incredible. Strong, thick pillars reached their towering fingers upward until they branched into graceful archways in the ceiling. Flags bearing the MacDonald crest draped from polished flagpoles. Two giant, square fire-pits in the floor were alight with cheerful, welcoming flames that filled the hall with warmth. The scent of a feast---game hen, pheasant, potatoes and bread, at least, if Bhaird was not mistaken---wafted out from a back room. And if he listened, he could hear the kitchen maids bustling and bickering and clattering unseen.

           Then he lifted his head---and slowed to a halt. The others kept going, but he paid them no notice as everything but the sight before him faded into the background.

           It was a throne. No---two thrones.

           They stood on a raised platform; ancient, sturdily built and simply grand, one slightly taller than the other. The wooden seats were draped with exotic fur, and behind the thrones, on the masoned wall, hung several war-scarred shields---shields of the great warriors and lords that had lived and defended in this place.

           Bhaird's mind reeled at the thought of what legendary and mighty lords had sat upon that throne, reaching back to ancient days. His fathers---his kin---had held this place with the strength and will of oxen, and had made it glorious.

           And now---Oleron would sit there. Oleron.

           Bhaird's blood ran cold.

           And Elinor.  

           "Bhaird?"

           Bhaird jerked at the sound of his brother's voice. Oleron had called stopped the others, and now had faced him worriedly.

           "Are you well?"

           "Yes," Bhaird lied stiffly. "Yes, I am fine."

           Neither Elinor nor Oleron looked convinced, but Ramphail began to speak again, telling Oleron all about the grand hall, and using the words "my lord" in every sentence. Bhaird made himself catch up to them as they gradually gave their attention back to the steward.

           "Servants shall be assigned to both of you personally," Ramphail explained. "And you, my lord," he nodded at Bhaird. "Shall also receive servants that will attend you during all the length of your stay."

           "That will not be necessary," Bhaird said flatly. They all turned to face him, confused.

           "I am afraid I do not understand," Ramphail admitted. Bhaird looked at him.

           "My entourage and I will stay for the morrow. The following morning we will depart for Ireland."

           "Surely, after such a long journey, you wish to recover yourself before you set out again! Especially before journeying to Ireland!" Ramphail exclaimed.

           "There is nothing to recover," Bhaird answered simply. "I refuse to trespass upon my younger brother's hospitality any longer than that. I am certain he has more important things to attend to than entertaining me."        

           Silence fell. And then deep hurt registered on both Elinor and Oleron's faces. Bhaird ignored it.

           "Now, if you please, could you show me to my quarters?" he asked, drawing himself up like the second son and lord that he was.

           A servant arrived the instant Ramphail motioned with his finger, and Bhaird turned and swept along behind him to ascend the stairs to his quarters. He could not possibly stay here any longer than a day. He could not bear the sight of this masterly castle---the castle that should have been his.      

              Elinor could not sleep. Oleron was in too much pain. She glanced over at him. Even as he lay there asleep, a shaft of moonlight gracing his face, his brow was furrowed. The way he rolled and tossed also told her that his dreams were just as bad as the sentiments he had expressed all evening.

           They had talked and talked, and neither of them could understand what had happened to Bhaird. It distressed Oleron so badly. He had tried so very hard, after coming back from his incredible journey, to make peace with his brothers, and to show them how much he had come to love them and their home. But that night, Oleron told Elinor that he had surely failed.

           Besides this fact, they were sleeping in an unfamiliar castle, in a bed that was not their own---and Oleron would have been inexpressibly grateful to have his older brother there to help him break into the lordship.

           Elinor turned her head and gazed out the tower window. What had happened to Bhaird? Setting her jaw, she realized that there was truly only one way to discover that. Cautiously, making sure not to disturb her husband, she slid out of bed, wrapped a robe around herself and slipped silently out of the grand chambers.

           She had a fairly good sense of direction, but this castle was vast and spooky in the darkness of night. However, she remembered a secluded section of the roof that Ramphail had shown them, and tried to find her way there. If she knew Bhaird at all---though that truth was uncertain, now--- he would have found his way there if he also could not sleep.

           At last, she arrived just at the door that led out onto that part of the roof. She hesitated a moment, then pulled it open, just a hair.

           She was right. He stood out there, facing the dark hills beyond. If she had not looked carefully, she might have thought it was Oleron. They were built much the same, and their hair was equally dark. But she knew how different Bhaird was from his younger brother. Bhaird’s clean-shaven countenance was not so serious, and his face not so aquiline. His shorter hair was boyishly disheveled, as always, and his mouth and Oleron's were dissimilar. Bhaird's mouth was wry, and was formed more gently than Oleron's. Elinor knew he was handsome, as his brothers were, but it was his eyes, really, that made him so unique among them. They were a warm, open brown; reflecting pools for his heart that simply sparkled.

           At least, they had sparkled, once upon a time.

           Taking a deep, saddened breath, Elinor pulled harder on the creaking door and stepped out into the night air. 

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Riddle-Walker-Weaving-Time-Book-ebook/dp/B071G1B6DQ/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1572895982&sr=8-1-fkmr0

[staluth]

The Field

The field was forever transformed. Scars, craters, and corpses littered this vast landscape. The stench was insufferable: gunpowder, blood, bodily odor, and waste all merged together to create a grisly, morbid scene of hatred and suffering. There were no heroics here, the heat of battle forfeited that idea to make way for its savagery. Fire rushed over grass, a crematorium to which all those that linger shall submit to whether they live or not.

Amidst this display stood a soldier. Broken. His pride and dignity were battered and bruised. He enlisted with dreams of glory, to fight for his nation and those he cared about. But now he stands alone in a sea of carcasses with no one left to live for. He is truly just a cog in the machine. War does not decide victors, just who is left in its wake. He survived, though no one really cares for him; there are a million others to tend to. He is nothing but a used up machine, left without purpose and no turning back. The innocence and hopefulness that once resided in his young eyes were replaced with jaded discontent. There was hardly anything left, nothing but distant echoes and a grim reminder of humanity’s wasted potential. He made his way down the hill, caring little for what laid in his way -- he needed to escape that tomb if there was any hope of keeping himself sane.

He reached the foot of the incline to see another body all by its lonesome. A young woman, a soldier little older than himself laid dead. She was shot three times in the abdomen, and from the look of it, her death was not peaceful. No one here had a peaceful death; all had the same expression of fear and pleading forever imprinted into their eyes. She clutched a photo in her hand, of what seemed to be a man and a toddler. It was her family. He normally would have had a rush of sorrow and pain at the sight, but instead, he felt nothing but apathy. He stopped his trek to stare forlornly at this scene until he could not bear it for much longer. The soldier continued away from that hopeless sight. He was done with all of it. He dropped his weapon; the warrior needed it no longer. Moving into the forest, he had a new destination in mind.

The smoke dissipated as he walked farther, unable to hold him in its grasp forever. The forest was utterly serene. A peaceful bliss that he has not seen in a long while, though a tormented mind withheld any sort of relief that could come from it. He saw the animals skittishly racing about, nothing to care about except for their own well-being and survival. The soldier envied their carelessness, their unburdened shoulders free from philosophical strain. Slowly his apathy gave way to anger, not of a person but rather society. A society which cared little for him, it cared only for bloodshed and nothing else. It is a construct that has broken free, no longer subject to its creators. Is it really a creation? Or rather, something that has always existed to control and dictate us? The soldier did not know. An expendable is what he is and what he will always be; the world had no need of him, it would just keep moving, it would not halt to mourn some pitiful creature.

His anger reached its climax, he screamed and threw a rock into the treetops. The forest reacted with silence, all was still and everything ceased; birds put their cheerful melodies into a rest; the animals ran away, startled by his outburst. The boy felt utterly alone. Feeling guilty for ruining such a scene. But then, nature rebounded and everything came back in triumph. The soldier was astonished by the resilience of the forest. An eerie feeling of helplessness and feeling small embedded itself inside him, and with that, he marched on.

Only an hour into the trek, the young soldier reached the sights of past skirmishes. Bodies littered the forest. He took no heed to the corpses, for he had seen enough of them for a lifetime. A stream encroached into sight and immediately he felt a sudden intensity of thirst. Bolting towards the creek, he knelt hastily, sunk his head into the water and drank up the sweet water without manners. Soon, he stopped, gazing thoughtfully down at the humble stream. Was this what he had devolved into? A mindless animal? Back home, if faced with this amount of thirst, he would calmly drink with his hands. This is what the war did to him. War stole all dignity and worth from him, gutting him until he was nothing but an animal without the capability of reasoning. He rose up --  no longer willing to satisfy his mortal needs. He continued onward, wading through the icy creek towards the rendezvous.

...

The brazen day -- that had witnessed the loss of such trivial lives -- soon led to impending solemn dusk as its sympathetic heart gazing upon the red fields, slowly darkening in response to the unadulterated horror and sorrow. The soldier followed the trail carelessly. It is said that it is about the journey and not the destination; though if the destination will be as twisted as the trek, then what is the point? He didn't know.

He arrived at a gate; it was rusted, worn and seemingly unimportant, but the soldier knew better and pushed through the wrecked entryway. A barn stood alone on a field. The structure was barely holding on, pushed to the brink by age, and by its sudden misuse as a base.  When the barn was in its prime, it was an emboldened and vivid red, but a melancholy maroon is all that lingers. Bullet holes riddled it. However, it held firm and seemed unmovable, out-weathering the turmoil and strife. He walked to the establishment, caring not if it was held by the enemy nor his allies. That is when he first saw movement, soldiers rushing the wounded into the barn, regardless of their loyalty. His pace quickened until he reached the barn door. He walked inside without anyone questioning him. There was no use of spies anymore

Inside the barn, there was a medical center, which was dreadfully overcrowded. The makeshift infirmary was turbulent with screams of agony, which was accompanied by the noise of medicinal tools performing their functions. This clinic was separated from the rest of barn by curtains, giving the patients and doctors little privacy. The soldier was drawn towards this section, moving the curtains out of the way and encountering another grisly sight. Blood stained the dirt floor as it dripped from tools wielded by doctors. Without context, most would assume this to be a horrid display of butchery and gore, not heroes working tirelessly and diligently to save what little they could. The young soldier stood in horror; he had seen numerous corpses, but seeing the living put into such similar circumstances made him nauseous. As if on cue, the raw stench hit him. It was not as vibrant and strong as the miasmas of the bodies prior, but such a setting made the smell hit him harder. He retched until his throat grew coarse and vomit was rising slowly up.

After what seemed like a meaningless eternity, he managed to quell his gagging and began to look around. To his immediate right laid another soldier, whose tag named Nocere. He was slumped upon a broken bed; riddled with serious wounds. The young soldier glanced at Nocere, and something innate guided him towards the wounded man. He reached the bed in a few paces and studied the middle-aged man. His beard burned a bright auburn, it looked like an autumn breeze taking form. His face was caked with dirt and showed its age. The laugh lines upon his face seemed only to serve as irony, for tears of pain or sorrow lingered on his cheek. Nocere was dying. The boy believed he understood his duty now: to comfort this man until he passed on. The mortally wounded man looked up to see his new visitor and smiled through clenched teeth and his eyes shone with brilliant warmth.

The young man’s sympathy grew immensely as he gazed upon the dying man, then he felt it, a force that pulled at his soul. It felt unnatural -- yet, natural at the same time. At first, it hurt, but then it didn’t, and then it was over. The boy slumped to his knees, exhausted by this experience. His vision was blurred, and so were his emotions. A supernatural force rushed through his soul, a burning sensation that came and left quickly

His sight slowly came back to him, and he saw everyone staring at him and Nocere, their faces betraying their bewilderment and shock. The boy, not appreciating such attention, shrunk away. Their eyes followed him but eventually turned back to Nocere. The boy stole a quick glance at the man as well but found himself staring too. The man wasn’t dying anymore. He laid there with eyes closed, but his chest rising up and down more defined than before. His wounds gone and faded, leaving nothing but tattered, bloody clothes. Even his age seemed to be mended as newfound youthfulness was found upon his face. It was a miracle that seemed to the boy, was done by his hand. A doctor soon snapped out of their trance and grabbed the young boy’s hand, bringing him to the other wounded soldiers for more miracles. But an unknown animalistic terror seized the kid, and he ripped his hand away and ran.

He ran like he never had before. Fast and ungraceful, as if he was running for his life. He heard yelling behind him, he didn’t care. Swinging open the barn door in a hurry, he bolted faster than before. A few guardsmen attempted to stop him, but he pushed them aside like they were just branches and nothing else. He ran onward until he was well out of sight of the barn. Stopping, he sat down at a tree exhausted. He tore off his glove and stared at his hand. Horror was plastered on his face, his hand appeared fine at first, but there was something there that would cause such fear in all. In the middle of his hand was something that seemed supernatural, a quarter size portion of his hand was nearly transparent like a ghost. However, the reason for his fright wasn’t because he could feel it on his hand, but rather he felt it in his soul. There was a hole there now in his very existence, the feeling was indescribable but shook him to the core. Certain memories that once were vividly playing in his mind were now nothing but dust and echoes, but he could feel their absence.

For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, he cried. He wasn’t quite sure for what exactly. Maybe it was for his current situation; maybe it was for friends who have long since been shriveled up or dead; maybe it was because of his family that he believed loved him, but then sold him away for scraps; perhaps it was all of these things and more.

He screamed, stood up, and stabbed the tree with his blade. Suddenly pain shot up his hand, excruciating and mind-numbing. He let go of the blade but still, the suffering persisted. Desperate, he yanked the blade out of the tree. The sharp hurt stopped, replaced with a dull throb. He sat down again, the fear in his face renewed.  He felt like crying again but stopped himself. Rather, he gazed out in the field. Smoke rose from the treeline, but here it seemed the conflict was not fought. It was peaceful, beautiful. The tall blades of grass bending with the wind, the moonlit leaves rustling along the ground, the crisp autumn breeze, he felt it all. He felt a stream, just out of sight, racing down the hilltops and skipping through the forest. It seemed to him he was racing with it, steadily it pushed on until it dropped him off near a building -- the barn. He rose up, the horror and dread that were once upon his face were replaced with a different emotion. A steely resolve, a determination. The field beckoned to him, he knew what he must do now.

He retraced his steps with a confidence that has been absent for an eternity. He returned to the barn and pushed through the rusted gates and into the building. There was no longer a curtain separating the makeshift hospital, for now, the whole building was a hospital. The doctors, their faces worn with fatigue, looked up and saw him. Recognizing him immediately, they halted. The boy walked in and kneeled by a patient whose arm and leg were missing. A wave of sympathy and a sense of duty hit him, and that all too familiar sensation occurred. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the patient’s limbs were there now, soft and clean. He stood up again and stared at his hand, the hole was now the size of a baseball now. He sighed and moved on to the next. An eternity passed, each patient more seriously injured than before, each patient now healed and saved.

He neared toward the end of the beds when he stopped. The transparency had grown and covered his body, no spot was truly unaffected. He had reached his limit. He looked down, his uniform fading. He could barely make out his own last name on his shirt, Airmed, which he forgot belonged to him immediately afterward. 

Now men more honorable would have rushed to save those last few, men more selfish would have cried at their state, but the boy was now neither of those two types of men. Instead, he searched his mind for any remaining memories, but could only find one. It was a group of people smiling, staring at him. It was his family, or was it? He wasn’t sure. He felt himself fading now, slipping into the unknown. No fear was upon him, only content. Smiling, everything around him faded and ceased.

Time heals. The wartorn fields overtime were mended; trees that had died were replaced with new, younger ones; the grass that was once burned grew back stronger than before; the wildlife soon forgot the noise of guns; all memories of this atrocity faded over time. But the field itself, never truly forgot, because somewhere there was a tree. It laid humbly in the hilltops and at its side, laid a rusty old blade.