#Inch-Son and the Magic Hammer

[peachlover94]

Scrap Anime Series Idea Stockpile (Collection 2)

Here are some more ideas for potential new anime series both in long/continuing and short/near-OVA/ONA (Original Video Animation/Original Net Animation) form!

My question to you, is, which of the following has the most potential that would be deserving to be seen on television or online?

Hash it out in the comments below which ideas jump out at you the most and seem like they'd be fun to see.

1) Aura of Infinity - In this dark, tragic yet heartwarming josei/seinen story, a young male-to-female trans lady named Aura Nagai lives with an abusive mother, father and sisters who descend from a group of followers of a paleoconservative extremist religious sect of Mahikari. Already shunned and looked at with suspicion by others in her family as well as her school peers, it is through Aura still demonstrating her kind heart that a Shinigami by the name of Izumi becomes Aura's Kami Godmother and grants her the powers and skills to become a Grim Reaper. Together, Aura and Izumi serve as partners in defending worthy humans from evil spirits and hunting down all the truly evil souls so they can be judged by kindly King Yama of the Afterlife. Even as the powers start destroying her sanity and body, Aura as a Reaper is determined to leave enough of a legacy freeing her from her family's tyranny for true friends.

2) Cross Coil Chisato - In this bishonen/bishojo magical girl series, a young girl from a rotten family named Chisato happens across a magical coil bracelet watch that lets her change form into anything she can think of and need by shouting "Cross Coil!". Sometimes her jaunts with transformation into other people/beings with their knowledge, powers and skills passed onto her are simply for fun and escape from her family to do something nice for her few friends in the know of her secret. At other times, innocent lives are on the line as she must remain one step ahead of the world authorities and the powers who seek the Cross Coil to either destroy or take control of the world. Only Chisato and her friends can learn to use the Cross Coil with wisdom and care to balance out the powerful energies it emits - but the need to protect it will soon force Chisato to go on the run and finally free herself from her past for all new chapters.

3) Electric Warriors Aesir - In this bishojo/josei fantasy isekai sentai series, the mysterious video game and consumer electronics developer Aesir sends out seven rainbow discs which are then picked up by seven girls curious about them and what they could do with running a disc on their own game systems or personal computers. Digitized into cyberspace Tron style, the girls find they have gained powers in both cyberspace and the real world to protect them both from the viruses of Ragnarok. Through their ups and downs of friendship and battling to make and protect new worlds for strangers online, these seven girls form an order of knight princesses who are look stylish and cute while tough under fire. They are the Electric Warriors of Aesir formed from one Opera Yellow (3DO coalition), Leona Red (Atari), Siri Pink (Apple), Cortana Green (Microsoft), Revol White (Nintendo), Dural Blue (Sega) and Neo Black (Sony).

4) Guen Takada, HSPI (High School Private Investigators) - The high school comedy hijinks of Azumanga Daioh and the increasingly incredulous detective mysteries of Detective Conan (Case Closed) crossed with the teen drama of Riverdale and 13 Reasons Why? What's not to like? In this eclectic shojo/shonen/seinen/josei series, Guen Takada is a jaded child prodigy in high school who decides to fill out her extracurricular activities by becoming a private eye to solve the high school mysteries that don't get solved. She forms the Roppongi High Private Eyes Agency with her group of friends who are a rotating set of partners who fill the regular high school social roles - academic athlete, a duo of preppy straight woman and slacker wise girl, innocent space case, intimidating shrinking violet, and a secret admirer of the shrinking violet. From drug busts, missing mascots and even a suicide; the RHPIs can cover it for you.

5) Inch-Son and the Magic Hammer - The bishonen/shonen epic inspired by the fairy tale of Issun-bōshi, the childless old governor of Kumamoto and his wife make a passing prayer for the Three Gods of the Sea for a child. The three sea gods in conference with their mentor the Empress Jingū decide to answer the couple's prayer and bless them with a child about an inch high whom they name Inch Son. One day, Inch Son decides to leave home and set out for the capital Tokyo to become a warrior defending the weak and advising both the Emperor and or Prime Minister so his family can avoid destitution. At the start of his journey, he uses objects his size to overcome different obstacles, including using his size to defeat a voracious psycho from the inside so he can save a girl. Using the magic hammer the psycho hoarded on himself to grow into an adult, Inch Son and Reika travel Japan with the hammer to protect innocents.

6) Killer Rage - In this dark josei/seinen drama inspired by various vigilante movies, Katsumi Poku is a former JSDF Special Ops officer who has retired to be a housewife and mother for her family in Sapporo. Her retirement is cut short when a turf war breaks out between major Yakuza syndicates trying to establish footholds on all the Japanese islands. With her children hospitalized and husband murdered, a burning rage simmers in Katsumi as she plans to enact her vigilante justice by causing the syndicates' war to boil over. With the help of a comrade of hers from the JASDF infiltrating the syndicates, Katsumi wages unconventional warfare upon the family bosses by planting evidence that their underlings are plotting to betray them. With her new "employers" wound up, she gets them vulnerable to offing each other while she also makes time to help innocents who have been done wrong by police on a syndicate's payrolls.

7) 108 Pearls Of Twelve Knights - In this shonen harem action isekai series, a young boy gets a shock when he discovers he is actually a young prince spirited away from the Genpei War of the Kamakura Period. This boy, Makito, is rescued from a posse of Yukaza by an onna-musha (female Samurai) named Zuina who takes him back through a portal in a sacred onsen for his own time to their ruined kingdom. The evil Daishogun Watarou has been seeking the powers of Shinigami and the storm god Susanoo to conquer the lands he has ravaged, and Watarou's rise can only be countered by the 108 pearls of Amaterasu herself. Makito is brought back to Zuina's Order of the Eleven, a motley group of female Samurai including herself who chose to join together to get Makito back and liberate their lands. Together, they shall overcome many obstacles to obtain the pearls to grant each possessor nine wishes and defeat evil Watarou.

8) Pathfinder Super Dimension Armada - In this josei/seinen mecha/military science fiction series being a spiritual continuation of Tatsunoko and Big West Advertising's joint venture in making the Super Dimension trilogy of programs some of which got adapted as Robotech by Harmony Gold, fleets of giant space arks set out from Earth and the Solar System to seek out and terraform new worlds for colonization. Captain Kiana (Quiana) Photon leads Pathfinder's Pioneer Ranger Corps in protecting planetary landing parties as well as leading defense of the mother ship and attacks on enemy forces in humanoid Star Fighter mechas. Kiana is to men and women of her 777th Legion/Squadron the "Spectrals" the big sister who flouts authority when orders cross ethical lines. But Kiana must pull everyone together to stand against forces of the Krona Patriarchy - an empire built on the suffering of all women and nonbinary slaves.

9) Rescue Me From My Family - In this dark josei/seinen story, a spotlight is shone on family abuse and the use of online technology to save lives whereby battered kids and sympathetic guardians can find an escape to better lives. Noriko Kawada, an ex-domestic abuse survivor in her own right, managed to serve in the JASDF and then become a relief pilot for the National Rescue Aid Society as we follow her on what appears to be yet another mission - sneak into a village near Rokkasho and smuggle a young femboy to freedom out from under the heels of his intolerant and psychotic parents. She takes off aboard her NRAS-operated Boeing 727 up to Aomori where her contact waits to help her spring the boy Mitsuru Kitano out. In doing so, they trigger a cult of angry extremist Mahikari determined to sacrifice him and other kids for their sins - and Noriko realizes she is going to make quite a mess if the kids are to be rescued.

10) Tactical Witches - In this new installment of Fumikane Shimada's military science fiction World Witches series, we follow the 555th Joint Fighter Wing stationed in Diamond Bay just in between Fuso and Liberion to protect the Aloha islands against Neuroi. Dispatched to help whip the 555th into shape, Akira Matsura of the Fuso Imperial Navy has to team with Jenny Doolittle of the Liberion Army Air Force in building up a fighter wing capable of protecting a series of fighter and bomber convoys to take out both Neuroi hives encroaching on Asia and the North and South American continents as well as radical fascistic terrorist movements all plotting to overthrow the League of Nations and all who champion democracy. What they do not expect, however, is a Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant who after being shown up by many women being more capable fighters is about to go Section 8 and become worse than Neuroi.

11) Voyage of the Galactic Railroad - Inspired by the novel by Kenji Miyazawa, this combo of shojo/shonen follows the eleven Miyazawa siblings (six boys, five girls) who join up with the Allied Galactic Railways' crew of train number 8444 - the Starway Limited - en route across known galaxies to search for the meaning of life. This comes as the Miyazawas themselves in the course of their odyssey that they are some of the last remnants of humanity in space with the Earth being destroyed by the Earth's ruling corporate classes pulling a Samson gambit to wipe out their enemies in the working and middle classes trying to topple their tyranny via all the thermonuclear weapons being hijacked. As the Miyazawas search for their parents while trying to be representatives and protectors of humanity and other endangered species, tight bonds are formed with the crew of the Starway Limited and its own engine numbered 8444.

12) Xeno Precinct - Imagine the high school dramedy of The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya and the speculative fiction (fantasy/horror/monster/mystery/science fiction) anthologies of say The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits along with cop shows like Starsky and Hutch. In a large metropolitan Japanese public high school, this josei/seinen drama follows a team of six boys and five girls who with the help of their teachers investigate the paranormal happenings and protect their city from horrors and invaders across spacetime. But whenever their club - the Xeno Precinct meets on Friday nights, they make sure to don black sunglasses and black pantsuits with white dress shirts before picking up the equipment to track down, scout out or eliminate any threats coming Earth's way. They do this as a way to keep the school funded for the next years or so by taking on service fees for keeping students safe from galactic psychos.

13) Zeo Amazon Electra - In this epic josei/seinen military science fiction mecha story, our Solar System is under the cruel grasp of the Solar Victors' Alliance with one planet and all its moons daring to fight back in pursuit of independence. A suicidal orphan girl named Naharu uncovers and bonds with a humanoid combat vehicle called a Zeo Amazon. This one, Electra, is one of the Pleiades - seven historic Zeo Amazons who once were the keepers of justice and peace in the Solar System's early days of colonization. Together with the Europa Vox forces, Naharu and Electra wage a campaign of terror on various colonies and outposts of the Victors in hopes of rescuing others who could bond with the six other sister Zeo Amazons to reform the Pleiades. Over the course of the war, however, Naharu finds she has a stalker in the Solar Victors' ace combat pilot Junpei Heracles who sees a dark future if the Pleiades ever return.

[great20sworld]

LIVING THE DREAM

A Viktor x Reader fanfiction

Author's note: Chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6 and chapter 7 are available in my Tumblr page along with summary.

Chapter 8: Birth of an Era

___________________________

"The arcane is a curse upon our world"

"This power corrupts and consumes"

"Escape the warmongering of mages, not cultivate it"

The storm in his mind had endured those prejudiced, cowardly voices of those councillors who deemed themselves worthy to run piltover. It hurt, but it didn't destroy. Until he heard one voice, desperate and uncaring of the storm he had cultivated through his toils. The voice he loved, destroying him without even knowing it.

"My son isn't in his right mind"

"...chased an impossible dream"

"...foolish and unwise"

For goodness sake, magic saved her life! Nobody could have comprehended what he saw that day- the light, the beauty which blinded him and saved him, which prompted him to believe, gave him a purpose, a dream to set down on the road to.

Now?

Now the very same was being ripped apart from his very core. The trees of knowledge, of the gorgeous magic which had deep routed itself on his mind was being ripped away by uncaring hands, the pain bleeding down to his soul. Mrs. Kiramman, Caitlyn, all of them... They had believed in him once, and because of some wretched burglars who wrecked his entire workshop they paid the price of being humiliated just like him for what he had chased down. He hated to admit it, he really did- but he has no more fight left in him. The empty soul withering away without its passion. Jayce had left the crystal which he had kept binded to his wrist for so long on a boulder next to the edge. Let everyone know why he did it. If anyone cared.

The thriving city which he could view from up here mocked him all the same, making his head throb with the pain of rejection like the strike of a hammer down on it. He couldn't even fathom the thought of retreating back into the shadows of their forge and building hammers, when his heart still lay elsewhere.

He had failed. Failed to unveil the light of progress to his beloved piltover, and if he couldn't do it- there was no hope left.

The nails of his fingers digging into his palm as he clenched them tightly brought him to the present and he inches closer to the edge...

Goodbye cruel world.

See you on the other....

"Am I interrupting?"

Startled, he turns, breath hitching, almost losing the balance he had.

The assistant.

Is this man an omen? He seems to be there always whenever Jayce is broken!

He scoffs, covering his face with an exasperation he hadn't thought possible till now.

"The hell's your problem?! What's that? Another list with my name on it?"

He wants to snatch it from his hands and throw it into the abyss.

"Actually...yes. But, only because you signed your notes. Every page, might I add..." Golden eyes darted over the pages.

"Eh...a little egotistical, don't you think?"

Patience is a virtue and Jayce is a saint.

"Is that why you came? To insult me?" Jayce spat, turning away in contempt.

"No...no, I was intrigued by what you said at the trail"

What is his deal?

"That makes you the only one." Jayce says, as he hears the end of a metal cane tap on concrete as the man approaches tries to approach his side.

"Yes, well, I wanted to talk about your work... This hextech theory of yours"

How Jayce hated when another in the scientific community voices them as mere "theories".

"It's not a theory! I saw with my own eyes what magic can do, the lives it could save...you've no idea how beautiful it is..!"

The cold bite of frost, of the raging snowstorm in the mountains, the frozen weight of his mother's form next to him, the desperation with which he called out to the hooded figure and the warmth he had felt when saved... Jayce remembers it as clear as yesterday.

"...and now it's gone" his voice wavered, and he hoped the man didn't notice. "No one believed me."

"..."

"Nobody's ever believed in me. A poor, cripple from the undercity? I was an outsider the moment I stepped foot in Piltover... I didn't have the benefits of a patron or a name... I simply believed in myself. Which is why I'm here, because I think- you're onto something"

Jayce looks at him. This man who appeared as if he was one of the aristocrats, calm composed and with palpable gentleness, had a certain set look in his amber eyes. It was different from the cold blue of his professors, and the judgmental, only barely tolerant ones of his patrons. It was... Hopeful. The eyes of someone who seeks, who explores.

"I want to help you complete your research." He states, looking out into the world below them.

"No one thinks it can be done..." Jayce reminds him, softly.

"When you're going to change the world, don't ask for permission."

The man says, before extending his hand, the crystal resting in his palm, looking back at him invitingly.

Is this a dream?

Could he be hopeful...once more?

With a hesitation only weakly fueled by self doubt, Jayce takes the crystal from his hand, clenching his palm around it, as if making a promise.

One more time.

He looks back at the man.

"I don't even know your name...."

"It's Viktor." He answers.

_______________________________

Well, you now know the meaning of hyperventilating, your eyes trained on the scene unfolding before you. You resist the urge to applaud as Jayce and Viktor finish their conversation, careful not to blow your cover carefully hidden behind the veils of darkness which filled the place, feeling as if you were getting the front row seats to the movie you were waiting for for years- and it did not disappoint.

You couldn't resist the squeal coming.

"what the- who's there?!" Jayce becomes startled, turning around as Viktor is also alerted. You cover is blown when their eyes land on you.

"YOU!" Jayce points at you and gasps, as Viktor looks at Jayce.

"You know her too?"

"yes! She came to my prison cell last day!" Jayce says, looking at Viktor. "Your advice was completely useless by the way." He directs his gaze back to you.

Viktor shakes his head disapprovingly. "So you did go there!"

Jayce looks at Viktor. "Is she your assistant?"

Viktor frantically shakes his head negatively while you frantically nod.

"no!" Says Viktor, "Yes!" You say.

"Jayce, don't you think it's high time we get to work? Figure out whatevers up with that...umm..." You gesture vaguely towards his crystal.

"oh yes! The leftover calculations are on my board...wish we had some light..." Jayce says, walking through the small rubble piles.

"Oh, like this one?" You say, smiling triumphantly as you pull out a kerosene lamp from your bag.

"You seem awfully prepared..." Viktor muses as he takes the lamp from you and lights it, it's soft luminescence bathing the dilapidated room.

"I am your assistant afterall..." You smirk.

"you're not-"

"Over here, yes... This is where I've been struggling with the calculations..." Jayce says, sitting down on and opening the notebook which Viktor brought.

You walk over to Jayce, sitting down next to him and leaning towards the notebook to get a better look at the figures, since you realise to your disappointment that most of what is written is in a language you do not follow, and only a small portion of it is legible English. Viktor goes to study the blackboard, picking up a chalk absentmindedly from the small box sitting next to it. You expected to be completely stumped by the diagrams and calculations, but surprisingly- as if something clicked, your eyes are stuck on what appears to be the planetary model. Beneath it is written, "crystal needs excitement".

The gears in your brain starts to turn hopefully. Seems like the source for this power is something resembling the electrons in an atom. Could it be that the energy could be similar to electricity? "Attracts other metals in short vicinity" the next sentence read. Attracting metals- magnetic property. Whatever this was, the excitation of it lead to magnetic properties of the material.

Electromagnetism. Analogues to it, maybe?

Your gaze darts towards Viktor who was redoing the calculations on board, regarding what you thought was frequency- based on a graph which showed values in various units of Hertz. So, that was valid in this world.

"Does the crystal have an energy field around it, Jayce?" You question, looking at Jayce.

"An energy field? Yes, it reacts whenever it is penetrated and..."

"produces magnetic properties? Such as attracting metals and behaving like a magnetic needle?"

Viktor's attention catches. "Based on this- yes..."

It was indeed electromagnetism. You mind rushes through all the info you had. "So we have to provide the crystal with energy which channels its own energy to circulate in it- until it looses its magnetic field, and yet works, without the added energy loss..."

Both Viktor and Jayce looks at you, and you're relieved to see a small flicker of interest in the former's gaze.

"If we could get it to work without an external field, we could be onto something." Jayce supplies helpfully, ruffling through the pages in which he had elaborated what appeared to be the laws of thermodynamics but with the added modifications for this world.

"Here, Jayce, you said it emits light?" Viktor circles something regarding the factory of photons on the board. "Yes, when hit with light, it seemed to be excited- but also not so much to keep it going."

Your brain starts to remember. "If we channel the residual energy into a bigger energy state, maybe while destabilising, or returning to stability it might emit the energy we require?" You ask timidly, remembering that particles do tend to jump from higher energy levels to lower energy levels to gain stability and from lower to higher when supplied with sufficient energy.

Jayce finds himself at a loss of words and looks at Viktor, who, to his surprise looked like the answer was in the tip of his tongue.

"wait a moment, we're getting something like this here..." He mutters, the speed of chalk scratching on the blackboard increasing as he proceeds.

Could it be similar to photoelectric effect? You had to check. You get up from your seat, taking a chalk from the box and drawing a small diagram which depicts rings of energy and particles on them and an incoming ray of light represented as a wiggly arrow. You note Viktor's gaze following you.

"Does it emit similar amounts of energy it is hit with? Then, we'll need quite an amount of frequency for the source of energy which hits it to produce something reasonable out of it." You supply.

"That can't be right..." Jayce's sighs. "All this time, I thought I should dampen the oscillations, because in very high frequencies, the crystal might as well detonate..."

"No..." Viktor breathes, his gaze darting to the diagram you made. He writes something on the bottom most ring in your drawing, and then mumbling something to himself, followed by scribbling something on the topmost ring. He nods to himself before tapping what he was writing down on the board, going through whatever was discussed behind him through written format and equations. "....the residual energy will only even stabilise at high frequency, she's right! We'll have to-..."

"Crank it!" Jayce and you chime in unison, eyes bright with excitement, your lips spread in a delighted grin.

Viktor turns, and then nods affirmatively, looking like a proud teacher, "yes! Yes...We'll have to... Crank it!"

"It works!" Jayce says, smiling at you and Viktor. "Eh, on paper..." Viktor says, quirking his brow at the blackboard. You feel your heart quicken when his golden gaze lingers on the diagram you made, with his lips quirking upwards.

"we could have tested it if we had access to my equipment" Jayce runs a tired hand through his face.

"....which is being destroyed tomorrow"

Viktor's words stops both your and Jayce's train of thought, the disaster about to arrive making both of you loose focus. Jayce's more so than yours. "What?!" He exclaims, jumping up to his feet.

"Oh... I, yeah. I, meant to tell you..." Viktor stutters abashedly, looking towards you as well as if for further confirmation.

Jayce's heart races, his mind in catastrophe. All those sleepless nights, early mornings, his blood sweat and tears were spent on those research equipments, with countless findings and puzzle pieces for the next upcoming ones as well. They can't just destroy it!

"That research is everything! My...my whole life. Maybe if we showed them the equations they'd let us..." Desperation shines through Jayce's voice

"We need more than promises." Viktor says, with mild finality. "We need...proof."

"Besides, they don't care about the groundwork, the mechanisms- they're not scientists or researchers. What they need... Is the tangible product." You say, dejectedly, a memory grazing your mind about how your projects had gotten rejected more than once because of lack of "scope".

Viktor looks at you in a brief moment of understanding. You both saw eyes to eyes before Jayce interrupts.

"Not without the crystals. The enforcers took them all. They're gone." His throat constricts slightly, as if swallowing down an emotional heart stuck in his throat, threatening to make him cry, as he sinks back down to his seat. Poor thing. You're about to comfort him when suddenly,

"yeah, locked away in heimerdinger's lab" says the smart voice with keys jingling at the end, emerging from his pocket.

Oh, how had you managed to forget this part?

"No. No. No! You heard the council, if we're wrong..."

"Better be right then." A tiny mischevious smile with a glimmer in his eye. You feel a flutter in your stomach when for a brief moment, the gaze seemed to approach yours, as if to show you how tricky he can be.

"Why? Why would you risk this?!" Jayce implores, eyes narrowed in disbelief at the lankier man.

Oh boy, here goes.

"Do you think it was my life's ambition to be an assistant?!"

"Scientists seek discoveries- ways to make the world a better place!"

You felt shivers down your spine at the passion lacing his accentuated voice. Nothing more captivating than true focus in it.

"This hextech dream of yours...has the potential to do that..."

"Don't worry Jayce, we'll make your hextech dream a hextech- reality." You smile encouragingly.

Jayce rises from his seat, walking over to between you and Viktor, placing a hand on each of your shoulders, gripping it promisingly.

"Our hextech dream." He states, as your heart soars.

____________________________________

"So far so good..." Viktor whispers crouched infront of the lock, of the door labelled "Prof. HEIMERDINGER", Jayce holding up the tiny light for him and you holding the notebook and crystal, behind them. Viktor and you had convinced Jayce to break into Heimerdinger's lab and take what's rightfully his. Viktor was about to turn the final lock when suddenly, a brighter light shines onto your faces. Jayce flinches, your eyes narrowed and Viktor hisses.

You stiffle an out of place chuckle.

You three lift your gazes to meet Mel Medarda's sharp, serious demeanour with a hint of playfulness about her.

"Hmm. Willing to risk exile for your endeavour. That's quite the conviction." She comments, her voice soft velvet, but the context making it dangerous. The golden ornaments around her commanding attention to her presence even in this dark hallway.

"The councillor! Uh- what a surprise to see you, huh?" Jayce fumbles, trying to sound as if this was a completely normal situation, as Viktor suddenly comes up with pearls of words making you want to facepalm and walk away.

"Wait a minute, this isn't my bedroom...! Heh... How could I have-..." He pretends to fiddle with the keys, looking at the lock as if it had betrayed him. Jayce and you exchange disappointed looks, and with a sigh, Jayce decides to take matters into his own hands as he straightens up.

"Please. We can prove that it works."

The beautiful voice snaps back with controlled derision. "Hmm. You couldn't do so earlier today, how is tonight any different?"

"We figured out how to stabilise it." Says Viktor, straightening up alongside you, flinching lightly when the light flashes at him.

"You're the professor's assistant."

"No, he's my new partner." Jayce corrects her, making you smile gently.

Her gaze floats over to you, fixing on you with grace. "And you? Never seen you before.."

"Uhm... I-" you stammer.

"She's my assistant! New addition, latest interview."

Jayce and you look at Viktor, mildly surprised. You feel your ears go slightly pink at Viktor's words.

"Um...yes! She's part of this project too!" Jayce saves the lie. Mel didn't seem to be in disbelief. She focuses her attention back on Jayce.

"Even if you manage to prove your theory, the Council would destroy it."

"Heimerdinger will recognise the potential." Viktor says confidently. Mel scoffs at that. "He already does, and it scares him. It scares them all."

"What about you?" You ask suddenly, remembering her interested expression back in the trail. Her smirk fades, considering the three of you before speaking in a voice which you believed to be reserved for the council.

"I recognise that any worthwhile venture involves risk."

Suddenly, all of you are alerted by a whistle sounding from just around the corner, seemingly from a guard of the academy. You sense Viktor and Jayce freezing, as Jayce quickly tries to save you all...

"Councilor, this technology, it's real. And no matter what happens here, it's going to change our world. We should be the ones to lead it. Piltover, the land of progress, equality, innovation! I know it sounds impossible, but when have we ever let that stop us?"

"Please...just give us a chance."

The tension in the air grows with Mel's momentary silence as Viktor and Jayce hold their breath, preying to everything internally. Meanwhile, you were just glad to be here. Mel finally speaks,

"One night, gentlemen and assistant. Impress me, or I'd suggest you pack your bags." The words ignited excitement within all three of you. Mel turns towards the corner, switching of her flashlight and distracts the guard expertly, like the dazzling charming Councillor she is.

Jayce flicks back on the light and grins to himself appreciatively, and Viktor opens the door.

_____________________________________

"Wow, this soldering iron heats up so well! And no residue at the tip! And look at that rheostat! The resistance is so precise at each point, holy-!" You squeal over the equipments in the middle of work the three of you are engaged in (your work field in electrical sciences back at home helping you immensely) as Jayce removes his goggles to look at you curiously.

Your suggestion of the crystal being stabilised enough to become destabilized by high energy supply later had Viktor saying that more power sources would be required for such a process. So you and Jayce were building metallic platforms and holders to conduct more power into the circuitry for the crystal, while Viktor fishes out the said crystal amoungst all the other things in heimerdinger's lab.

"Sorry, sorry... it's just, where I come from, the lab isn't maintained this well..." You giggle softly, still looking over the equipments. "Where are you from?" Jayce asks in turn, and you are so thankful for Viktor's interruption.

"Everything's intact, right?" He passes over the blue breathtakingly gorgeous crystals over to Jayce. "Yes." Jayce says and you move over to their side of the massive table where the setup is as you watch him put the orb on top of a small metallic platform you and him crafted right now. Immediately, you are left to marvel at how the energy is derived from the crystal, the wires linked to it sparking brilliantly. So there was indeed a force field self contained inside it.

"It's time to crank it." You've never seen Viktor look so giddy yet uncertain until now.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Jayce questions, looking at the crystal which may or may not blow up everything, destroying all of you- to which his partner grimaces and shakes his head. This was the assistant Heimerdinger chose to handle all tech that was dangerously improving within the academy walls. Absolutely fabulous.

"You do realise that this thing can kill us, right?" You question, looking over to the skeletal man. "You do realise half of this idea is your own suggestion, right?" He questions back with a smirk. This man. This absolute unit of work.

Jayce switches on the circuitry, and the orb crackles, it's jagged edges emitting bright blue hues, painting all that is near in its colour of vibrancy. Viktor presses the button to increase the supply frequency from the main source. The metal arches clanks and spins angrily, the forcefield powerful enough to spin out shards from the table.

"I don't think it will hold! Look at the build up...!" Jayce worries.

"The resonance will stabilise it. Trust me!" Viktor reassures him, his eyes narrowed but never turning away from the contraption.

"If we manage to reach maximum amplitude... Shouldn't we be able to see the flux?" You ask, unsure.

"oh, I'll show you the flux!" Viktor grits his teeth behind sealed lips and increases the speed of the rotating metallic wanes. The three of you watch as the crystal behind to float in its own created power field, its small metallic platforms spreading around it like a lotus. You grin. "Huh... So it did."

You didn't miss Viktor's playful smirk directed at you as he leans over to Jayce "I told you it would work... All yours." He gives Jayce the room to inspect his creation. Jayce is lost for words as he inches closer to the miracle. "It's never done that before..." He looks at you and Viktor before hesitantly reaching over to the dial to crank it. "All right. Here we go."

The crystal rises up towards the small metallic arches, its forcefield reacting with the special structures attached halfway onto to the top, the frequency of energy input making it growl like an ill-contained beast with potential no one could dream of- beautiful intricate arcs being made in mid air as it soars within its confinement.

One could only contain a beast for so long.

It explodes- blinding you temporarily with a flash, the energy release so powerful it sends you tumbling down onto the cold hard floor as a beam of charge shatters from the small crystal to the window, dangerously radiant and blazing.

"DISENGAGE!" Viktor shouts, ducking down to the table as Jayce tries to reach the button, but he's too dazzled.

You stand up quickly, your otherworldly strength making it easier for you reach over and slam the button, resisting against the magical forcefield, but not before the glass shards from the broken window implodes and cuts through the air hazardously. The crystal, loosing its motive of lethal disturbance falls back down to the platform, plunging you all in darkness as inertia makes the three of you tumble backwards, you hitting the floor first because you were already crouching. Your elbows hit the floor as you try to get up, Viktor trips right on top of you.

"Incredible!" The golden eyed man says in bated breath.

Startled at the sudden intrusive contact, you lift your torso, only for your nose to bump against viktor's, his dark hair hanging over his forehead brushing against your forehead, right when Jayce softly turns on the circuit, bringing back the light, illuminating the tender sight of his face in front of your eyes. A moment passes. Then, Gasping, and flustered, Viktor gets up, stuttering apologies.

"umm...You two okay?" Jayce starts, an embarassed expression finding itself on his face, as he tries to ignore the both of you. "Yes! Definitely! Right! So it works!" Viktor immediately starts to talk, hoping to heavens his blush isn't as obvious as he felt it to be. "We just need the right frequency!" You join in, quickly getting up to your feet.

Without wasting any more time, you start to build up the frequency again, this time knowing more accurately what to do. Adjusting the metallic arches for maximum coach, while still allowing room for garbage discharges, and safety valve action Jayce runs the system again. Suddenly, you hear something from outside.

Footsteps. Multiple of them.

"Someone's coming!" You warn, turning to the men. Soon enough, someone tries to push open the door. Acting fast, Viktor pushes his cane in between the door handles but it seemed as though it wasn't enough, as the banging increases in strength. You immediately press your back against the doors, pushing it back, hoping your strength acts up. Viktor turns to Jayce, his voice filled with controlled urgency.

"They're almost through! No pressure..." He tries to be calm. "That sounds like pressure!" Jayce yells incredulously.

Your breath quickens, feeling the door hit against your back everytime the big tremors of kicks and punches rocks the other side. Viktor's attention darts back and forth between you and Jayce frantically. Suddenly, you hear a voice. From your wrist.

"Power 100%. Thank you for the recharge."

Your head turns to look at your wrist. The Chronoporter works! With a delighted grin, you bring your wrist closer to your face so you could see the dial light up and the mechanical voice chime from within quietly to you.

"Chronoporter! You're back!" It felt like greeting an old friend.

"I detect high levels of electrical oscillatory frequencies nearby. Please unplug me..." The Chronoporter says.

"You weren't even connected! The charge was so powerful it enhances everything!" You say giddily. "How?! Nothing can be that powerful that the mere vicinity charged me! " The mechanical voice mimicks human enthusiasm at wonders.

"Y/N who are you talking to? Don't let them know we're inside!" Viktor whisper-shouts to you.

"Oh sorry sorry!" You wince, and say softly to the Chronoporter. "Be quiet now, I'll talk to you later." The Chronoporter engages mute in its system. "Good watch." You sigh, feeling the kicks behind you again, this time more powerful- the seams of the huge door rattling violently. A kick to the middle, however, hits your spine, making you fall forward. Viktor comes to your aid, pulling you up.

"Are you okay?" His worried voice makes you smile as his eyes roam to your spine for any cuts of bruises. "Yes..." You hold onto his arm as you get up, his bad leg trembling lightly from supporting you, but his attention is stretched to the crystal which floated amoung the symbols, spinning and destabilizing amoung the strange symbols floating around and over it, as the man who believed in their potential closes his eyes, envisioning all that magic had to offer to his life.

For progress.

The crystal's glow intensifies, surrounding air crackling with magic as blue filaments sparkles around and zipped through its force fields like tiny blue commets, the rumbling emanating from the core suddenly evolving into a thunderous crack unleashing a torrent of energy, a plethora of symbols buzzing past the shimmering light, the mesmerising dance of energy through the labyrinthe of wires meticulously constructed by you three as the floor seemed to fall beneath your feet...

The enforcers break down the door, Heimerdinger stepping in with them...

The air stilled in reverent awe at the breathtaking marvel before their eyes.

Suspended in radiance of azure, Jayce, you and Viktor drifted in the air, as if in space, surrounded by shimmering stardust like particles. The patterns of magnetic field in the ceiling as you floated close enough to touch it. The exhilarating ecstacy finding home in your faces was delightful as the fields of the crystal seemed to cradle you lovingly. Jayce was chuckling happily, with shaky breaths as Viktor gazed around, both his legs working to push him forward in the air.

Your {eye colour} eyes meets the golden ones, a shy intertwining of gazes of two souls floating in pure arcane magic, an exchange of delight, a tale as old as time. Your heart soars as you look the man who seemed like an angel with a halo over his head, his cheeks covering softly in a blush. Due to joy or the adrenaline rush, you didn't know. Other voices and noises in the room seemed to blue around you, only registering that you two weren't the only ones here when Heimerdinger says,

"Will you please stop hovering?"

You chuckle as Viktor winces. "I'm not sure how to do that, sir!"

"This is not what Piltover's future looks like, my dear boys....and....girl..." Heimerdinger says, his gaze directed upwards at the three of you.

"That's for the council to decide." The rich velvet voice sounds through the door, as Mel walks in, the scene framed perfectly for her to admire.

"Perhaps it's time. For the era of Magic."

"Uh, Hextech. For the era of Hextech." Jayce corrects her happily, hovering upside down.

Era of Hextech indeed.

You thought in as much relief as jubilation- everything was going according to plan.

Innocently enough, you were in such thrill to not remember what the eye of zaun had achieved in the depths of the undercity, with the same crystal, and a little girl who handled it. Neither were you aware of the eye which watched from the shadows, sent for you.

____________________________________

Chapter 9 available NOW in my Tumblr page.

[realmeganamram]

NEPO BABY

Hey, guys! There’s been a lot of discussion going on lately and I just wanted to clear the air. I totally understand that people think I got my job because of my dad, but I definitely would have still been the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ even if my dad wasn’t God. Everyone says I would have been the Son of God even if I weren’t the son of God.

Just because my dad is famous, it doesn’t mean I don’t have merits of my own. I am a very good listener, and nice, and I have a bag that has seven million fish in it. I’m pretty embarrassed by D-d—I don’t even really like telling people my last name. When people find out that my last name is Of Nazareth, it just shuts down any conversation. How do they know it’s the same Of Nazareth? What if my dad was, like, Bill Of Nazareth, just, like, a guy with a truck and a snake? Not everyone in my family is famous. What about my mom? She’s a prude and a nobody! Her last name, Mary, isn’t well known at all! Her last name is Mary and her first name is Virgin.

You have no idea—it actually really sucks to have a famous parent. No one believes that I healed those lepers on my own. But now we’ll never know if I could have cured leprosy without the leg up my dad gave me, which is that I am magic and have the gorgeous hair of a horse you hope breeds with all the other horses. Sure, I got all this myrrh as a kid, but that myrrh lasts you only so long. And then you have to work for your own myrrh. And I worked for every inch of myrrh I ever got. Every cubic centimetre of myrrh. Every cup of it. What is myrrh?

I toiled really hard to get where I am. I went to four years of carpenter school. And, no, I don’t have student loans, because, yes, my dad invented wood, but it was still hard. I have hammered my thumbs so many times. One time, I even drove a nail all the way through my hand. It hurt so bad, and I was, like, I hope that never happens again, but then it did! I totally acknowledge my privilege, but let’s not act like other people don’t have privilege, too. I can turn water into wine, but my buddy Eric can turn water into piss. Why aren’t people obsessed with Eric’s dad?

I started from the bottom—I was born and immediately put in a manger. You’d imagine that soft hay would be in there, but no. Do you know what was in there? Four scorpions. Worse than a normal bed. I don’t even technically have my own birthday! I share it with Santa, which is antisemitic.

I’m a really good sport about things. Every time I walk into a Catholic church, there’s a good chance I’ll see myself on the Cross, being crucified. Obsessed with me much? And everyone is obsessed with drinking my blood and eating my body. It makes me feel faint. We have to talk about something else before I fall off this horse. And, before you comment about my having a fancy horse, just know that a lot of people’s dads make them horses for their sixteenth birthday.

I don’t want anyone to feel too sorry for me, but the nepo-baby thing makes me really insecure. People are just so ready to tear you down and say, “You don’t even deserve to have a really popular book about you.” I struggled with impostor syndrome for so long, but then I was able to cure it, because I can cure any disease, because I am magic, because of my dad.

All I can hope for is that, by keeping my head down and just doing the work, my legacy will finally be separate from D-d’s. At the end of my career as the Lamb of God, no one is going to think about my dad. They’ll just be, like, That’s some guy who is a really hard worker and always has, like, a hundred loaves of bread with him for some reason.

Ultimately, it boils down to talent. And I will rest easy knowing that the haters are just jealous. But I will love them anyway. Because I am the most humble person of all time.

[mjolnir-viking-jewelry]

Eagle head mjolnir pendant - 99$ ★Material: High Quality Solid 960 Sterling Silver★

Weight: approx 18 grams (0,62 oz) Height: 40 mm (1,57 inches) Diameter of the hole for the chain - 4 mm (0,15 inches) One-sided Mjolnir Pendant

   Introducing our exceptional Thor Hammer pendant replica, meticulously crafted to the highest standards, ensuring an unparalleled level of quality. This exquisite piece is an exact replica of a Viking-age artifact dating back to the 10th century C.E. It was discovered in either Sweden or Denmark during the early 20th century, showcasing its historical significance. The front side of the pendant is adorned with intricately carved Celtic patterns, adding an enchanting allure to its design. To further enhance its allure, the pendant features a suspension ring shaped like an eagle's head.    Made with great care, our Mjolnir pendant is expertly crafted from sterling silver, resulting in a stunning piece of jewelry. Its impeccable craftsmanship and attention to detail make it an ideal gift and a formidable protective amulet for your loved ones. In Norse mythology, Thor, the eldest son of Odin and the earth goddess Jord, played the crucial role of defending both gods and humanity from malevolent monsters and fearsome giants. Riding through the skies with his iron hammer, Mjolnir, Thor wielded a weapon renowned for its short handle. This legendary hammer is depicted as one of the most formidable weapons in Norse mythology, capable of leveling mountains with its sheer power. The Thor Hammer was imbued with magical properties, granting it the ability to restore life, halt death, bestow fertility, and bring wealth.    The Vikings embraced the Mjolnir necklace as a potent symbol of protection against monsters, curses, and enemies. This Nordic amulet possesses extraordinary power, serving as a guardian against negative energies and malevolent forces. By wearing the Thor Hammer pendant, one can invite good fortune, neutralize harmful energies or curses, and gain a profound sense of confidence in their own abilities. It serves as a constant source of support and strength in the wearer's life.    Our Mjolnir pendant stands as a remarkable representation of Viking jewelry, showcasing the mastery and artistry of the time. Its historical significance and striking design make it an exceptional piece to behold.

[sophie-i-guess13]

Pretty Boy

words : 720

genre : fluff <3

characters : Mr + Mrs. Curtis, Darry Curtis, Sodapop Curtis, Two-Bit Mathews, Ms. Mathews

tw : N/A

tag!  @mjmacchio1991 @pepsi-and-cigarettes @james-fucking-hates-dallas @the-kneesbees @ralphmaccchiato @patrickslayze @outsiderslamb @frypansgirl  @unorginalchocolatemilk @jackettslut @victorious-2 @johnnycadesjeanjacket

Darlene was the first person you met when you arrived in Tulsa. While Darrel was somewhere up the street, looking for anyone willing to help him change the tire on your Ford, you made yourself comfortable in a booth, both hands folded over your stomach and son. 

You were sure it was a son. You could feel it every time he kicked or stretched; he was strong like his daddy. 

That’s when the waitress approached, the same age as you, fresh outta high school. You got to talking like most young women do, about the baby growing in your stomach, the ring on your finger, and the man with grease smeared down the front of his button-up when he comes inside. Your Ford is no closer to being fixed, though you've begun to think you've found home. 

You can feel it. 

That was two years ago. Darry, your son, sits on the floor with Darla’s little boy, eyes glued to the television as you lower yourself onto the sofa and cover your belly instinctively, all while Darla grins like a mad woman towering over you. Even if he's only a baby, it's obvious where Keith got his eyes; a pale grey, bright with mischief. Darry ended up being his father’s twin. Not that you're upset about it, but you can't help but imagine what having a twin of your own would be like. 

“It’s not gonna work if you're covering your stomach, Meri. You've gotta do it over the bump.”

Your wedding ring, a simple band of gold, hangs by a thin piece of thread above your abdomen. Darla had practically forced you onto the sofa when she realized just how far along you were. It's as if she forgets you're pregnant every time she comes over to dig through Darry’s old baby clothes, or to make sure Keith’s latching properly. 

“C’mon,” she chuckles, “my grandma did the test on me and it was right about Keith.”

You sigh and drop your hands, letting your swollen fingers trace the delicate flowers embroidered on the cushions. “Alright Darlene, but if you're wrong, you owe me some new baby clothes.”

She mumbles in agreement, laying one hand across your face and forcing your eyes closed. “Stop talkin’, you're messin’ with the magic.” 

For a while, the only sounds echoing through the house are cartoons on the screen and Darrel hammering away on that damned cupboard drawer that won't close all the way. You're barely breathing, counting the heartbeat in your ears as you bite down on your lip, forcing the image of a baby girl from your mind. You’ve always wanted a daughter — like how Darrel always wanted a son. But were you really about to put all your faith in a little “magic?”

As it turns out, that's exactly what you do when you raise your head and see your ring making loops around your baby. 

“I'm havin’ a girl?”

Darlene smiles wide, dropping your ring into your open palm before she pulls you to your feet. Then, when her face is only an inch from yours, she wraps her arms around you as well as she can manage. “You’re having a girl, Merrion! Get Dar in here!” She pushes away when Darrel comes storming into the living room and pulls you into his chest, smelling of saw-dust, chocolate, and tar. 

“Oh lord,” he mumbles into your hair, “she's gonna be beautiful.”

Four months later, Darlene arrived with a truck of baby clothes. Your son was a gorgeous baby, and your dead-ringer. Thin blonde hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, long, dark eyelashes concealed brown eyes. He was a quiet baby, too. Never wailed or screamed, not when the autumn wind threatened to tear the shingles from your roof, or when Darrel pulled him from your arms so you could shower. 

Maybe he isn't your twin, sleeping peacefully against your chest as you knit another pair of mittens, watching Darry play with those little figurines Darrel brought home from work one day. As he lays there, smiling and humming to himself, you can see your husband in those blue-green eyes. You can see yourself in the sleeping babe you’re holding, too. 

Not a beautiful girl, but a pretty boy. 

The next one will be a girl, you decide. It better be. 

[strawwritesfic]

Tony Stark x Female!Childhood Friend!Reader: Brightest [Ch. 5]

Summary: [F Name] [L Name]: Tony’s Stark’s “invisible friend.” She’s invisible in all the wrong ways–at least until Tony spots her years after telling her to get out of his life. With Yinsen’s words in mind, Tony decides to pursue their lost relationship, only to find that [Name] might not be as willing as before. What Tony doesn’t know, however, is that the confusion of her life might end up the best of his.

Ratings/Warnings/Tags: M (love triangles; friends with benefits; sexual situations; non-consensual sex with a significant other (note: I will mark this specific chapter accordingly); cheating on significant other portrayed in a positive light; verbal abuse from parents and significant others; toxic relationships of several kinds; rumors of an inappropriate relationship between an older man and his son’s teenage friend; set in between Iron Man 2 and Avengers (2012); references to characters not yet established in the MCU as of time of writing)

IMPORTANT CHAPTER NOTE: That rape/non-con warning? This is the chapter that has that. It’s not graphic. It’s not long. All the same, if you are worried that this will in any way trigger you, simply search for “******”, which will take you past that scene. Or you can just wait for the next chapter. Whichever makes you most comfortable.​

Pairings: Tony Stark/Reader; Justin Hammer/Reader; Tony Stark/Reader/Justin Hammer; Pepper Potts/Happy Hogan; past!Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

Tag List: @imaginesfire​; @ironmansuucks​

Master List

Chapter 5: White Knight on a Chrome Horse

You had never been much of one to believe in wishes. As a child, your birthdays came and went, always with more wrenches and soldering irons instead of coloring books or crayons. Rubbing lamps only landed you admonishments; smart children did not believe in magic. The more you hoped for, the less that tended to happen. Eventually you even stopped brightening at shooting stars in the hopes that, somehow, a tiny rock burning through the Earth’s atmosphere might bring you some friends.

But then, you supposed, something must have worked. After all, you had ended up with two friends. First an angry boy that alternately hurled insults at you and demanded your company for hours on an end, second a cheerful boy that never stopped talking about himself. Even more impressive was that both of them remained a part of your life well into your adulthood. Maybe the knowledge of that was what had you holding your breath and crossing your fingers as the limousine drove slowly through the streets of Malibu. You still hoped that something would get you out of the car.

“[Naaaame]. Why are you ignoring me?”

“Huh?”

With a solemn blink, you broke your stare down with the glass in front of you. You must have been really out of it to completely miss Justin’s arm around your shoulder long enough for him to hit that tone of voice. Unfortunately, you didn’t have the faintest idea what he had been asking you, so pretending you hadn’t been ignoring him was not a possibility.

Justin rolled his eyes at your question. “You’re not still upset about me telling Don about your little defense system, are you?”

Still dazed from your mental wanderings, you shook your head. “No, I…”

But you didn’t know how to finish that, since your brain immediately latched onto the memory of your father’s blustering rage when it turned out you were going the “Stark Route” of things–and still had nothing to show for the years of engineering education he had pumped into you. Though the moment had long since passed, in your mind’s eye you could still see Justin’s smug expression just behind your father’s red face that remained only inches from yours.

Justin’s fingers fiddled a bit at your shoulder, and then he drew you closer to him. You hoped you weren’t about to cry. Tears, as everyone always seemed to remind you, were weak, and the heir to [L Name] Industries wasn’t supposed to be weak. But if there were any signs of your approaching emotion–red cheeks, a tight throat, glassy eyes–he apparently didn’t notice.

“I was only looking out for you, you know,” said Justin, twisting you about so that he could press his forehead against yours. His fingers gently massaged your shoulders as you looked into his eyes. “Like your dad said, the Stark Route just doesn’t work. I don’t want your company to tank, [Name]. It’s–You’re important to me. You’re my girl. I only want what’s best for you.”

“I know,” you said, and looked at his lips.

The impulse to kiss him shot through you, but too slowly to launch you into action. You didn’t know what was wrong with you those days. It was true that, with Justin in prison, you had felt a modicum of freedom, but that wasn’t fair to him. He was the only person in your life that had ever expressed an interest in having and keeping you around. Justin loved you, and you loved him. Try as you might though, you couldn’t seem to get things back on track. Your eyes slid shut and you moved your face forward and up, but right before your lips made contact with Justin’s, a familiar voice burst into your brain:

“Already?”

Despite your best intentions, you immediately pulled away and went to look back out the window. Yes, you wanted to get things back on track with Justin, but that was easier thought than done, especially lately. You’d been on edge ever since going to Tony’s, afraid that either he or Rhodey would say something to someone and get you caught. When it became apparent that no one was any the wiser about your visit, though, you began thinking more and more about your conversation with Tony.

You weren’t a teenager anymore, no longer a puppy starved for the barest scrap of affection. Tony Stark was an unnecessary bump in your road. Just meeting up with him on accident had got you into a terrific amount of trouble. What had you been thinking, sneaking off to sit in his living room? Even a week later, you couldn’t answer that question. It seemed as though just hearing his voice over the telephone had dredged up your childhood. That shouldn’t have been a siren call, but somehow it was. Listening to him asking you questions, like he actually cared about the answers, seemed to have awoken something inside you. Try as you might, you couldn’t get him out of your head–and every time his face popped into your mind’s eye, you could practically feel the familiar hormones returning.

But, again, that wasn’t fair. Tony was the one that had told you to get out of his life. Justin was the one that stuck around, that asked you to dinner, that called you in the middle of the night just to talk.

Justin was the one looking confused about your sudden about-face. “[Name], what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” You turned quickly back around and slapped on what you hoped was a cheerful façade. There was no need to alert Justin to your inner turmoil, but the height of your voice on that word certainly wasn’t going to do you any favors.

“Really? Because you’ve been acting like it burns when I touch you ever since I got out prison. I’m not sure what it is you want out of me. An apology, maybe? But that wasn’t my fault. That Turgenov–”

“Justin, I kn–”

“And, I mean, I’m taking you out to Geoffrey’s Malibu. I made reservations and everything! So I don’t know what your problem is, [Name], because I’m really trying over here, and I really shouldn’t even have to. Any other woman would–”

Before he could continue, you screwed up your courage and pecked him on the lips. You intended the kiss to be quick, just long enough to get him to take a breath, during which you could explain that his going to prison, however briefly, had nothing to do with your distant behavior-not that he would like the truth anymore than the lie he’d put together on his own. But your lack of affection had more long-reaching consequences than you predicted: The thought of moving back toward the window barely occurred to you before Justin’s palm pressed into the back of your head, effectively deepening the kiss and trapping you there at the same time.

As the vehicle came to a stop at a light, Justin pushed you against the window you had been so desperate to get back to all those minutes before, kissing you all the while. With that there to keep you in place, he shifted his hands so that one held your hip and the other cupped your breast closest to your seat.

All vague thoughts about what your mother would say about your ruined cocktail dress went out the window. Suddenly there was far too much of Justin, and far too close. The tongue pressing insistently against at your lower lip had you moving your head swiftly backward. You ricocheted off the glass, moving your face closer as you gasped with surprise and pain.

Justin moaned appreciatively at that development. His palms grasped both sides of your face. Clearly he didn’t care about the state his appearance would be in when you arrived at the restaurant because, by then, he was practically on top of you. His chest pressed so hard against yours that it squashed the life out of the sound of protest growing there. His tongue slid in and out of your mouth; his fingers tangled into your hair.

With your eyes wide open, you could see just how much he was into the moment. No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that such ministrations should feel good, you remained frozen, unable to respond in kind. The most you could manage was frenzied thought: Not here. Not in the limo. Anyone could see. The driver could open the door. If pictures got out–or even rumors–so many people would be upset with you: your mother, for your lack of ladylike propriety; your father, for having sex in the first place; and Justin, for getting the two of you caught. Please not here.

Each and every silent plea went entirely unnoticed. Justin’s lips began to slide lower and lower, down your neck, toward your chest. Then, with an ear-splitting noise in the otherwise quiet limousine, he shifted himself in a familiar position. Your slip and underwear slid down your legs. That drove you into action, small as it might have been. You struggled to get up, a movement helped by Justin sitting up momentarily. Then your blood chilled at the resounding zip that followed.

“Justin, not-” you began.

“Shhh,” he said, pushing you back down with his hand on your shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.”

It wasn’t over fast enough. The entire time, you held your breath, lifting prayers to whatever deity might hear you that no one would going to walk in on you, counting your heart beats, and waiting for Justin to finish. Big girls don’t cry, you reminded yourself every other second, and your focus on driving away your tears kept you occupied until, after what seemed like hours, the moment came to an end. He moved away from you to fix himself, allowing you to do the same–just in time.

“Sir,” came the voice of the chauffeur as the inside of the car filled with light, “your friends are beginning to worry you’ll miss your reservation.”

“Right you are, Everard,” Justin said brightly as he stepped out onto the parking lot.

You knew that you needed to follow, that you were expected to follow. For some reason, you just couldn’t get your legs to move. All you found yourself capable of doing was sitting there, staring blankly at your knees, wondering when Everard would give you up and close the door.

“[Name]?” Justin’s head darted back inside.

You snapped to attention and rushed outside before he could ask you why you weren’t tailing him. Talking was going to be hard enough without trying to explain yourself. Your eyes met his–Justin was grinning–and then a crowd of people sitting in the outdoor patio called his name. He looked toward them, smiling even more widely, and waved as he took your wrist. Without thinking, you moved away, breaking the contact.

“[Name]?”

“I–I…”

You didn’t know how to finish, how to express anything you were feeling. Maybe that was because you couldn’t feel anything. All you knew was that if you went and sat with all those people, with Justin rubbing your arm and kissing your temple every three minutes for the rest of the night, while you tried to play the part of pretty perfect doll, you would probably vomit all over the table.

“I need some air,” you finished in a rush.

“[Name]–”

“I’ll join you in a few minutes!” you said, beaming wildly and blindly in Justin’s direction. “It’s just–the heat and the humidity. My head is spinning and…”

As far as you could tell, he was nodding slowly at you. Probably he didn’t believe you; probably he thought you were having some sort of meltdown because of the scene in the car. You were too far gone to care. Without waiting for anyone to suggest Justin or Everard accompany you into the dark, you stumbled away from the car, toward the edge of the parking lot. The Pacific Coast Highway lay only a little farther away, so at least you could see. The yellow glow of the streetlights puddled beneath your feet as you walked, until you found a large enough pool of light to stand underneath.

Tears burned against your eyes, despite your best intentions to keep your makeup in presentable condition. After all, you had to go back–back to Justin, back to your public life, back to the car, back to your family. You stifled a sob with your palm, looking behind you to make sure that he hadn’t decided to follow you. He hadn’t. The restaurant was far enough away that you couldn’t distinguish him from the crowd, but close enough that you would have been able to see his shadow standing in the lot still. Once you ascertained that you were alone, you combed your fingers nervously through your hair and took several long, steadying breaths.

You had absolutely no right to have a panic attack. You were doing badly enough by leaving Justin on his own. It wasn’t as though he had raped you. How long had the two of you been dating by then? Four years, you thought. That sort of commitment came with certain requirements and expectations. Of course, you’d tried to say no–

Well, he wouldn’t have had to resort to such behavior if you weren’t such a stick in the mud, would he? Your mother was always telling you to lighten up. Maybe if you let him have his fun more often, that wouldn’t have needed to happen. It was your fault. You’d started everything with that kiss. Even worse, you should have learned from the last time. Why were you so stupid? And now Justin was sitting alone with his friends, wondering when you were going to come back and give him the attention he deserved.

Your train of thought wasn’t exactly calming you. In fact, you would go as far as to say that you felt worse the longer you stood out in the night. Goosebumps ran up your arms. Somehow, regardless of the heat you had only been complaining about a few minutes before, you felt immensely cold. The breath seemed to catch in your chest and come out in gusty shudders that made your entire body shake. A tiny squeak of a moan escaped your lips as you rubbed your palms into your upper arms and stared blankly down at the sidewalk beneath your feet.

Again, they didn’t move. No matter how you tried to convince them to take you back toward Geoffrey’s Malibu, they wouldn’t budge an inch. He’ll tell Mom and Dad, you thought desperately, clapping your hands to the side of your head. You look ridiculous standing by the side of the road in this dress. Someone’s going to try to pick you up.

At that very moment, an Audi came to a stop in front of you. Through the haze of panic filling your head, you hardly noticed. Hopefully whoever was driving the flashy thing would go away once they realized what a pathetic sack of a person you were, but a few seconds later, the window rolled down, and the man at the wheel asked:

“Come here often?”

That voice–you knew that voice. If anything else was going to add to your hysteria that night, it was the man that voice belonged to. Your head snapped up so that you looked straight into the face of Tony Stark.

You couldn’t help it. You let out a scream and rushed to put the light pole between you and the car. Your heart hammered so loudly in your ears that you were afraid that your eardrums would burst…though that was a minor concern compared with the look that Tony was throwing at you from the safety of his vehicle. Obviously, the streetlight wasn’t going to do much to protect you, but at least if anyone spotted you having any sort of conversation, they’d assume you were trying to get away from your assaulter instead of seducing a childhood friend.

Tony quirked an eyebrow up at you. “Uh…what are you doing?”

“Nothing!”

“You know I can still see you, right?”

“Go away!”

Tony’s eyebrow fell back to meet its buddy. You didn’t know how long he frowned at you. In your present state, you found it immensely difficult to distinguish the passage of time. After several minutes of silence, he frowned more deeply still and ventured:

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Were you just crying? On the side of the road? Wearing a formal dress?”

“It’s a cocktail dress,” you said, as you wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

“But you won’t correct the crying bit?”

“What are you doing here?” you asked instead of answering.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Nothing to see here.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he said. “You look very nice in that dress, minus the extreme displeasure to see me.”

You didn’t answer, and Tony’s frown grew again.

“Or…your displeasure at your date?” he suggested.

Your fingers tightened around the pole.

“Do I need to–”

“No,” you said fiercely, and somehow, that gave you heart enough to walk back toward the Audi. “Why would you have to?”

“Because if some bastard is bothering you–”

“No one is bothering me. And if they were, that’s not your concern.” The last thing you needed was for Tony and Justin to run into each other. You’d had enough of their fighting to last a lifetime by the time you’d hit your eleventh birthday. “Just–Just move along.”

As usual, though, Tony didn’t listen to you. You weren’t sure why you kept expecting him to. No one else did–

No, you were not going to go down that route. Despite the dim lighting, Tony must have caught your flinch. His dark eyes darted back toward the restaurant, then he gestured you closer. You moved a few steps in that direction, but made sure to remain far enough away that he couldn’t reach out and touch you.

“If you hate your date so much, why don’t you ditch him?”

“And go where?” you asked. “We took the same car.”

Tony’s mouth popped open, then he rubbed the back of his head and said, hesitantly, “Come with me.”

The teenage girl that had taken up residence in your head lurched at that offer. Your present self, on the other hand, was a lot less keen to take him up on it. Tony might have been decent to you that week a few nights ago when you’d made the mistake of visiting his house, but that didn’t mean it was safe to start hanging out with him again.

“What if it’s my family?” you asked.

“Even better. I haven’t had a chance to piss Don off in…what? Nearly a month?”

You had no words to respond. Tony might have been able to be blasé about infuriating your father, but you had no such freedom, especially with the threat of having to actually produce something for your company hanging over your head. Besides, what were you supposed to tell Justin? He’d be able to see that the limousine wasn’t taking you home–and even if it did, you’d get in trouble for ditching.

“It’s not a date.”

“What?” you blinked owlishly at Tony.

He looked as though making that point plain to you was of the utmost importance. He shifted back slightly in his seat and gestured at the man in the passenger seat.

“I invited Rhodey. It’s not a date!”

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Rhodey. You didn’t really know him, that was true. But he had always been decent to you. After Tony had shouted you out of Howard Stark’s funeral, Rhodey had been the one to lead you outside and sit with you until you looked presentable. When your father had come to shout at you for missing the ceremony, you had even looked back to see Rhodey watching after you with no small amount of concern creasing his brow.

Concern that you hadn’t deserved. You should have known better than to burst into tears at such a public venue. You shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware of the fact that, prior to the meeting a week ago, the funeral had been the last time you’d seen Rhodey. His last memory of you was utterly pitiful.

“Hi,” Rhodey said into your silence. “I did tell him this was a terrible idea.”

Something about the way he looked at Tony set you just a bit more at ease. “I know how that goes.”

Tony did not seem to agree. He rubbed his temples, then the back of his neck before saying, “Both of you are serious wet blankets, did you know that?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Rhodey. “Just make her feel worse about herself.”

“Hey, I happen to like wet blankets. You’re in my car, aren’t you?”

“Only because you begged me to go with you to Taco Bell.”

“See? I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you dousing everything in your path.”

“Thanks.”

“Wet blankets are the order of the day,” Tony announced, before returning his attention to you. “So what do you say? We can hang out, watch a movie.”

A rejection was on the very tip of your tongue when it occurred to you that it had been quite a while since you last checked to make sure that Justin wasn’t coming to get you. You looked back at the restaurant and felt ice run through your veins. A shadow hurried through the darkness in the direction of your lamppost. The shadow wasn’t close enough to distinguish you, though, and you weren’t about to wait around to make sure they weren’t actually coming for you.

“Okay,” you said quickly.

“What?”

“Okay,” you said again, wrenching the door open to the back. Then you dived to the floor. “Okay! Okay! Just–Don’t tell them you saw me!”

“What do you–”

“Anthony! He-hey!”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Tony muttered, just loud enough that you, (and presumably Rhodey) could hear. When he twisted back toward the window, you could hear the painful smile on his face. “What do you want, Hammer?”

“Hey, now, Anthony. That’s no way to speak to a business rival.”

Judging by the sound of Justin’s voice, he was actually standing at Tony’s window. You rolled yourself into a tighter ball and screwed up your face. Jumping into Tony’s car hadn’t been your smartest plan. If Justin found you there, you couldn’t even begin to imagine how your parents would react. Rhodey’s eyes flashed toward you, then back to Justin’s face. You focused on the conversation again.

“You are not my rival. You’re just a pathetic slime ball that keeps trailing me to pick up my crumbs. What are you doing in Malibu, anyway?” Tony asked.

With a rush of fear, you realized that warning Tony didn’t prevent you coming up in conversation. Justin might say something himself, even that he was looking for you. Then you would be well and truly cooked.

Justin, however, merely laughed. “I’m allowed a vacation every now and then, Anthony.”

“What, jail wasn’t long enough?”

“Jail was nice. I should thank you for getting me wrongfully accused, Anthony. Serving time for the destruction of your Expo really put things in perspective for me.”

“Like the perspective that you’re a–”

“Tony, stop.” Rhodey’s arm stretched across the gap between his seat and Tony’s so that his hand could rest on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Justin said smoothly.

“Shut it,” Rhodey said, in as ugly a voice as you’d ever heard him use. It was really quite jarring. “I’m only saying that because you aren’t worth it. Now, why don’t you run along and get back to your sightseeing before I get out of this car and figure out a good reason to get you arrested for good this time around.”

“I’d just get out again.”

“That’s why you’re not worth it. The sidewalk is that way.”

The sound of Justin’s footsteps floated into the car, but not for long enough that you felt safe to sit up.

“That’s all right. I have better things to do anyway. Isn’t that right, Anthony?” said Justin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony replied.

He laughed. “That just makes it that much sweeter.”

Slowly, his steps faded away. You watched until Rhodey stopped looking out the window, and then quietly rose.

Rhodey snorted. “What an ass clown.”

“Tell me about it. I can’t believe he got off for that Vanko business!” Tony said.

“What do you think he meant by that last bit, about having better things to do?”

“Judging by the inflection?” Tony asked. “Probably that lady that interviewed me a few years back. As if I’m supposed to care about who Miss Vanity Fair is sleeping with these days.”

At the end of his sentence, Tony caught your eye. You didn’t smile, still too on edge from that close run-in with Justin. He had meant you, you just knew it. Why Tony was supposed to care that you and Justin were dating, you weren’t sure. But you did know that you’d prefer not to get into it at that moment.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asked. “Do you want out? The movie offer is still open.”

“I–I’m not really dressed for it,” you managed.

“You can borrow something of mine and change back into the dress before you’ve got to go home.”

“Don’t push things,” Rhodey said, in a warning tone that you didn’t really understand.

The best plan would be to politely decline, get back to the restaurant, and do your best to make things up to Justin for the rest of the night. Before your mouth could form words of parting, though, the younger you burst out:

“That actually sounds really nice. Can we go?” You threw a look back toward the parking lot. “Now?”

Rhodey and Tony exchanged quizzical looks. After half a minute of looking at each other, though, the former shrugged, and Tony pushed on the gas so that the car lumbered forward.

“As you wish,” he said.

******

“You know, you really don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Tony was on the steps, coming downstairs with a fresh bowl of popcorn when Rhodey’s voice drifted up to meet his ears. He couldn’t help but frown a bit at them. It wasn’t as though he had been planning to run into you that night and just so happened to get Rhodey to come along. But what was he supposed to have done? You were clearly distraught, and even if you wouldn’t tell him what was going on, he felt like he needed to do something to distract you. It was the least he could do.

“I know,” your voice said.

“No, I mean it.”

An odd sight greeted Tony’s eyes as he rounded the corner. You sat on the very edge of one chair, stick-straight, as though someone was going to attack you at any moment. That image was at odds with the baggy clothes of Tony’s that you wore. Your dress sat in a pile on a table. Rhodey was sitting not far away, at the end of the couch closest to you, and regarding you seriously.

“I don’t have anywhere better to be,” you said.

While you two were talking about whatever it was you were talking about, DUM-E kept playing with your hair. He seemed extremely excited to see you, and kept prodding you at every opportunity. You weren’t helping matters, smiling and patting DUM-E affectionately each time he pestered you. That AI was going to be so hard to live with after you left.

“Look, this can’t be the most comfortable environment for you,” Rhodey went on.

“He seems like he’s changed.”

“Sure he has.”

“Changed in a good way?”

“That depends on who you are. And anyway, why would you want to hang around here? He was never nice to you when you were a kid.”

“Would you stop trying to scare her away?” Tony asked as he marched into the room. You stiffened as you stared at him, but relaxed–slowly, but, he was glad to notice, definitely. “I don’t have any plans to hurt you, [Name].”

You only smiled weakly in response, but at least it was a smile. Knowing that Rhodey wouldn’t be able to settle down until he got his big brother instinct out of the way, Tony sat the bowl of steaming popcorn down in between the two of you and wandered to the back to busy himself with adjusting the projector.

Sure enough, Rhodey picked things up again not even a second later. “You don’t even have to tell me what was going on back there–”

“Nothing was going on.”

“[Name], I’m not dense. You were clearly in trouble. But you don’t have to say anything. Just let me drive you somewhere you feel safe. Anywhere. Even the airport.”

“Really, Colonel Rhodes, I’m fine.”

“But–”

“The lady says she’s fine,” Tony said. “Let her be, Rhodey.”

“Just because you don’t care–”

“I care!”

Rhodey looked at you, apparently expecting you to voice discomfort, but you didn’t. With a roll of his eyes, he cast his hands upward, then grabbed a fist of popcorn. “I can tell I’m being outvoted.”

“Good. That means it’s [Name]’s turn to pick the movie.”

“Actually,” you said, and Tony felt his heart sink even before you got your feet, “I should probably get going.”

“Already?”

You colored at his words, but one end of your lips quirked up. “Yeah, I’m feeling more…myself now. Thanks for the distraction.”

“I’ll be your distraction anytime.”

“Sure, sure.”

You bent to pick up your dress, and in that moment, Tony came to a very sudden decision. “You did it enough for me when we were kids.”

Your fingers froze around the fabric. Hesitantly, your head moved up so that you stared at him. Tony thought that he had never seen anyone look quite so horrified to be a paid a compliment by him.

“Rhodey told me–what I did at the funeral,” he explained.

You didn’t react. It almost seemed as though your pupils were shaking.

“Not that I forgot really, I just…didn’t think it was that big a deal. And it was pretty horrible to say, after everything you did. So…I owe you.”

Your head turned slowly to look at Rhodey.

“Sorry,” he offered.

After a long, drawn-out moment, you nodded. Tony saw your shoulders lift with a deep breath. He could see the effort it took for you to smile and pick your dress up.

“It was nothing. I was desperate to get out, too.” A very awkward pause filled the air after those words. Tony watched you, hoping for more, but nothing more was forthcoming. “I’m going to need a ride home.”

“I’ll take you,” he said quickly, but before he even finished the sentence, you shook your head.

“They’ll know it’s you. Colonel Rhodes, would you mind? They probably won’t recognize you, or care if they do.”

Rhodey grinned wryly and let out a single, dry laugh. “Sure. I’d be glad to. You go change. I’ll wait here.”

“Thank you!” And with that, you darted up the stairs. Tony watched until you disappeared entirely, then wandered over to slump dejectedly in your vacated chair. That had gone absolutely terribly, but on top of that, he was abstractedly disappointed that you were going to leave. Still, what reason did you have to stay? In the rare event that your parents noticed you were gone, you’d only get in trouble being discovered at his house. Maybe the problem was that he wanted to be worth that risk.

Suddenly, a more lengthy bout of chuckling from Rhodey broke into Tony’s thoughts. He looked up with a scowl to see Rhodey regarding, smiling widely.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Tony, his eyes narrowed.

Rhodey’s shoulders shook with a few more laughs, and then he shook his head. “Nothing. I just think you’re in danger of falling in love with her all over again.”

Tony’s heart stopped, then started up again very fast. “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

“What do you mean, at all?”

Tony inhaled sharply, but had no time to pursue that subject. With a padding of feet, you arrived back in the room. Rhodey didn’t give Tony time to speak to you; he got instantly to his feet and walked out the glass door to meet you. You gave Tony one last, wide eyed look before you disappeared upstairs.

Maybe he was crazy, but he thought you might have mouthed “thank you" in his direction.

[heliads]

Curse of the Witches

Loki meets a witch one night by moonlight. He speaks to her in an ancient cavern and learns to love her, even as he swore to himself that a weakness like that was just for the Midgardians. It is a pity, then, that she will make him feel weaker than he has in centuries.

masterlist

The celebrations have barely begun, yet they’re already starting to run dry.

It’s not like Asgard is a place that doesn’t know revelry. The long golden halls were practically designed for feasts and gatherings, the coffers always full for flagons of mead that never seem to run dry. It all culminates in a tidal wave of wealth and splendor, one that seems willing to drown any visitor whole. Loki, however, has had a lifetime to step out of the tide. He does so now.

Maybe it’s his pride talking, telling him to leave before he grows too tired of the gathering. Thor has won another conquest or defeated another monster, the same old story. From the second he burst through the doors, hammer held triumphantly to the sky, the cheers could drown out even his brother’s thunder. It’s a scene Loki has seen many times before, mere details changing with each telling and occurrence. Perhaps that is why he finds himself slipping away.

Loki has perfected the art of disappearing. The larger the crowds, the easier it is to disguise yourself among them. Technically, he shouldn’t be able to do this at all. He is the son of a king, a god in his own right and the brother of the hero they’re all celebrating today. But Loki has always stood aside, never quite adhering to the same mold of glory and grandeur that his brother wears like a second skin.

Some days, this wears on him like a blade. Today, however, Loki is fine with it. Let him step away, let him not be seen. Today is not a day for chastened anger. His footsteps echo through the halls, growing louder as the din of the celebrations fades behind him. He receives a few stray stares from Asgardians still making their way to the hall, curious as to why an Odinson would be leaving a festival instead of arriving, but few pay him any mind.

The brisk air of the night is a tonic against the heated fervor of the golden halls. Loki pulls his emerald robes closer around him, letting the cloth spare the cool metal of his armor from the wind. He’s a Frost Giant, of course, the cold has never been more than a hindrance, but he likes to put on the illusion of being just like all the others. Illusions have been his specialty for a long time, at least this one is a charade he can keep up.

Loki lets his feet wander the grounds, carrying him further and further from the light spilling out from the grand palace. The night still clings to the scene, an inky darkness pooling around the trees and golden spires of buildings all around him. Loki has probably wandered every inch of this gilded city, but today he chooses to stray further from the towering buildings and instead into the thick outcroppings of forest that surround the palace.

He is not expecting to see anyone here. The Asgardians are besotted with their golden prince, the heir to the throne and the glorious son of Odin. He is the making of the myths, the one they flock to when there are problems to be had. Loki, on the other hand, is the silver to the gold, the biting frost that must follow every prosperous summer. He has had millennia to come to terms with his status as a shadow; tonight, it serves him well. Every single thing in all the worlds can be used as a tool or a weapon, even the rumors. Let no one see him here.

There is a certain corner of the forest he must visit tonight, the one spot in Asgard that stubbornly refuses to yield its secrets to him. There is a cave carved out of the rock face further along the many cliffs that line the area. They say it was built by the practitioners of seiðr, ancient Asgardian witches who could operate even out of Odin’s watchful eye. The Allfather may be a god of magic himself, but there are always scraps of witchcraft that cannot be controlled.

It reminds Loki of himself. Maybe that is why he travels there tonight, walks and walks until he is standing before the rock face. It is blank of any markings or openings, with nothing to indicate that it would ever be a remnant of seiðr. But Loki is of magic borne, and he can hear the last indications of spells spiraling out from the rock. He presses his palm against the cool surface of the cliff face, searching for some form of entrance. The rock remains stubbornly bare.

“If you’re looking for a way in, you won’t find one that easily.”

Loki turns with a start. He hadn’t heard the woman step out of the forest, despite his heightened senses as a god. It’s as if she had materialized out of thin air. Doing his best to conceal his surprise, Loki cocks an eyebrow at her. “And why would that be?” A faint smirk appears on the woman’s lips. “You’re not of seiðr blood. It won’t come to you.” Loki folds his arms across his chest. “I’m assuming, then, that you are. Why else would you be here?”

The woman elegantly lifts a shoulder. “Maybe I’m hiding from the prince’s festivities. Same as you, actually. What, does an Odinson not care for the celebrations of his brethren?” Loki rolls his eyes. “They’re gaudy and boring. Is it that much of a surprise that one among many would not find them that appealing?” His eyes flicker across the woman’s form. “I mean, other than you, of course.”

The woman lets out a short laugh. It ripples through the night, disappearing into the cool air like a stroke of moonlight. “It appears we might have more in common than we first thought.” Loki considers this. “Perhaps. Does that mean you’re going to introduce yourself, or are we just going to exchange witty banter back and forth the entire night? I’m not opposed to either option.” 

The woman grins at that. “I am the Lady Y/N. That is all you may know.” Loki steps forward, intrigued. “A mystery. How dashing. I assume that you know my name, so I will ask another question: Are you able to get past the rock barrier, or did you come here to just warn me away?” Y/N eyes him cautiously. “The cave is a secret of the seiðr witches. It is not a door to be opened to anyone.” Loki nods, but Y/N isn’t finished speaking. “That’s why we’ll have to be careful not to alert anyone to our presence. Coming?”

Loki allows a broad grin to cross his face. “I think I like you.” Y/N’s eyes flash in the night. “How wonderful.” She steps past him to stand before the rock face, extending her hand to lay it lightly upon the cliff. She furrows her brow in concentration, and then light billows out of her palm, cascading upon the rock. It seems to flow out of her veins, centering around her hand before being directed to the cliff. This must be seiðr, if Y/N is a practitioner.

After a moment of this, a faint symbol appears in light against the cliff, and then an entire section of the rock face peels away, revealing a circular entrance to a cave. Y/N spares a glance over her shoulder. “Well?” She doesn’t have to ask him twice. Loki follows her inside, although he can’t help but notice the way she shakes her sleeve over her hand, wincing slightly as if the stone had cut her. The motion is deliberate, clearly hiding something, and so Loki decides not to pursue the subject. It would not do to alienate Y/N and have her remove his only means of escape from the cave.

And what a cave it is: towering ceilings almost as tall as his father’s halls, shimmering stone that seems to go on for all eternity. Even from the first few steps, Loki can tell that the place practically reeks of magic. This must be where seiðdr was performed, where the witches came to cast their spells and increase their strength. It fascinates Loki, perhaps more than it should. Then again, he’s always been in search of power. This is just a place where power comes to temper into something darker than before.

As they walk further into the cave, the lights begin to fade away. In a few steps, the cave will be plunged into darkness, so Y/N extends her hand once more. Light beams pour from her fingers again, casting a white glow about the rock. This time, however, she is unable to hide her flinch, or the way her power seems to turn in on herself, swarming down her arm and turning as black as pitch.

Loki rushes to her side, but Y/N waves him away. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” Loki scoffs. “You are clearly not fine. You practically collapsed. What happened?” Y/N grimaces. “It’s a long story.” Loki counters. “I have the millennia to hear it.” Y/N looks at him closely, as if trying to search him for signs of a possible reaction. At last, she apparently deems him worthy, and gestures for him to walk closer to her as they continue down the cave.

“It’s my power. It’s slowly bleeding me dry. See, my mother was a witch with a bone to pick. She performed some ritual or cast some spell to help Odin when he needed aid. In return, she demanded a favor- she wanted Odin to make her human lover a god, to grant him the same powers so they could be immortal through seiðr forever. Odin knew better than to grant a witch what she wanted most, but he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of her, so he instead granted the powers to me. She wasn’t specific with her request, see, she just asked that her love be given magic. I was just born by then, so he interpreted that to mean me.”

She sighs, kicking at a loose pebble with her foot. Dust settles over her silver sandals. “Odin knew what he was doing. I was born a demigod, closer to mortal, with no strength to bear the power. I was born too weak to take it, and so it’s killing me. Magic wasn’t made for me, and it shall cause my death in the end. My mother hates me for it, and so the tenure of the spell is weak- if the powers were given to the love of my mother, and she no longer loves me, then the magic is even weaker than before. I can use the magic, but it’ll kill me eventually.”

Loki feels something strange in his chest when she says this, like he wants to do something to take away her pain, make her chin lift with that same fierce energy again. Some tiny part of himself thinks that it might be sympathy, or caring, but Loki has always been well beyond that. Yet, when he sees her swallow harshly as if to push aside the ghosts of her past, some force inside Loki makes him speak.

“I am- sorry.” He’s not entirely sure why he’s apologizing, or if it will do any good, but Y/N glances over at him with a faint smile once more. “You know, of all the people to tell me that, I think you’re the only one who actually means it. Strange that the god of trickery would be that honest.” Loki forces a smirk. “Maybe I’m tricking you now.” Y/N tilts her head, considering this. “Maybe. But I don’t think you are.” She is right.

Loki finds himself visiting Y/N after that night, even when the festivities at the Asgardian palace are actually interesting and people do witness him leave. He keeps stealing away, keeps chasing that unfamiliar high of smiling with someone that actually understands him, and doesn’t try to compare him to anyone else.

He is not sure when he realizes he loves her, only that it is a truth that will always be so. He kisses her in the forest, near when they first met, and gives her an emerald cloak just like his when she starts to get so cold that it feels like she’ll never be warm. For every moment they have together, full of peace and genuine happiness, there are more when her powers truly start to ruin her and she can barely move at all.

Loki is at her side when she dies. He is at her side in the years before then, eternities to mortals but barely a speck in the neverending streak of time to a god. He can’t help but wish that he had more time, but for once, his immortality lets him down. He holds her hand, feels her pulse slowly leave her. He speaks to her until she can hear no more, stories of the gods and all the places they’d seen. He hears her laugh, strong no more but as brittle as ice.

At last, she is still. Loki does not move from her bed for hours, maybe even days. The funeral is quiet, as she requested. Family, friends, him. Loki watches her pyre, watches the smoke curl into the heavens. He has the distant memory as he watches the darkness of the smoke, remembering the way she’d cast forth the light in that cave when they’d first met. He remembers that he was going to ask her to be his wife, to stay with him. He has no ties to Asgard any longer.

There’s a simmering rage left in him, long after the mournful grief burns away. All he can think of is everything Y/N wanted to do, everything they wanted to do together, all the plans they made. She wanted to see Midgard, even when Loki had sworn up and down that it was nowhere as beautiful as the stories made it out to be. They’d heard rumors of gatherings of witches all along the coastlines on the different worlds, and promised to map them out, to meet every single one of them. They were her brethren now, and she had wished to meet them. Loki had wanted to take her there, to take her anywhere.

Loki slides a knife out into his palm. It’s a cool, calculating metal, tip sharp enough to rend even the air apart. Y/N had given it to him two years after they had first met. A gift, she’d laughed, and one that I know you’ll use. She was right again- Loki intends to use it quite a bit. His first targets are the ones who had brought her low, refused her aid when her powers had begun to kill her. Loki intends to kill them all. An eye for an eye.

Years later, when his revenge has been completed and he has been brought home again, Loki lies dying on the floor of a ship traveling through space. Thor, with close-cropped hair and a patch covering his right eye, kneels over his body. Blood leaks from Loki’s mouth and nose, although he cannot feel the pain. Instead, a smile flickers over his lips. “I can see her, Thor. I can see her again.” Loki’s hand twitches by his side, barely moving at all. In his mind, he’s reaching out, towards a young woman with a dazzling smile.

Welcome home, Loki. We’re together again.

marvel tag list: @mycosmicparadise​, @underc0vercryptid​

[mischief-marauders]

Modern Marauders: Remus’ Birthday

December 23rd, 8:24 pm

Sirius took a small sip of his tea and forced himself not to make a face. Hope liked her tea the same way her son did, more sugar than tea. He took one more sip to be polite and then set it down in front of him. James chugged his down and set it down as well.

“Great” Sirius thought to himself. It was an amazing idea to give a teenager with ADHD a shit ton of sugar.

Hope sat down across from them and gave them a grin.

“I thought you boys were spending Christmas at Hogwarts with Remus since he can’t come home”

“We are” James interjected politely, his hands slightly shaking. Sirius mentally groaned at the sight of it.

“We told Remus we had to go pick something up from my house but in all honesty, we wanted to see you and talk to you about something”

Hope (she refused to let anyone call her Mrs. Lupin) raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

“And what is that?”

“Remus’ birthday. It’s coming up in two months, we have no idea what to do for his birthday this year, and we refuse to let it pass without something special. I’m sure you’ve heard of the past celebrations”

Hope coughed on her tea and laughed.

“If you’re referring to Remus writing to me about you boys setting off fireworks in the great hall during breakfast last year, then yes, I am aware”

Sirius gave her a sheepish grin.

“He made us promise not to do anything too big this year but we aren’t sure we can do that. We promised no fireworks, explosions, or school property damage. We actually wanted to hold a surprise party for him. But we need something to give it that extra oomph, ya know?”

Hope looked thoughtful and then carefully said “Why don't you have a theme for the party?”

James sat up in excitement. “Yes! A themed party. We can plan the party around that!”. Then his face scrunched up in confusion. “The only problem with that is that Remus doesn’t really like anything enough to hold a party around”

Hope sat back and looked deep in thought. “Give me two weeks and I’ll send something via owl that can help”

January 14th, 2:30 pm

Lily looked startled at the pile of books that fell on the table in front of her and then up at the boys that dropped it.

She scowled at a smirking James Potter and a smiling Sirius Black.

“Can I help you?”

Sirius’ grin grew at her offering help, unaware that it was complete sarcasm.

“Yes! As I’m sure you know, Remus’ birthday is coming up in a few weeks. He made us promise nothing big. No fireworks, no explosions, no coordinated dance numbers. But he didn’t say we couldn’t throw a party. We just didn’t know what theme to have a party so we visited his mother and today, she sent these back. We’re not exactly sure what they are, only that they’re muggle and neither of us knows what the hell it is. She said he absolutely loves them, the blue one is his favorite and that he would kill her if he knew that she sent them to us”

Lily peered at the books and a grin replaced her scowl. "Comics? I love the Avengers! I didn’t know Remus liked reading comics!”

James nodded. His mother mentioned that he always loved them but when he was a kid, the neighborhood kids gave him shit for liking comics. They bullied him because of it, so he doesn't want anyone else knowing. So you know what these are?

Lily laughed and arched an eyebrow. ‘Know it? Please, I love the Avengers!”

She flipped through a couple of pages and looked deep in thought.

“How much are you willing to do to make Remus happy?”

James and Sirius looked at each other and responded in unison. “Anything. We’ll do anything for Remus”.

Lily laughed and grabbed a blank piece of paper and a pencil from her bag and started sketching. “Okay, since Remus doesn’t want a lot of people knowing, it’ll be just us. I’ve been working on my charms and transfiguration so I know I can make these. I’ll go as my favorite Avenger and then you two can go as the other two. You guys handle the decorations, cake, and getting Remus there” She paused thoughtfully.

“We need one more person to join us. No group of heros is complete without a villain. And from the number of times he pops up in these comics, he is Remus’ favorite for sure”.

Sirius slapped the table. “I know someone who owes me a favor and loves cake. I’ll get him to come"

Lily grinned. “Great!”

March 10th, 5:55 pm

Remus looked suspiciously at the note in his hand. Sirius slipped it to him during lunch and then disappeared all day. James also disappeared and he couldn’t find Lily during lunch. The note said to come up to the dorm room at 6 pm on the dot. Remus sighed and prepared himself. His friends took everything to the next level. He couldn't predict whether there would be fireworks, a hippogriff, or the whomping willow in his room.

Remus paused outside of the door carefully, preparing himself before he twisted the door open and stepped into the dark.

“Hello?” he murmured cautiously before someone flipped the switch and a group of people screamed “Happy Birthday!”

Remus looked around in shock at the dorm room. The beds and dressers were gone, replaced with tables laden with his favorite foods and a huge multi-colored cake. He blinked as he tried to process what his friends were wearing. No. It couldn’t be. James whooped in a very realistic Iron Man costume. Lily smirked at him in her Scarlet Witch costume. A tight-lipped Regulus glared at him from the corner, dressed as Loki. Finally, Sirius ran up and pulled him in a hug while wearing a Thor costume.

‘Happy birthday Re!”

Remus was speechless. His friends dressed up as the Avengers. For his birthday.

“H-How did you know I liked the avengers?”

James gave him a conspiratorial wink. “A little birdy told us”

Remus looked around in confusion.

“Where did you get these costumes?”

Lily laughed and pulled her wand out. “C’mon, we have magic. Just a bit of charms and transfiguration, and voila!”

Sirius grinned at him. ‘Do you like it Re?”

Remus opened and closed his mouth a few times while tears pooled in his eyes as he looked around at each of them again.

Sirius' felt himself grow nervous and anxious. Maybe they had gone too far. Hope did say he was bullied for liking comics. Maybe they shouldn’t have done this-

Remus’ face broke open into a grin and he laughed as he wiped away his tears.

“Like it? I love this! What the hell, this is amazing. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble for me. And you?” Remus beckoned to a bored looking Regulus.

Regulus shrugged at him. “I owed Sirius a favor and he promised me I could have cake.” Then his blank face was overtaken by a small grin. “And happy birthday Remus.”

Remus laughed as he pulled his friends into a group hug. Even Regulus let himself get pulled in.

Lily broke away and pointed to the bathroom. “I think there’s one more costume in the bathroom for the birthday boy. I heard it’s your favorite”

Remus ducked into the bathroom to get changed. As Sirius laughed and pointed his hammer at the ceiling, a large roar of thunder shook the room and lightning hit the quidditch field. Sirius looked in shock at his hammer.

Lily cringed as she took it from him. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given a charmed hammer that creates lightning to the person with the least amount of impulse control.”

March 11th, 2:00 am

Hope sat up quickly in fear. There was a scratching at the window and a beat of wings.

“Lyall”, she whispered as she shook her husband awake, "there’s something at the window"

Lyall grabbed his wand from the nightstand and stood up quickly. He inched quietly to the window and opened it.

A large, white owl flew into the room and dropped a letter on a terrified Hope Lupin before flying out. Hope cautiously opened the letter and grinned as a photograph fell out. It was a picture of Remus grinning wildly in a Captain America costume next to Lily, Sirius, James, and a boy that looked like Sirius. On the back, written in her son's messy handwriting, were the words "Thank you -R.J.L.”

[blankdblank]

Brother Dearest Pt 78

Home a day early Norma exploded with anxious energy to be near her daughter who was confused to the meaning of the day, her first birthday. A cake was able to distract her mother and herself from that awkward energy for the beginning of their three day weekend together so Victor could take you to a stop at the studio to help with a possible new bout of ideas to refurbish the Cap comics. Still no one seemed to be able to come up with anything substantial except for a cross of the Howling Commandoes who would run into your animated family alongside Peggy’s alter ego. Which you all took off with that idea had came up with at least five different issues worth of them to mingle in the planned plot lines already animated and ready to be sent out when it was due to be printed. Quite gladly the guys had loved your pregnancy as now with these new ideas you had editions well through this year and into the next if anything should distract from the creative process.

.

Just past the hall with your last projects on display atop podiums you entered the workshop as people still milled around each choice inspecting each. Including yours which was a miniature town. Half a mine complete with a track for little carts and the other half a town encircled by a river. All of it powered by the waterwheel that moved the mechanics in the layer beneath the surface of the entire town. Streets between homes had lights on each corner with antique style lamp posts with two bulbs in them that switched colors at the filling and emptying of water tubes fed by that same wheel. Cars on tracks drove between the wooden homes to finish off the scene and impressed your Professor for how complex the mechanics were to the simplistic upper display.

Your place in the class came with questions but with ease at home in the shop the men around you relaxed at fears of tears or pestering questions to distract them. Now the main distraction came for the awe striking ways you got around the difficulties your size a half to a whole foot shorter than all of them to get things done and how naturally you knew various advanced tools and had no fear in using them. Today however you came with a spare bag of clothes that to the amusement of your classmates out of your heels you stepped and flicked unfolded at your side the trousers you brought. Pulling them on over the skirt of your dress you tucked that and the flannel you added into the top and secured the cloth belt you added next. Thick socks and your work boots came next showing much use to each press of your feet into the opposite knee to tie them and lower to repeat the step.

Unable to help it as you tucked your heels into your bag the Professor gave you a once over after having seen the others had swapped their dress shirts for thicker work shirts and as you wound your ponytail and bangs back into a bun underneath a bandana he greeted you all. “Good to see you’ve all come ready to get some grease on those elbows. We have a new project for you to finish off the summer semester. Out of solid steel each of you will be creating something that has a function. It must be a minimum of six feet tall and two feet wide, please no windmills, there will be a supply near each of your stations and in the supply room. I want you all to think long and hard about what you want to make and how you would create that function in hopefully an ingeniously new way. You will only have the time in class when we meet so no spare after class time or weekends. So manage your tasks properly and keep to a schedule as best as you can.”

His eye shifted to you as you raised your hand and he nodded your way in his usual signal to speak, “Does it have to do a job or just do something?”

Across his lips a smirk tugged and he answered, “It just has to do something, make it light up, make it move, be unique. I repeat no windmills.” He said and motioned his hand to the side for you all to head to your stations. Right away he and his aid chuckled at your usual pop up onto the counter that reached your ribs to reach the gloves and apron in your cubby assigned with your name on tape laid across the edge of it.

Sons of mechanics, car enthusiasts, electricians and builders filled the class on their way to get their Engineering degrees to join the family profession and to their amusement with your own ideas you seemed to be fairly at the same level of skill as the group who was used to building models and things since they were little. Once the spare layers were added and you had taken a few minutes to simply stare at the sheet of steel resting on the mount there to hold it upright to think of what to make. The smirk that tugged across your lips intrigued the Professor and his aid that something interesting was coming as your mind had come up with something. In the same stunning fashion your tiny self eased the sheet of metal a foot taller and two feet longer than your body off the mount and onto the cutting stand you had made the first week in for your shorter self. You knelt on top of that to use just a couple feet off the ground compared to the waist high ones the guys used with ease at possession of longer arms and legs.

With cutting torch in hand over the numerous chalk outlines the sound of metal falling echoed in your ears between sounds of the others at their own stations working with hammers or torches of their own who weren’t still on the design on notepads. Around each station the Professor moved with his aid in opposing paths to get a sense of what you all were doing, notepads in hand to make notes while students as usual stood outside the windowed wall to peer in at what you all were doing. That angle especially helped to add images of yourself and the guys for the yearbook the school had for even the summer semester as well. When the metal was spent and left to just outlines into sections you cut what remained with a smirk hidden by your face shield at the perfect alignment of metal shapes to be part of the body you required. Just one layer but as usual you strove to not waste an inch of the metal or supplies given and set those aside to begin on the mechanics.

Gears, rods, all fashioned down with sanders and buffers for a smooth finish and even on a few securing grooves to be used later to lock things into place all were wound together with or near to wires and conduits for pathways of motion. All the Professor could see but the end of the day was the sheets of metal in the cutout mount along the wall. Noted with tape to not be used for scrap by others and a clump of a motor nearly the size of your body with octopus like mess of limbs that he saw you link small switches and levers to the whirring core that after the charge from the center mechanics you had wound like a clock began to slow left no hint at all what any of it could be meant for. But that was it and for the next day he would have to simply steal glances at the chunks of your projects to try and figure out what they were meant to do until the next class when he could see some more progress on the lifeless piles of metal.

.

“You look excited,” Victor hummed as James took hold of your bags with a kiss on your temple.

James smirked saying to the scent of metal shards on your hair and skin, “You’ve been welding again.”

“I’m building a moose.” You said making them chuckle as you delved into the new project you had been given.

James said, “Well a moose will certainly be large enough for the size requirements. What are you going to make it do?”

“Walk and move around,” you said widening their grins. “It’ll be risky but I think I can pull it off even if I have to sneak in some magic to do it.”

“I’m certain you can, Pipsqueak.”

Ten days had gone and flew by as again before the crack of dawn tears came and the now the three spotted children showed the final steps of the chicken pox that had upheaved the household. And after a trio of oatmeal baths for 20 minutes the babies now with socks tied into their hands were put back to bed until they woke for the next round of baths and calamine lotion to soothe the itchy patches away until they were gone.

.

Mr Fenske again had your morning. And through the afternoon while you couldn’t work on your project you brainstormed and practically filled a notebook with diagrams and plans for what exactly to do when you got back to the shop the following day to hopefully get done with plenty of time to spare and polish the giant moose up for its big debut. Sleep wasn’t hard to gain with the rain. Though by morning said rain made it a bit difficult to want to leave your still groggy girls who barely made it through breakfast but you still did simply to get the next attendance points closer to credits to get you your Bachelor’s degrees by next summer and onto the way to your Masters then Doctorates. You made plans and in sticking to them you could only make a great example for your girls to be what they wanted to, even if it didn’t involve as much schooling as you were pushing yourself through.

.

Back inside the second Art History class notice of a change was evident on everyone’s faces to the lack of a model or item to focus on and the Professor’s place in the front of the floor to say when you had all arrived. “For your final projects there will be no model given to you. You will supply your own muse and in the style of a painting Master you will complete two paintings of at least 12x16 each that will center around a single memory. Something that is not well known about your life, a moment of unadulterated trust. They must be a pair and be supported by a description of the memory that you all will present at the gallery at the end of this semester where each of the pieces you have completed in every class will be displayed for others to view and comment. This is your final exam, take it seriously and do not disappoint me.”

Monet’s style seemed to be something you could adapt into whatever you decided to paint. Back to Monet’s paintings your mind wandered and in the various chosen models for each of those with people in them his main focus on landscapes had you think of something that would not be another copy of one of his works. Your brain however looped back to that brothel and onto the first sheet of your sketch pad to mock up what you would paint James with his coat over his head and cigar in hand made an amusing image with details of a plume of smoke along with the beams of light from the milky curtain coated window could make for something unique. And with it would be James in that bathtub with his boots and uniform on the floor still with hold of that cigar.

There wasn’t much of your private life you wanted to share, namely your courtship with James, but you hoped he wouldn’t mind having the back of his arms, head and shoulder blades in display for however many people would be attending this gallery showing. On major project turned to two and you just wanted to get this over with. Normally you liked your Professors but this class couldn’t come to an end soon enough even if you did get along well with those from your other courses. Basic details on the first scene with him against the door was begun on a fairly decent sized easel above the required size in a means to get what details you wanted included without compromise. Anatomy and Physiology was a welcome distraction and after Communication you were free to get back to your moose.

Once in your work layers to the side of your list of necessary parts you crouched with cutter in hand to add more body pieces to the pile to assemble later. Some you left flat while others made use of the rolling press the Professor and his aid enjoyed the glimpses of hidden strength you displayed in warping the metal to your needs, each rotation of that crank took a certain amount of strength to get the bend required. While others were slid into the other metal press that with a lever bent the sections at whatever straight angle possible with enough force. Every piece only added more mystery for how they blended together until from the mess after a bit of welding around the internal support rods and gears to work the joints properly and still be able to withstand the weight of all needed to in every movement.

With the internal mechanism and the cutting mainly done now it was easier, simply overlaying the outer shell. Carefully each leg was fashioned together and down every joint tested for smooth motion you required from the different swaying sections that while still seemed a whole piece until the motion began and every joint showed its purpose to shift and then come back to its place in smooth circular motion similar to how actual moose move in real life. Rope in hand once the supporting frame you’d worked out that looked more like axels on a car of simple rods fashioned together you stood tying a wrench to one end then looking up at the only higher form of support you had, the metal beams in the rafters. There was a pulley but the chain had snapped and it was too far up and too little used to warrant replacing it yet somehow a decade later. So this was what you were left to. One end of the rope was tied to one of the legs and with a good toss the wrench flew up and over the beam above your station to fall straightening the rope with it.

The motion and fall of the wrench helped to lift the leg a couple inches off the ground at one end and with a hold of the wrench with an easy pull the leg came upright off the ground and lured the gaze of the amused Professor at your self made pulley. Securely on the ground around the support rods, that balanced on top of a stool, the hoof was settled and with an easy loop of some twine from one of the cutouts through the holes drilled into the end of the support rod the hopeful anchor was tied with an easy to remove bow. Grip of the second front leg proved you were making a hooved creation and off your shoulder you moved the leg into perfect alignment and tied it off after a few confirming checks that it was straight.

Three legs soon grew to four and from the ground and from the leg the rope was removed to fashion like a noose around a series of hooked straps linked to the belly plate now welded to the inner mechanism that with a good firm grip what a woman your size shouldn’t be able to lift the three hundred pound motor and plate with ease was gradually lifted from the ground where you had left it to be. Once the rope was tied at the right height to the leg of your workstation it was wiggled into the right alignment to lessen the strain of the rope as each edge came to rest perfectly in the connecting mounts.

Both bolted and welded down into place the security was tested amusingly for those who looked over at your grips on each leg and end of the lower half of the body to give it several firm shakes to test the stability of everything with mental checks of how it felt to ensure it wouldn’t collapse or move in a way that anything would get locked up. Down the legs the mechanics were lowered and using long necked allen wrenches you secured the screws into place before you began to work the body frame up for the sides and back with a start on the neck mount to go around the support rod from the belly mount that the mechanics there were anchored to.

The basic shape of the head came to life and atop that came antlers that rather uniquely was where the controls there was mounted underneath to be closer to the ears that it would control. Kneeling atop the workstation that you merely used to house the next part up or the tools needed the head came to life widening the grins on the faces of the Professor and his aid. Both who were beyond amused at the creature you had chosen. Amongst the other students who chose things from a giant nutcracker to a mechanical hammer wielding figure that did little else than lift and lower said hammer opposite the rotating carousels and even a tree with branches that wiggled and could be used to hold items on the trays welded atop them you had chosen the boldest design. And the most curious. Surely you had to have something up your sleeve, there had to be more to the moose than what they were able to see.

“Well, well, well, it would appear you all are getting along swimmingly in just two days.” The Professor stated as you all began to clean up for the day, including yourself who accepted help from another taller student to cover your moose with a sheet as others had done for their own projects. Turned around when you released the end of the sheet in your hands you looked the Professor over seeing that he was clearly up to something with that spreading smirk of his. “And when we meet again you will find a fresh supply of sheet metal at each of your work stations. Those supplies will be pertinent in creating a second miniature partner of what you have already produced. Four feet tall and one foot wide minimum. It does not have to be an exact copy but it does have to be related to the initial creation.”

Groans from the guys however were muddled by giggles from yourself in a momentary rest of your head against the side of your moose out of the sheer amount of work that would have to go into making a second moose from scratch the next day you would be in this class. The day was over for you at least and when you got home you could focus on your girls again and simply leave the planning to the weekend while they napped for a game plan to get the ball rolling on a baby moose. Need for a good meal and a nap read across your face and had James ask, “Who am I punching?”

In a giggle you shook your head and melted into his offered hug. “I have to make a second moose.”

The pair chuckled and when James took hold of your things Victor gave you his own hug and he hummed, “We stole a glimpse at your moose. Well done. Have to be the same size?”

“Half the size of it. It doesn’t have to be a moose, just has to be related but the only thing my brain can think of moose related is moose.” The pair smirked and you said, “We’ve just got two more classes until semester is over and we have to present things.” You glanced up at James, “I can paint you in the tub, right?” That had an awkward grin split across his face and you said, “We have to paint a memory, I picked at the brothel that one time. But you won’t mind?”

“You can paint me however you like, Darling,” he said leaning in to steal a quick kiss. “I look forward to seeing it.”

“Two its, so I have to paint two paintings and build two moose. Then show them in presentations.”

Victor smiled asking, “Do we get to keep the moose?”

“I don’t know,” you answered in a giggle. “I don’t know what they expect them to be used for or if they will want us to destroy them.”

“We are not destroying your moose,” they both said.

Victor, “We’re gonna find the perfect spot for them in our home. Do we get your art too after the gallery or do they expect people to buy them?”

“I think so. We have to share a story for the paintings but I’m not sure if they sell them off, there hasn’t been any talk of that so far.”

Victor, “Hopefully we get to keep those too. And we have cake at home.” He said making you grin up at him, “Petal’s spots are gone. Herc’s giving her a full workup along with the triplets.”

You glanced at James who said, “Belly time tests, they’re doing well, necks are nice and strong, arms show signs that they are almost ready to roll over.”

“At least I haven’t missed that yet.”

James chuckled letting you into the car to sit between them saying, “Well you missed a hell of a tantrum from Teddy.”

“Aww,” you said and they both chuckled.

“He needed a nap. Just got too overwhelmed after his last bath and took a good seven minutes to climb down from that mountain. He has a set of lungs on him that boy. Dawn held firm but Eddie had to take a walk.”

“He always hated it when kids cry. Mama Brock used to joke he’d hate the terrible two’s, but so far he has been a little angel.”

“He has,” Victor hummed. “He calmed down and apologized for throwing his toy. Then said he just wanted to go to sleep and didn’t want to have his check up until after.”

“Well I’ve been on the edge of tears from a check up myself.”

James chuckled, “We all empathize, he spent most of last night up with those baths and calamine lotion applications. Even Eddie needed a nap. Dawn’s mom came over to watch him and Marigold for a bit so they could breathe. It does seem they are all in the clear.”

.

Tummy time was the beginning of your days off and as the trio of girls exercised their heads, necks and arms smiles spread at your nodding off on top of the quilt for a nap that afterwards gave you enough energy to delve into those plans of yours. Alone once the triplets had been put to bed a stolen grip of James’ hands had his smile spread then melt away in the ease of his hands behind your back to lean in and accept the kiss you rose up on your toes to claim. Up from his jaws into his hair your fingers worked in a blind tug to bed as you mentally closed the doors to the room his body followed you to the bed.

Three months had blew by and nearing the end of the summer for the first time since before your belly had begun to grow lost to muffled giggles and broken smile laced utterances of adoration fixed firm in your arms he remained. All night he refused to pull back and break the hold you had on him to savor the romantic return to amorous evenings that were mutually focused. Months you had focused on him as he held himself back to keep you safe and when he had ensured he had pulled on his pants and eased his shirt over you into his arms your body nestled to drop off to sleep. Safe in his arms to whirling dreams as he savored the mixture of his scent and that of his wife’s to the burrow of his forehead into the top of your head. That mixture that while you were in school he could catch hints of on those three girls that by the day improved leaps and bounds to one day be independent little people who would shake up his days to keep them all safe and content.

Herc already had shared that Beserkers never had babies back to back and genetically there would be little chance to conceive before the girls were two years old. Yet that doubt still lingered and pretending as if the same methods of the pill and sleeves that had failed to keep you from conceiving the triplets those methods were picked up again as a sort of call for hope that they might be able to find that goal of two years true before another baby or babies could be arriving. It was just one more year and you would be on the way to graduate studies to do with as you pleased. Seven years wouldn’t be that long for an entire estimate of time to earn them, and there were so many years after that could be quite indescribable for how many possibilities there were with freedom of no school to shuffle between. Even traveling the world could be possible any time you wished if that was what you wanted. He didn’t care as long as you were together and could end each day in one another’s arms.

.

Following final exams with Mr Yarbrough for your History, Geography and Religion courses at home Tuesday again brought on the next to last time you would be on campus. Both your paintings had greater detail and fed into a successful task of carrying out the beginnings of your smaller moose. Thanks to the ample planning the internal mechanism and basic body shape was fashioned on a smaller pallet beside its larger parent. Mother and child as you had intended now was swapped for father and child due to the antlers that were needed to help counter balance the body’s movements.

Followed by a long session with Mr Fenske to take the final exams for your Economics, Government, Political Science and Anthropology on Wednesday the rest of the summer here in Canada would be far simpler as the courses here were in their final week.  

On Thursday more exams however would be waiting for you. Art History came first and was a lengthy exam that let you out a bit early to head for your next Art class and mentally prep the plan for the finishing touches on the paintings. Anatomy and Physiology came next for another complex exam you felt a bit anxious for how you might fare on the few essay questions at the end. Communication came last before your final class that held you from freedom with a hefty exam of its own. And when that let out past freed students rushing to savor the end of their own summers with your classmates you walked to head for your Engineering course.

Once there the same Professor who seemed excited to watch the second sculptures come to life began this final class by his posture alone had the guys around you mutter, “No.”

The word making him chuckle and smooth his palms together. “I have one final requirement one final sculpture that is a foot tall or less to go with the previous two.”

Unable to help it you let out an exasperated giggle and hung your head to smooth a hand over the back of your neck for a pose that had one of the guys tease, “Come on Bunny, you can break out another moose.”

Which had his friend say, “Just a tiny one.”

After another giggle you answered, “I am not making another moose.”

Your eyes shifted to the Professor who said, “All your supplies are at your station and in the store room. Good luck.”

At the tall station you stood tapping your pencil to the notepad you had doodled up a few choices and decided on something a bit wild. Gears were the first to be cut again and the inner mechanics were worked out with the bodies to follow. An absurdly large duck was crafted and behind it on wheels that tiny feet were faked to rotate around each rotation and a mechanical chain three ducklings would follow after their mother that would waddle around to the command of the controller you had fashioned at the end of a long string of wires to connect to the inner mechanism.

You weren’t the only one adding smaller details in hopes to not be asked for more to add for the final grading. Each project that spread his proud grin for this latest batch of students who showed promise if they continued this field. All together when the final touches were completed every student cleaned up the stations and made certain all the projects on their pallets were coated with sheets to keep them protected for the following day when they would all be shown for all who chose to come.

.

Early home amongst the rest of your siblings and Erik Norma smiled widely in a stroll through the projects that lined a vast courtyard and surrounding halls the Professors took a stroll through to inspect each piece and took note son how they all worked. Out of sight the empty slot with a metal stand bearing a card with your name on it amongst your classmates’ steadily filling slots there was no trace of you, however Stark and Mr Jarvis both stood waiting for one. Both who smiled and greeted your family promising to be at the painting gallery show as well the following day.

“Ooh, there’s Pipsqueak,” Victor said in a turn after catching sight of you in your mint sleeveless sundress down an empty hall with a pair of men behind you who were pulling two pallets on raised jacks. Smiles spread in curiosity at notice of the familiar silhouette of moose antlers under the larger sheet. Right up next to one another the pallets were lowered and with a bit of help the sheets were removed enabling Stark to move closer and inspect the internal parts as best he could to guess what they could do. The task that had him locate the switches on the side he only got a smirk from you in response of his gesture their way while you listened to James and Erik in proud boasting of what you had built.

When the group of judges did arrive they each looked the trio of creations over and your Professor said, “Now, Mrs Howlett, if you wouldn’t mind.” Eyes watched as you moved a sheet of metal that was forged into a long ramp that had gone unnoticed and was hiding a trio of crank keys shaped like drills for ice fishing that had an outer handle to keep it steady and an internal one to rotate the tip, the largest of which you lifted. Over to the shoulder of the largest moose you inserted the tip into the key hole there and like a clock wound the mechanism until it wouldn’t wind anymore then removed the crank to stun those looking on at the sound of clanks and a growing hum as it powered up readying for movement. The smaller four foot baby moose was cranked next followed by the duck that with a simple flick of the switch started the chuckle luring first step on the pallet.

Back around the baby moose you moved having flicked the switch on its side as you did that on the larger one that turned heads when the front and back left legs lifted to start walking. Open mouthed the crowd looked on as you guided the larger two statues off the pallets to enter the cleared path on the courtyard. Simple toggles of switches had the heads move to turn the pair and another to wiggle the ears.

“Oh my,” one of the judges stated looking in awe over the functioning moose duo that around you as the duck led its ducklings around the path you followed to circle the nearby fountain.

“She made functioning robots…” Howard muttered to himself and glanced at Jarvis only to look back at the sound of the gears slowing down causing the outer plates shifting around the moving joints, back and limb until the pair began to come to a stop as the duck continued to wander around a few moments more.

“How…?” another Professor spoke and you answered, “Well there’s no battery, just crank powered. Since it’s made of hundreds of pounds of solid steel it doesn’t run very long, but I was inspired by Grandfather Clocks.” Another crank of the animals was called for so they could get to test the switches and get closer looks at the moving components inside until the group had to move on and simply the animals were up to being photographed some more back on their pallets that when the demonstration was through were loaded onto the trailer the guys had borrowed from a neighbor to bring the animals home. At least there you and Erik could make them work much longer and improve upon the designs at your whims to at least make the ducks run longer for the older children to play with. And when he sat down for lunch while you started to nurse your girls he asked, “And just how long did they give you to build those?”

.

The following morning wasn’t free of any nerves as the duo were amongst the hundreds who came to this museum sized gallery that had been chosen. Different days the gallery would be filled with each class the Professor instructed and today following the order of how your easels had been lined up you got a few peeks at the other student’s pieces until you found yours in the last section opposite the young woman’s artwork on display. Soon the numbers began to grow and while you tried to answer as many questions on they style as possible you couldn’t ignore the number of cameras being snuck in by those Eddie could tell were from papers throughout Canada. Chatter however in the distance had grown and waned in the path of a particular group.

Salvador Dali, Hemingway, T.S Eliot on a working vacation of sorts had made a stop here today having read about the show in the paper. More than a few pieces inspired by the famed painter got ample comments until saved for last the Professor slid into the room listening to their impressions of each students’ sketches and paintings. Every story shared of the final paintings were noted down and quietly you listened yourself as the other young woman opposite you spoke hers then listened to comments and was freed herself. Finally the crowd who had waited around stood in wait as the group asked you about each sketch that seemed to be more impressive than the last at the varied tries of each style. Including a sketch that was in Dali’s style that made him grin your way, “I just may have to convince you to sell me this one.”

The grin that eased across your face shifted to Hemmingway in his asking about your portraits, “You painted a soldier? Was the roof leaking, that why he’s hiding his head?”

Softly you chuckled and answered, “These are my husband James.” That turned his gaze to you a moment then back to the portrait as you said, “When we were in Europe we made more than a few stops in brothels along the way. This one James got stuck babysitting me and when he found a tub in our hotel next door we could take turns in a few of the guys came upstairs and there wasn’t a lock. So he sat against the door with his coat over his head in my turn, and while I dried and combed my hair he took his own turn.”

Elliot chuckled and said, “It is a striking memory to capture on an easel.”

The Professor asked as Hemmingway moved a bit closer as if to decipher which brothel neighboring a hotel this was, “You stopped in brothels often?”

“No secret men at war crave companionship. Most of the time when we crossed paths with other platoons their men were too distracted by the brothel to notice I was there.”

Hemmingway stated, “Must have been a harrowing trial in your lifetime to be thrown into war so young. We are all amply fortunate you do not exude grimmer angles of those experiences outside of what you publish in your comics.”

A statement which had your Professor state, “Those are fiction.”

A statement that had the author who had been there himself including your arrival at Normandy say, “No, they are not. Saw more than one Battle Bunny and Venom freed city myself. Every issue rings far truer than some might claim to believe.” His eyes locked on you and he said, “I have seen you tear planes from the sky and machine guns from those hill hidden bunkers. To not have chosen to show that is great courage to bear what you have on your heart rather than your wrist.”

Dali said, “And the care you have taken of these shoulder blades, no detail of his strength missed. Bold choice. A show of relaxation and hunched focus and tension, excellent contrast.” Around your back James folded as the Professor gave his own comments and took notes on his way to make another round of everyone’s art to hear what newly arrived people were saying. The artist when he was gone crept closer to your side making you smile as he said, “Do not mind his opinion. You have captured Monet’s style with ease and respect to his technique.”

A lunch after when the works were boxed up and taken to be locked in the trunks of your cars with the famous faces was highly documented. Including the signing of the sketch you passed over to Dali and the ones that Elliot and Hemmingway chose for their own collections to leave you the ones you preferred to your own tastes and the pair you had painted of James.

No shortage of people had claims of having met you and gotten signatures and moments to speak with you on various subjects slipped in between more thoughts on your work. These pieces of art gave way to more as riding on the tails of this showing of your artistic skills like that for Kodak before led into the release of your second photography book that exceeded the sales of the first and had four signings in Canada with two settled for when you would get back to New York just like the last time. Stops that would distract you until you would receive copies of your transcript to take back with you to Barnard on how you scored in your summer courses.

Pt 79

All –

@sherala007​, @mariannetora​​, @jesgisborne​, @knitastically​, @catthefearless​​, @theincaprincess, ggbbhehe4455, @lilith15000​​, @alishlieb​​,

Not nsfw(smut) - @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​

X Marvel-Cast - @himoverflowers​, @theincaprincess​​

Brother Dearest - @thorinanddwalinsdwarrowdam​​, @swoopswishsward

[thewidowsghost]

The Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 7

(Y/n)'s  POV

The next few days I settle into a routine that feels almost normal if you don't count the fact that I am getting lessons from satyrs, nymphs, and a centaur.

Each morning I take Ancient Greek with Annabeth, and we talk about the gods and goddesses in the present tense, which is kind of weird. I discover that Annabeth is right about my dyslexia: Ancient Greek isn't hard for me to read. At least, no harder than English. After a few mornings, I can read a few lines of Homer without too much headache.

The rest of the day, I'd rotate through outdoor activities, looking for something Percy and I are good at. Chiron tries to teach Percy archery, but the three of us find out pretty quickly that he isn't any good with a bow and arrow, but I find that I was pretty okay at it.

The only thing Percy and I excelled at is canoeing, and that isn't the kind of heroic skill people expect to see from the kids who had beaten the Minotaur.

I know the senior counselors are watching the two of us, trying to decide who our dad is, but they aren't having an easy time of it. Percy and I aren't as strong as the Ares kids, or as good at archery as the Apollo kids. I don't have Hepheastus's skill with metalwork or - gods forbid - Dionysus's with vine plants. Luke tells me and Percy one night that we might be children of Hermes, a jack-of-all-trades, master of none. But I get the feeling that he is just trying to make us feel better. He didn't know what to make of us either.

One day, I am out by the canoe lake, just sitting on the dock, when I look over my shoulder to see Annabeth walking down the dock. She silently sits down beside me.

"Whatcha thinking about?" Annabeth wonders and I gather my thoughts before speaking.

"What if I'm not good at anything? What happens if I never get claimed?" I look over, my sea-green eyes meeting Annabeth's stormy-gray eyes.

Annabeth's gaze is slightly sympathetic and when she answers, her response doesn't really make me feel better. "You'd stay in the Hermes cabin."

I nod before gazing down the calm water of the lake again.

. . .

Thursday afternoon, three days after I'd arrived at Camp Half-Blood, I have my first sword-fighting lesson. Everyone from Cabin Eleven gathers in the big circular arena, where Luke would be our instructor.

We start with basic stabbing and slashing, using some straw-stuffed dummies in Greek armor.

I can't feel a blade that feels right in my hands. Either they are too heavy, or too light, or too long. Luke tries his best to fix me up, but he agrees that none of the practice blades seem to work for me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Annabeth and Chiron standing at the entrance of the arena.

We move to duel in pairs and Luke announces that he would be my partner, and Percy would have an older camper since it's our first time.

"Good luck," one of the campers tells me. "Luke's the best swordsman in the last three hundred years."

I face Luke, an uneasy expression on my face and he shoots me a reassuring smile.

3rd Person POV

Annabeth and Chiron watch (Y/n) and Luke's demonstration, and even Chiron is slightly interested as he watches (Y/n).

Luke thrusts his sword forward and (Y/n) instinctively sidesteps, and Luke, expecting to hit (Y/n)'s shield, stumbles forward.

Luke's eyes narrow and he presses her with more force.

(Y/n) steps forward and tries a thrust of her own and Luke deflects it easily.

The two's blades clash over and over again for a minute or so when the sword in (Y/n)'s hand grows heavy; the balance not quite right.

She tries the disarming maneuver that Luke had been talking about earlier.

(Y/n)'s blade hits the base of Luke's and she twists, putting her whole weight into a downward thrust.

Clang!

Luke's sword rattles against the stone; (Y/n)'s blade is an inch from his undefended chest.

The other campers are silent.

(Y/n) lowers her sword. "Sorry," she says sheepishly.

For a moment, Luke is too stunned to speak.

"Sorry?" his scarred face breaks into a grin. "By the gods, (Y/n), why are you sorry? Show me that again!"

This time, there is only a little bit of sparring before Luke hits the hilt of (Y/n)'s sword and sends it skidding across the floor.

After a long pause, someone in the audience says, "Beginner's luck?"

Luke wipes the sweat off his brow, appraising (Y/n) with an entirely new interest. "Maybe," he says. "But I wonder what (Y/n) could do with a balanced sword. . ."

. . .

Friday night, after dinner, there is a lot more excitement than usual.

At last, it's time for capture the flag.

When the plates are cleared away, the conch horn sounds, and all the campers stand at their tables.

Campers yell and cheer as Annabeth and two of her siblings run into the pavilion carrying a silk banner. It is about ten feet long, glistening gray, with a painting of a barn owl above an olive tree. From the opposite side of the pavilion, Clarisse and her buddies run in with another banner, of identical size, but gaudy red, painted with a blood spear and a boar's head.

Percy turns to Luke and yells over the noise, "Those are the flags?"

"Yeah."

"Ares and Athena always lead the teams?" (Y/n) asks curiously.

"Not always," he answers. "But often."

"So, if another cabin captures one, what do you do - repaint the flag?" Percy asks.

He grins. "You'll see. First, we have to get one."

Luke fives Percy a sly look, as if he knows something the other two don't. The scar on his face makes Luke look almost evil in the torchlight. "We've made a temporary alliance with Athena. Tonight, we get the flag from Ares. And you are going to help."

The teams are announced. Athena had allied with Apollo and Hermes, the two biggest cabins. Privileges had been traded —shower times, chore schedules, the best slots for activities—to win support.

Ares had allied themselves with everybody else: Dionysus, Demeter, Aphrodite, and Hephaestus. From what Percy'd seen, Dionysus's kids were good athletes, but there were only two of them. Demeter's kids had the edge with nature skills and outdoor stuff, but they weren't very aggressive. Aphrodite's sons and daughters he wasn't too worried about. They mostly sat out every activity and checked their reflections in the lake and did their hair and gossiped. Hephaestus's kids weren't pretty, and there were only four of them, but they were big and burly from working in the metal shop all day. They might be a problem. That, of course, left Ares's cabin: a dozen of the biggest, ugliest, meanest kids on Long Island, or anywhere else on the planet.

Chiron hammers his hoof on the marble.

"Heroes!" he announces. "You all know the rules. The creek is the boundary line. The entire forest is fair game. All magic items are allowed. The banner must be prominently displayed, and have no more than two guards. Prisoners may be disarmed, but may not be bound or gagged. No killing or maiming is allowed. I will serve as referee and battlefield medic. Arm yourselves!"

He spreads his hand and the tables are suddenly coated in metal equipment: helmets, bronze swords, speaks, oxhide shields covered in metal.

"Whoa!" Percy says. "We're supposed to use these?"

Luke looks at him as if he's crazy. "Unless you want to get skewered by your friends in cabin five. Here — Chiron thought these would fit. You'll be on border patrol, (Y/n), you're with me, I want to see what you can do with that sword."

Luke hands (Y/n) a circular shield and she straps it onto her arm. She tests the weight of the shield and is satisfied with the fact that it's not too light or too heavy.

Annabeth yells, "Blue Team, forward!"

The Blue Team cheers and shakes their swords and follows her down the path to the south side of the woods. The Red Team yells taunts at them as they head off to the north.

Percy manages to catch up to Annabeth, (Y/n) at his heels, without Percy tripping over his heavy equipment.

"Hey," Percy says; Annabeth keeps marching. "So what's the plan?" he asks. "Got any magic items you can loan me?"

Annabeth's hand drifts towards her pocket, as if afraid he'd taken something.

"Just watch Clarisse's spear," she tells Percy. "You don't want that thing touching you. Otherwise, don't worry. We'll take the banner from Ares. (Y/n), come with me."

With a blink, the two girls had ran forward, leaving Percy in the dust. . . .

Once they're in positions, a conch horn blows, and (Y/n), who Annabeth had left with Luke, sneaks forward.

She moves forward a few yards and instinctively raises her shield against an Ares camper. (Y/n) thrusts her sword and the Ares camper sidesteps. Changing her momentum, (Y/n) does a spin, hitting the Ares camper in the stomach with her shield; the camper falls to the ground.

Feeling more confident in herself, (Y/n) slinks into the shadows, her shield and sword low as not to glow from any lights nearby.

(Y/n) makes it across the boundary into enemy territory and sneaks forward a few more yards until she hears Clarisse's voice, "Give him a haircut. Grab his hair."

(Y/n) changes direction, breaking into a run and then bursting from the line of trees.

The five Ares campers turn on her and three advance, Clarisse and another continuing to beat on Percy.

(Y/n) swings the flat of her sword and hits the first guy's head and he crumples to the ground.

Two other guys come at her and she slams her shield into one's face and uses her sword to shave off the horsehair plume on his helmet.

(Y/n) steps into the water and pulls her twin to his feet, feeling as though she'd eaten some of her mother's double espresso beans.

Clarisse and the fourth guy advance and the guy swing his sword, catching (Y/n)'s shield arm and leaving a huge cut, from her wrist to elbow.

Percy catches Clarisse's electric spear with the edge of his shield and sword and snaps it like a twig.

"Ah!" she yells. "You idiot! You corpse-breath worm!"

She probably would've said worse, but Percy smacks her between the eyes with his sword-but and sends her stumbling backward out of the creek.

Then the twins hear yelling, elated screams, and see Luke raising towards the boundary line with the red team's banner lifted high. He is flanked by a couple of Hermes guys covering his retreat, and a few Apollos behind them, fighting off the Hephaestus kids. The Ares folks get up and Clarisse mutters a dazed curse.

"A trick!" Clarisse screams. "It was a trick."

The Ares kids stagger after Luke, but it's too late. Everyone converges on the creek as Luke runs across into friendly territory. The Blue team explodes into cheers and the red banner shimmers and turns to silver. The boar and spear are replaced with a huge caduceus, the symbol of Cabin Eleven. Everyone on the Blue Team picks up Luke and starts carrying him around on their shoulders. Chiron canters out from the woods and blows the conch horn.

(Y/n)'s POV

The game was over. We'd won.

Percy and I are about to join the celebration when Annabeth's voice, right next to me in the creek, says, "Not bad, hero."

I look, an eyebrow quirked, but Annabeth isn't there.

"Where the heck did you learn to fight like that?" Annabeth asks. The air shimmers, and she materialized, holding a Yankees baseball cap as if she'd just taken it off her head.

"You set me up," Percy says, looking slightly angry. "You put me here because you knew Clarisse would come after me, while you sent Luke around the flank. You had it all figured out."

Annabeth shrugs, "I told you. Athena always, always has a plan."

"A plan to get my pulverized," Percy retorts.

"I came as fast as I could. I was about to step in . . ." she shrugs. "You didn't need help."

Then she notices my wounded arm. "How did you do that?"

"It's a sword cut," I respond. "Where do you think it came from?"

"No. It was a sword cut," Annabeth says. "Look at it."

I look down. The blood is gone; where the huge cut had been, there is a long white scratch, and even that is fading. As I watch, it turns into a small scar and disappears.

"I - I don't get it," I stutter.

Annabeth is thinking hard. I can almost see the gears turning. She looks down at my feet, then at Clarisse's broken spear, and says, "Step out of the water, (Y/n)."

"What -" I question.

"Just do it."

I step out of the creek and immediately feel bone tired. I almost fall over but Annabeth steadies me.

"Oh, Styx," she curses. "This is not god. I didn't want . . . I assumed it would be Zeus . . ."

Before I can ask what she means, I hear a canine grows.

A howl rips through the forest.

The campers' cheering dies instantly. Chiron shots something in Ancient Greek, "Stand ready! My bow!"

Annabeth draws her sword.

There on the rocks, just above us is a black hound the size of a rhino, with lava-red eyes and fangs like daggers.

And it's looking right at me.

Nobody moves except Annabeth, who yells, "(Y/n), run!"

She tries to step in front of me, but the hound is too fast. It leaps over her - an enormous shadow with teeth - and just as it hits me, as I stumble backward and feel its razor-sharp claws ripping through my armor.

There is a cascade of thwacking sounds, like forty pieces of paper being ripped one after another; from the hound's sprouts a cluster of arrows.

The monster falls dead at my feet.

By some miracle, I am alive. I don't want to look underneath the ruins of my shredded armor and sway a little. My chest feels warm and wet, and I know I am badly cut. Another second and the monster would've turned me into a hundred pounds of deli meat.

Chiron trots up next to us, a bow in his hand, his face grim.

"Di immortales!" Annabeth says softly. "That's a hellhound from the Fields of Punishment. They don't...they're not supposed to..."

"Someone summoned it," Chiron murmurs. "Someone inside the camp."

Luke comes over, the banner in his hand forgotten, his moment of glory gone.

Clarisse yells, "It's all Percy's fault! Percy summons it!"

"Be quiet, child," Chiron tells her.

We watch the body of the hellhound melts into the shadow, soaking into the ground as it disappears.

"You're wounded," Annabeth tells me. "Quick, (Y/n), get in the water."

I'm too tired to argue and I step back into the creek, the whole camp gathering around me.

Instantly, I fell better; I fell the cuts on my chest closing up.

Some of the campers gasp.

"Look, I - I don't know why," I say, trying to apologize. "I'm sorry . . ."

But they aren't watching my wounds heal, they're staring up at something above mine and Percy's heads.

"(Y/n), Percy," Annabeth says, pointing. "Um . . ."

By the time I look up, the sign is already fading, but I can still make out the hologram of green light, spinning and gleaming.

A three-tipped spear: a trident.

"Your father," Annabeth murmurs. "This is really not good."

All around me, campers start kneeling, even Ares cabin, though they don't look happy about it.

"Our father?" Percy asks, looking completely bewildered.

"Poseidon," says Chiron. "Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus and (Y/n) Jackson, Son, and Daughter of the Sea God."

Word Count: 2641 words

[carewyncromwell]

Hi everybody! In the past, I’ve done “inspiration posts” where I talk about the people/characters/historical figures and even the fancasts behind some of my MC’s (see Jacob’s, Lane’s, Carewyn’s, Jackson’s, and Bat’s at their respective links!)...and I decided why not do the same for my newest HPMA MC, my Muggle cinnamon roll, Farid Sikander?

One of my single favorite aspects of the film Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was the inclusion of the character of Jacob Kowalski. The Potterverse really hadn’t done much to highlight the oddly draconian split between the Muggle and Wizarding Worlds and how much that split could affect someone trapped between the two. We gather that Snape’s parents’ marriage had some turmoil because Eileen was a witch and Tobias was a Muggle, and we learn that Seamus Finnigan’s father had had no clue his wife and son had magic until Seamus got his letter, but that’s just about it. And in my own stories, I’ve tried to explore that divide further, such as with Carewyn’s backstory where her and Jacob’s Muggle father abandoned his family upon learning about Jacob’s magic. But after dwelling on how I had yet to create a single Hufflepuff-sorted MC, I started to brainstorm what that kind of a character could even look like -- and the first two things I thought of were Newt Scamander (a Hufflepuff alumni himself) and Yugi Mutou from the anime Yu-Gi-Oh: Duel Monsters! 

...Okay, that second one seems a bit out of left field, but to me, Yugi encapsulates the true heroism of Hufflepuff ideals. While his “other half” Yami Yugi (A.K.A. Pharaoh Atem) saves the day through ridiculously clever and resourceful gameplays, Yugi often ends up succeeding because of the strong bonds of friendship he’s forged, which in turn largely come about because of his kindness, selflessness, and unshakeable loyalty. In one chapter early on in the manga which is referenced later in the show, Yugi witnesses his school bullies Honda and Jounouchi getting beaten within an inch of their lives, and even with everything these bullies did to him, Yugi still barrels in front of them and tries to protect them, crying out at the boy hurting them that he won’t let him hurt “his friends.” It’s this compassion that ends up solidifying Yugi’s, Honda’s, and Jounouchi’s friendship, to the point that both Yugi and Jounouchi show the willingness to risk their lives for each other several times throughout the series. It��s this same compassion that ends up softening the ruthless heart of an ancient Pharaoh enough that he sees this small, seemingly pathetic boy who shares his body as his “partner.” And it’s this same compassion that made Yugi my favorite character in the entire show and (on a personal note) my very first anime bishie! XD

As this new character’s outline developed and began to take on shades of Newt by becoming a fellow creature lover, I found myself revisiting my thoughts about Jacob Kowalski, as well as how much more I’d wished they’d done with him in Crimes of Grindelwald. What if I could use this character I was creating as a thought experiment -- making him a Muggle and placing him in the HPMA timeline post-Second-Wizarding-War, so that he could maybe explore some untouched territory regarding the relationship between the Muggle and Wizarding Worlds post-Voldemort? I’d even already plotted out a quasi-backstory for Arif Sikander previously where his Squib brother married a Muggle and had a family who Arif was alienated from due to his magical ancestry -- this character could be Arif’s nephew! So now this character -- who I’d decided to call Farid -- was really starting to take shape. Now all that was left was hammering out the details. A Muggle in the Wizarding World would have a lot of challenges and might end up getting into some really dangerous situations without being able to use magic to defend himself, but perhaps if he had a usually dangerous and untamable magical creature at his side that could watch his back, maybe it’d be easier. And after consulting my own copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and considering auguries and dragons, I came across the passage on phoenixes and realized -- Fawkes. We never learn what happened to him after he flew away, after Dumbledore’s funeral! As soon as that thought took root, everything else came together -- why Farid was thrown into the Wizarding World, what his core storyline is, and even what his character arc should be...finding inspiration in the courage that comes so naturally to Fawkes, the way Farid’s loyalty inspired Fawkes to stand by him. 

Visually speaking, Farid’s face claim is Dev Patel. As a boy, he most closely resembles Dev in The Personal History of David Copperfield (though not from a fashion point of view), while as a young adult with a full beard, he resembles him more in The Green Knight. 

[mjolnir-viking-jewelry]

Skull mjolnir pendant - 249$ ★Material: High Quality Solid 960 Sterling Silver★

◉ Medium Thor Hammer: Weight: approx 45 grams (1,6 oz) Width: 45 mm (1,77 inches) Height: 35 mm (1,37 inches) Two-sided Mjolnir Pendant

◉ Large Thor Hammer: Weight: approx 75 grams (2,64 oz) Width: 50 mm (1,96 inches) Height: 45 mm (1,77 inches) Two-sided Mjolnir Pendant

   Introducing our remarkable "Skull Thor Hammer" pendant, a meticulously crafted masterpiece that incorporates the design of the renowned Viking Age helmet. Drawing inspiration from the iconic "Ultuna Helmet," which derives its name from the excavation site in Uppland, Sweden, this pendant embodies the distinctive style of the pre-Viking or Vendel era. The original helmet, discovered in the 7th or 8th century, serves as a remarkable testament to the artistry of that time.    Made with precision and care, our finely crafted sterling silver Mjolnir necklace is not only a splendid gift but also a potent protective amulet for your loved ones. Thor, the valiant son of Odin and the earth goddess Jord, assumed the role of defender, safeguarding both gods and humanity from the clutches of malevolent monsters and towering giants. With his mighty iron hammer, Mjolnir, notable for its short handle, Thor traversed the skies. In Norse mythology, Thor's Hammer stands as one of the most fearsome weapons, capable of demolishing mountains with its indomitable power. Infused with magical properties, the Thor Hammer possessed the ability to restore life to animals, defy death itself, bestow fertility, and usher in prosperity.    The Vikings, cognizant of the Mjolnir necklace's protective qualities, wore it as a formidable amulet, shielding themselves from the perils of malicious creatures, curses, and enemies. This Nordic talisman exudes tremendous power, serving as an unwavering defense against negative energies and malevolent forces. The Thor Hammer pendant carries the blessings of luck and possesses the ability to neutralize harmful energy and curses. It instills unwavering confidence in one's abilities and offers unwavering support in all aspects of life.    Our "Skull Thor Hammer" pendant is an exceptional example of Viking jewelry, showcasing the fusion of the iconic helmet design with the might and symbolism of Mjolnir. It stands as a testament to the wearer's appreciation for Norse mythology and serves as a striking adornment, showcasing the wearer's exquisite taste and admiration for the Viking heritage.

[littlemoondarlingarts]

Unfortunately it happened

A short story about two of my ocs that I've been writing for a while, please read the trigger warnings carefully before proceeding to the story.

Genre: magical realism with hints of psychological horror.

Word count: 4293 words.

Tw: Abuse, domestic abuse, past abuse, ptsd, hallucinations, claustrophobic scenes, blood, glass shards, mild sexual scene, possible sexual assault, disrespecting the boundaries of an autistic child, abandonment issues.

If there are any more possible trigger warnings that I didn't write, please let me know.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The thick warm blood irregularly dripped onto the rotting floor as Theodore tried to wrestle out the large glass shard that was lodged deep in his skull. He knew that pulling it out would only cause him to bleed more, but he had no other choice, his body just wouldn't heal around it. It's not like he could even go to a hospital. They ask questions there. Too many questions. He hissed in pain, fingers slipping over the smooth, wet surface, making the job ten times harder than what it already was.

Fear and pain overwhelmed his senses to the point where he couldn't even hear the squeaks of the wooden planks that normally annoyed him to no end. He only noticed that someone was in the small room with him when a pair of tiny pale feet stopped right infront of him.

"Stay back baby, there's glass on the floor." He let his hand fall down, the stubborn shard finally dislodged from his forehead, "Go back to your room, I'm okay." The obvious lie slipped through his blooded lips like smooth butter, if there was something Theodore excelled exceptionally at, it was lying with confidence so great that you would believe him over your very own eyes.

"Why don't you stop him?" Fran asked meekly, shoulders tense and lips pouty, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his favourite shirt violently enough to tear the delicate embroidery his dad had spend countless hours on.

Theodore lifted his head, his tired eyes taking in the heart wrenching sight of the boy he grew to call his son. Fran's whole body was trembling, his small fingers red and bruised from unconsciously fighting with the thread, his nose was swollen, the skin around his eyes was puffy. It was clear as day that the little boy had been crying for a while now.... probably since the fight started.

"Franny," Theo started softly, "I'm alright now. It's over, okay? Just go to your room, I'll follow you in a bit. Promise."

But the little vampire didn't budge, his cold feet planted firmly on the floor, lips forming a thin line accompanied by a deep frown barely hidden by loose white curls. Theodore sighed, he wanted so badly to hold his son's hands and carry him back to his room like he did every night before, but he was scared if he'd moved even an inch more he'd tear his shirt even further, revealing more bruises and cuts, subsequently traumatizing the boy more. So he stayed put.

"Why don't you stop him?" Fran repeated.

"Baby you know I-"

"WHY DON'T YOU STOP HIM?!"

The abrupt outburst took Theodore by surprise, making him flinch back on the bed. His wide blue eyes were chaotic as they searched the smaller one's face for any ounce of sympathy. It was silly, really, to be looking for such emotions in a clearly overwhelmed and traumatized kid, but Theo couldn't help himself, couldn't help the fear that was eating away at him, one angry word at a time.

"I know you can, Teddy. You used to stand up to daddy! And he was a VAMPIRE!" Fran said with a bit of pride in his voice, "You know what? I think we should go back to living with him! Maybe Elliot is waiting for us there! And the-"

"Elliot left. He isn't waiting for us anywhere, he doesn't want us anymore." Theodore shrunk back to himself when he noticed the amount of venom in his voice, "Besides Franny, you know I'll never let him hurt you. I'll never let anyone hurt you." He tried giving the most reassuring smile he could muster with the dull ache in his bruised cheeks.

Fran was silent for a long, dreadful second before hot tears raced down his face, "You can't even protect yourself..."

That sentence was like a punch to the gut. He never thought about the consequences that their constant fighting had on his son. He thought, no, he made himself believe that as long as Fran was in no immediate physical danger, everything was okay. It almost frightened him just how much he was willing to ignore and sweep under the rug just to let himself feel like a good father.

"I don't feel safe here... I'm scared." Fran sniffled, "I'm scared that one day I'll wake up and-and find you dead!" It was getting harder for the little vampire to speak as the tears kept flowing, "Or.. or  that you would... would just leave me here like Elliot did... or.. or yo-" violent sobs wrecked his body, forbidding him from finishing his sentence.

Theodore was lost. He promised Rouge and Elliot.. fuck those two, he promised himself that he would give Fran the best life possible, and yet here he is... shaking and wailing helplessly... He needed to do something, and he needed to do it fast. But what? What could he do?

What would dad have done? Dad wouldn't let himself be in this fucking situation. But if he was ... what would he have done?? Theodore's hands were now shaking uncontrollably as he tried to think of an answer. He would've pulled me close. Held me tight in his arms and told me that he'll keep me safe no matter what. That everything will be okay. Yes. Yes... that's what he would've done.

And so he reached forward, taking the now bloodied tiny hands in his and pulling Fran into his arms, holding the sobbing boy as tight as he could.

But the truth is. What his father would've done is vastly different that what Theodore should've done. Because in that moment of pure loss and desperation, he forgot one crucial detail... Fran can't handle being touched. Especially not being hugged.

Fran yanked himself backwards with powers unnatural to him, his body was sent flying until he hit the floor with a loud thud that almost made Theodore's heart stop, but to the boy, anything was better then being held like that.

"Franny... I'm so sorry... I forgo-" Before he could finish his sentence, the vampire was on his feet and running out the room. His loud footsteps quickly fading into nothingness before the deafening slam of a door shook the old house to it's core.

Theodore let himself fall back on the bed, sending small dust particles flying all over him and irritating his allergies. He quickly placed a hand over his nose to stop himself from inhaling any of that dust, he can't afford having his brains ooze out his wounds if he sneezed.

His eyes closed before he could decide otherwise. It's okay... it will be okay.. he'd probably gone to bed now, I should do that too. Tomorrow will be different, it will be better, I'll make some scrambled eggs and bacon.. wait no, Fran is a vegetarian you idiot, he doesn't eat that shit!... fuck. I can make uh... grilled cheese sandwiches.. yeah he'll surely like that....

But deep down Theodore knew that he isn't a kid that can go to bed when he is tired or in pain anymore, he is an adult now, with a kid of his own and all the responsibilities that come with it..

The obnoxious sound of the sports channel blaring from the living room and the rhythmic pouring of rain on the window along with phantom barking of a distant dog were like a hammer smashing into Theodore's head over and over again. Every little sound was cranked up to a hundred, even his own heartbeating was agonizing.

He forced his body to sit back up, becoming face to face with the long mirror nailed to the wall which seemed to be closing in on him. Theodore instinctively pushed himself backwards until his back hit the cold wall as the room began fold in on itself until the mirror was nearly touching his feet. He wrapped his arms around his body in an attempt to ground himself as his claustrophobia kicked in and his breathing quickened to a painful degree.

He forced his eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the walls that were now touching every inch of him. And his thoughts drifted back to the only place they could... Is it possible Franny is scared like this now? He feels unsafe.. he said that himself.. I can't just leave him alone in his room until the next sunset... that's not what dad would've done.. that's..that's what mom did... leave me alone and ignore me when I needed her most then pretend nothing happened the next day... that's what I was going to do...

The thought made his eyes shoot open only to be faced with her image in the mirror, blue eyes staring down at him with familiar disappointment. His blood boiled. He is becoming her! Repeating the cycle of neglectful abuse and torment until noone survives. In a moment of blind rage he balled his fist and swiftly moved to shatter the mirror and all the pain it was causing, but he found himself slammed to the floor, bloody knuckles causing a dent in it... it seems as tho the wall was still as far away as it always had been.

He stayed there for a moment, tears pouring down unapologetically as he tried to compose himself. He soon found enough willpower to stand up, but before he could take a step forward, sharp pain shot up straight to his head, forcing him to grab onto the nearest wall for balance.

Once the pain dulled down enough for him to be able to open his eyes, he looked down at the apparent source, only to see that his right ankle had doubled in size, blue and swollen as if there was a tennis ball underneath the skin. He rested the back of his head on the window, feeling the cold droplets of rain leaking through and falling on his cheeks.

He sighed, he would heal, he always did. But it would take time, and unlike Silas, this fucker never cared for him after beating him up. Theodore chuckled to himself, never in a million years did he think he would use Silas as a positive example for anything, goes to show just how low his life had sunk.

Nevertheless, he needs to persist, not for himself but for the little vampire that depended on him.

He thought about taking a quick shower to wash off all the blood, but something told him not to, to just check on Fran as soon as possible, and Theodore's gut feeling had never failed him before, so he always followed it, even if he knew that his son was safe in his bed, wrapped in a fluffy blanket that Theo had spent all his money on. He smiled, remembering how Franny's eyes twinkled when he first saw the bee pattern on it. Oh how he wishes he would see him this happy every second of every day.

Still smiling, he managed to take off the ripped shirt without aggravating his injuries too much. He held the black tee in his hands, staring at the bright neon pink "Angel♡" written on it in a metal font with the white signature of the singer along the neck.

He got this shirt 2 years back when he went to the live performance, Angel wasn't even the main performer back then, they were merely the opening act. Given how small they were, they didn't have a signing booth, it was actually pure luck that Theodore managed to meet them outside while they were waiting for a taxi.

And he thought that Rouge was tall! Angel was at least eight feet, to the point where he felt like a little cat after cranking his neck up so high just to be able to see their face, and what a truly terrifying face it was! Almost nightmarish with their black bug eyes and their long pointy teeth! But they were nice, maybe a bit blunt and lacking a social filter, but after being with Fran for a while, Theodore got used to unwanted comments... wait.. Fran... now THAT is what he was here to do!

He immediately put his favourite shirt down on a nearby wooden chair, promising to fix the rip the moment he can carry something as delicate as a needle without his hands shaking and dropping it, he threw on an oversized sweater that used to belong to Elliot, a pair of ghost patterned pyjama pants and made his way to the corridor.

Theodore was still grabbing onto the walls as he limbed his way to the door covered in stickers, it was slightly ajar which was strange considering that Fran had slammed it, but with how rusted the hinges are, anything is possible. He slowly pushed the door open, peering into the dark room, noticing how the moonlight softly illuminated the blanket-covered lump on the bed.

He should be happy? Maybe relieved? But instead, all he could feel is the bile rising to his throat, and he just couldn't tell why, perhaps he was just anxious about the impending talk. Yes. It must be that.

Theodore slowly stepped toward the small bed, feeling the mattress sink under his weight as he sat on it. "Hey Franny..." no answer, "It's me Teddy," again, nothing. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his aching neck, "listen I came here to apologise, and I... are you asleep??" He pulled down the blanket only to see that it was only a group of plushies in the vague shape of a kid.

Adrenaline shot through his body making him forget all about his pain and injuries as he quickly opened the closet, looked under the bed, tore the covers from the bed. Yet.... Fran is nowhere to be seen.

"FRAN!" Theodore yelled at the top of his lungs, "FRAAAANN!" He stood aimlessly in the little room filled with the missing boy's trinkets and drawings, his breath so fast he could hear it as he impatiently waited for an answer, "Baby where are you?!"

He could feel the little plushies staring at him, knowing where his baby is but not telling him, they don't want Fran to go back to being with such a horrible father. Theodore grabbed his son's favourite one, a large fluffy bee he had won for him during a passing carnival. He forcefully held it, his fingers smearing the blood all over the bright yellow as he shook it back and forth in the air.

"Where is he goddamn it! Where is he?" He screamed over and over again at the defenseless bee.

To anyone passing by, this seems like complete and utter madness, a father interrogating a stuffed animal instead of searching the whole house for his missing son? But to Theodore in the moment, it made sense. These plushies were the closest to the little vampire, they know his secrets and feelings more than Theo ever apparently did. So it must be obvious that they would be the ones knowing where his precious baby would be.

"I know you know! So just tell me!" His voice broke as a pained sob took over him, making him hold onto the door handle as his knees seemed to buckle under him. "I'll make it better... I swear.."

"He went out you crazy bitch!" The familiar gruff voice came from the living room, it was naturally loud enough to drown out everything else, even the news channel. Or perhaps that was just Theodore's mind only focusing on what matters to him, whichever case it was, he heard it loud and clear.

"What?" He whispered, soft and almost silent; like a deer caught in headlights, he couldn't move a single muscle in his body. He was painfully aware of this, too; the fact that he is just. Sitting. There. Like a useless piece of shit. His brain screamed at him to 'MOVE IT YOU FUCKER! MOVE!' But his body was almost paralyzed, unable to do anything, not even blink.

It may have taken mere seconds to get up and be in the living room, but it felt like years. Years of him being useless and worthless.

He ran down the short corridor.

He ran.

And ran.

And ran.

And with every step, the corridor seemed to stretch further and further, the end feeling more like a mirage as countless doors strung on the walls. Screams were erupting from behind them, defeaning and terrifying. A minute of thinking would've made him recognize the voice as Fran's, and this was one of the many instances where he regretted ever doing that. Theodore shut his eyes, covering his ears with his hands and just ran forward like a fish in the deep dark ocean where the sun can't reach.

"What do you mean?" His voice was erratic when he finally made it to the living room, gripping the worn down sofa that his "boyfriend" was sitting calmly on, as if a kid isn't out in the dark and rain all on his own.

"He's just breathing some air after all that shit you caused!" The man turned to look at him, "You think I didn't hear all that? Well news flash baby, I have ears."

His absolute nonchalance about the whole thing was irritating Theodore to no end, and Theodore wore his emotions on his sleeves. His eyes darkened dangerously as he almost felt himself growl, but he had to control himself as that would definitely get him another beer bottle to the head.

The man chuckled softly, putting his large hand on top of Theodore's much tinier one, "You're too worried about him, Francis is-"

"Fran." He corrected in a low, deep voice.

"Whatever, same thing. Point is, he is a little man now! If he wants to go out and calm his nerves after you wrecked them, then let him!" He smiled, trying to pull the shorter man towards him, but he didn't budge. "Listen baby, you need to give him some time to work out his emotions, stop getting in his business you little helicopter!"

The man pulled again, this time successfully getting the half dissociated Theodore around the sofa and onto his lap. When he said it like that.... it almost made sense. Fran isn't eight and he really was hurt by all that Theo had done tonight and most nights before that, he does need some time to process all that. Or maybe that was just his way of feeling less guilty, believing that this is just a natural reaction rather than face the fact that his son's terrible immune system won't handle the cold and rain.

"That's right baby," the man held Theodore close, and like a moth to flame he leaned into it, craving any sort of affection and sympathy, "calm down now," his rough hands gently petted Theo's curls which were now matted with a mixture of blood, bear and sweat, "it's all okay," He moved his hand down, moving over Theodore's back in slow and rhythmic circles. "Daddy's here," testing his luck, the man moved his hand further down and gripped Theodore's buttocks firmly.

This sent reality crushing down on the poor man, this isn't okay. Nothing about a frail and sickly eleven year old kid being alone outside in the raining night in a place surrounded with dangerous wildlife is okay. No matter how hard he wants to shake the guilt off. How hard he wants to lean into this rare moment of gentleness. He can't. Not when his son is all alone. Not in a million years.

Theodore placed his hands on his boyfriend's large chest and pushed himself off his lap, getting to his feet as quickly as he can without losing his balance and running to the door as if he is a prisoner that just found the keys.

"Well fuck you too slut! I never wanted your trashy ass anyway! Go get eaten by wolves! You and your annoying ass kid!"

But Theodore had already made it outside and started the long process of running around aimlessly and yelling Fran's name at the top of his lungs. After thoroughly running through the front yard, he took a deep freezing breath and made his way into the surrounding woods where the fading moonlight didn't reach.

He quickly lit up the lighter, the rain putting out the flame before he could do anything, so he bent down, wrapping his body around it like a deer would to her fawn, and tried lighting it up again. The small flame persisted long enough for it to turn blue and be transferred onto Theodore's palm.

He extended the demonic flame infront of his face, making his eyes twinkle with otherworldly lights, he was hoping that animals would find it's strange color intimidating rather than inviting, and that Fran would recognize it as his and find him. Clearly too much faith in a silly little flame, even if it is magical in nature.

Theodore's feet got sliced and bruised by the rocks and thorns on the ground, but nevertheless he persisted, his dark fingers gripping the ancient trunks for dear life, not caring about the skin being scratched and peeled off if them.

He opened his mouth to yell for his boy, "Fraaan.." he coughed, hoping that his voice would come back, "Fra.... fuck me." His voice was gone, almost completely after the endless screaming and yelling he did this night, both while searching for Fran and the big fuckin fight that had happened before.

With no voice to speak of, Theodore felt... weak. He couldn't yell for Fran and the hope that the boy would see the flame on his own and follow it is... statistically very low. He was defeated. He failed himself, his father, Fran... everyone that can be failed.

He made his way out of the forest, he had already searched the surrounding area on foot. He had the small tiny twinkle of hope that Fran had made his way back home alone, that he really was just breathing some air. That he is now safe and cuddled underneath the blanket. Safe. And sound.

Theodore stood infront of the closed door. Body shaking from the cold rain and pain, he stood there for a while, just letting the tears silently fall down, not daring to go inside and face the truth.

"Teddy?" A small familiar voice echoed in his head, making him smile a little. He had been first given that nickname by his mom, but now that Franny used to call him that, it no longer feels... humiliating. It feels warm and comfortable, it feels like a purpose and having someone that depends on you and trusts you.

"Teddy!" The small voice came again, this time angrier, like a tiny kitten's hiss.

Is it possible that this.. isn't in Theodore's head? That Fran was actually yelling for him?

He tore his eyes away from the door and looked around, and sure enough, he easily spotted the head of white fluffy hair struggling to get out of under his boyfriend's car.

Theodore rushed to help his son get out without being scratched or injured, he held the boy's tiny hands and pulled slowly, stopping to fluff down his shirt to make the sliding easier. Once his bottom was out, his short legs were an easy task.

"Thank gawd! I thought I was gonna be stuck under there forever! Or that that bastard was gonna drive tomorrow and I'll become tomato paste!" The little boy was flailing his arms around as he spoke, finally settling for a dramatic break as while saying "tomato paste!"

He tried keeping himself composed, he really did, slowly stroked his son's curls, but quickly enough Theodore crumbled. Exhaustion, pain and all that worry that he was barely holding, finally broke him. He hid his face behind his hands as he cried uncontrollably. His drenched shoulders shaking with each painful sob.

"Teddy?" Fran asked worriedly, his soft voice kept quiet as if Theodore was a rabbit that he didn't want to scare off. "Why are you crying?"

It might seem like a stupid question given the circumstances, and if it was anyone else, Theodore would've given them the deathglare. But he knew that Franny genuinely couldn't understand the consequences of actions, wether they were his own or others. So he simply sniffled and smiled as bright as he could, resuming to fluff up his baby's hair.

Fran's face scrunched up as if he had tasted a lemon, his soft features all grouping in the middle of his face. But he didn't mind this, not really, he just found it fun to do this face because he doesn't get to often. And Theodore knows this, they spoke about this before... before this..  him.

"I wanna sleeeeeeeeeeep." Fran whined while pouting, earning him an honest chuckle from his dad.

Theodore opened his arms as his son jumped up, landing perfectly on his waiting shoulder. Fran swung his feet, accidentally hitting his father's chest a few times, not too many times tho as he was doing his absolute best to avoid it. But that swinging was making it harder for Theo to safely stand up, but he made do and made his way back indoors carrying his son like a sack of potatoes, which is the only way Franny likes to be held.

Deep in his mind, Theodore knew that this won't be the end of this abusive relationship, he was too dependent, too afraid of being abandoned and left alone to leave. But the cracks were only becoming more and more prominent, and hell was knocking on their door.

[i-mybrunettelady]

Not a Mordrem

Slight preface: This has very much been sitting in my head for a few days now, and after all the El asks I’ve done these past few days, a general desire to write and conversations with a guildie of mine, I’ve decided to actually write this down.

This is not a happy fic, but it ended up having a sorta happy end. You’ve been warned. It’s HoT and HoT is very sad. Elandrin, I’m so sorry in advance. Also  warnings for (albeit not graphic) violence, a dollop of racism against the sylvari and curses. Also vague HoF spoilers.

It starts as a headache, not a particularly pleasant one but again, few headaches ever are, and El has dealt with a lot of them so it’s usually easy to ignore it till it passes. Except this one doesn’t, but he tries anyway, checking his battle knives high in the air as Vengeance Rising glides through it.

“Brother,” a voice says. El jerks to look around, but he’s alone in the cabin. He’s hardly slept the night before out of jitters so maybe it’s his exhaustion speaking. He rises from the chair to open the door but finds nobody there. His head throbs a little more strongly and he feels the pull to go to the main deck and watch the people - he doesn’t necessarily fancy seeing charr snouts and asura claws but it gnaws at him and he’s unable to resist the temptation to see why.

The sylvari all appear to have identical frowns upon their faces when he arrives. The others keep staring at them, wondering why, and really, why are they all frowning, like their heads hurt really badly? And there’s a tense atmosphere, as if something is about to snap, as if-

Then the vines come and El, in his shock, forgets to thank the Pale Tree he didn’t bring his dagger with him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is anyone alive?” a female voice shouts.

It takes him a moment to gain a sense of his surroundings. He’s laying in mud, beside a heavy piece of metal that only missed an inch away from his head, his side throbs and everything around him is green.

“Over here!” he shouts back, groans as he rises to his feet, but a firm grip of a hand keeps him down.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now!” the woman yells.

“Because I’m not the enemy,” he quips sharply, “do they not teach you to differentiate between friend and foe in your mindless little Vig-” His head flies back at the force of the hit. He groans again.

“Why on Tyria are you hitting me?” he squints at Tactian Julianna as she prepares her hammer.

“Julianna, stop! Don’t you think he’d have attacked us already if he were Mordremoth’s?” another voice adds.

“Thank you, Gean,” El sighs in disappointment. “What exactly happened?”

“You twiggies all turned rabid and started attacking everyone,” Julianna bites. “Fucking sylvari.”

He doesn’t remember any violence. He remembers the vines and some strange urge and falling down rapidly, but not any actual violence.

“Do you feel yourself, Arcanist?” Gean asks. Priory, El recalls. Novice. Sieran’s new student.

“Where are we?” he asks instead.

“Dunno,” Julianna shrugs. Her hammer is still in her hands. “Last chance to answer him, twiggy.”

“For fuck’s sake, Julianna, I’m not going to attack you! By the Pale Tree, if you attack me, I’ll defend myself and you know what magic can do against your little hammer!”

That makes her put the weapon down. Thank fuck, El thinks, when a strange ache infects his head again.

“My son,” it says.

“I’m not Mordrem, Tactitian,” he growls and stands. “Now get us to the nearest Pact camp. I think I’m hurt.”

“I’m not taking orders from a sylvari,” she threatens. “You listen to me or I swear to Balthazar’s sacred hounds, you’ll be a pile of sap on the floor.”

El bites his lip. He doesn’t wish to be sap on the floor.

“My son,” the voice calls again. He barely calms the air in his lungs. He hopes Trahearne and Sieran are safe. He hopes to whomever will listen that Alysannyra trips on something on that chase of hers and hits her head hard enough to remember she’s needed in Maguuma.

“Fine, Tactitian,” he hisses at last. “Lead the fucking not-Mordrem. Here I am.”

---------------------------------------------------------------

There’s a Mordrem skirmish a few days later. Weaponless, El is forced to grab a piece of wood and channel his magic through that; he never thought the smell of burning wood would be pleasing, yet one never knows when they’d meet Mordrem. Julianna’s hammer also stars in the performance, smashing the villains left and right.

Unfortunately, Gean’s body does too. The norn was hit in the chest by a Mordrem sword. At least the death is quick, El thinks, not unkindly. He knows why Sieran liked him. He was attentive, gentle and didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of a Mordrem blade.

Pale Tree protect us all.

“You attract them,” Julianna declares. “Did you hear what one of them said?”

“I’m not its brother,” El yells, hands shaking. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Common sense isn’t wrong with me!” She shouts back. “This is the third Mordrem skirmish we’ve faced since trying to find a medic for your precious plant ribs! The Mordrem know one of their own!”

“Would you say that to the Marshal’s face? Would you say that if the Commander were around?” He stares at Gean’s body. Could he animate it to swallow this bitch’s soul?

“Marshal is a stronger man than you’ll ever be,” Julianna says, “I bet he’s fighting Mordrem as we speak and the Commander is, too. She doesn’t abandon her own, like some of us are tempted to do.”

“She’s the enemy,” the voice says and it sounds like his own. El gives a lopsided grin. Julianna has wanted him dead for days now. He may have been taunting her with magic before, but if she lands a hit, he’s done for.

But with Mordremoth’s strength-

A broken laughter tears from his throat. “I am not a Mordrem!” he shouts at the sky, fingers digging into the leaves on his head. “Trahearne is not a Mordrem! Get off that fucking ley-line already!”

----------------------------------

He runs away that night.

In hindsight, it’s not the smartest idea. But Mordremoth kept whispering, and he was tempted to borrow a little of the dragon’s strength to bash her head in. Then he remembered that he wasn’t a Mordrem and just left her at the mercy of the incoming enemy force.

In hindsight, it makes the whispers turn into shouts that make him sob and stumble against a tree and reach for his magic just to get his mind away from the invading power. He can’t really tell spells apart but he manages to find a healing one and apply it to his rib, desperately trying to remember the anatomy lessons.

He’s since pulled most of his foliage off, leaving behind a few ugly leaves that were once a beautiful night-dark shade. He thinks of Trahearne’s green leaves and Sieran’s red ones, even of the strands of that norn he’s taken to bed once, but Mordremoth doesn’t relent.

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he grunts out. “I am not a Mordrem!”

“You’ll obey,” Mordremoth says and El breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know how much time he has until it strikes again, so he straightens up and walks in the direction of the noise he heard earlier.

Or thought he heard...

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He cries tears of relief when he sees people. A lot of them. All races. He’s half-convinced he’s imagining it, but he sobs out happily either way. He’s half-convinced he’s gone mad and this is a happy place where all little sylvari go to escape Mordremoth.

“-attack being launched from here, we’re really close,” he hears a clear, familiar voice and he’s never been happier to see Alysannyra in his life.

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he whispers, so close yet so far away, and his legs have never felt heavier.

Heavy enough to make a thud when he crashes into the ground, heavy enough to make her turn and run towards him. El’s smile is desperate, he’s sure there’s sap everywhere on his face, and she comes into view.

Her eyes are a wrong colour. But she sounds like Alysannyra. But her eyes are wrong. She doesn’t sound like Mordremoth.

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he mutters weakly.

“No, you’re not,” she says gently. “Medic, we need a medic over here! It’s Arcanist Elandrin!” There’s a wash of magic and he feels his body sag even further. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she repeats.

“Trahearne,” he croaks.

Her wrong eyes freeze. “We’ll find him,” she says and her voice breaks. “He’s out there. You rest now, medics are coming.”

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he says and pride swells in his chest.

Not a Mordrem

Not a Mordrem

Not a Mordrem

The world goes black.

[lyranova]

A Fractured Diamond

Episode 4: One Tough Battle

Hi guys~! So here’s chapter 4 I hope it���s a little better than chapter 3 and again I’m trying not to completely rip off the manga or anime so a few things and quotes are different! But the next chapter should end this little arc (i was gonna try and add it to this chapter but i decided to just push it off) Also in this chapter you learn the difference between Neva’s magic and Mars’! But anyway I hope you guys enjoy~!

Word Count: 1,550

Warnings: Violence, Language.

“ Get out of my way.” The stranger commanded as he walked towards the small Golden Dawn squad, Neva looked over at Mimosa and saw she was using one of her recovery spells. ‘Good. At least she’s alright.’ Neva thought in relief as she removed her Diamond Shell and conjured up two twin daggers made out of diamond. She only ever used this spell when she knew she would have to engage in close quarter combat, she watched as Yuno and Klaus also got into their combat positions. The stranger didn’t look phased at all.

“ Yuno, Neva, look.” Klaus motioned towards the man and saw what Klaus was pointing out, the diamond on his grimoire.

“ He’s from the Diamond Kingdom.” Yuno said as his eyes narrowed, Neva nodded, it was just as she suspected. But what really confused her was the crystals on his forehead and the one on his chest.

“ Klaus, are those what I think they are?” She asked as she turned toward him. Klaus nodded before he pushed his glasses up.

“ Yes. I thought the rumors about the Diamond kingdom conducting experiments on people were just that; rumors. Apparently we were wrong.” Klaus said before the man attacked them again, luckily Klaus had good reflexes and was able to block the attack with a steel shield.

“ Quit talking and get out of my way!” The man commanded again before sending more attacks their way. One right after the other. The three Golden Dawn members did their best to dodge and send attacks right back at the man, Neva mostly tried to protect Mimosa the best she could as Yuno and Klaus went for the stranger.

‘Now I know why people assumed I was from the diamond kingdom.’ Neva thought as she used one of her blades to slice through an attack. ‘On the surface you can’t tell the difference, other than they’re different colors, but otherwise they’re nearly identical. Except mine's stronger.’ Neva though with a smirk as she used her ‘Diamond shower’ spell at the stranger, who blocked it with ease. She gritted her teeth, this was a real pain in the ass.

“ We’re being cornered.” Klaus said as he and Yuno moved back toward the girls, he and Neva shared a look between themselves. ‘They would have to send someone ahead without them.’ After Neva nodded in agreement Klaus looked at Yuno. “ You need to go ahead without us. We’ll take care of him.” Klaus commanded, Neva stood up straight.

“ But I-!” Yuno began to argue before she held up a hand to silence him, she knew he’d argue, that was the kind of person he was even if he appeared to not really care about anyone.

“ We’ll be fine. Go and get that treasure. We’ll meet you there once we deal with this guy.” Neva told him, she half turned toward him, a small smirk on her face. “ Trust me. This guy won’t be able to take us down that easy.” She added before she and Klaus shared another look.

They were screwed, and they both knew it. If Yuno was even having a tough time with this guy, then the two of them didn’t really have a chance. But if they were going down, then they’d go down swinging. She heard Yuno sigh, apparently deciding not to argue, she heard him quickly run down the hall. ‘Wait, when did that door open?!’ She thought as she turned to look; yep it was open, huh, interesting. Neva suddenly heard Klaus shout and she turned to look.

‘Dammit! I shouldn’t have gotten distracted!’ Neva thought as she saw a crystal bind Klaus’s foot. It was as if the world began to move in slow motion; she saw the man send another attack towards Klaus, her body began to move on its own, but she knew she wouldn’t make it to him in time. The spell was going to hit him, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

‘Why...why am I so weak?’

Suddenly, a rush of wind swept past her and blocked the attack. Neva quickly turned and saw Yuno standing there, she couldn’t stop the surprise from appearing on her face. He turned back for them?

“ Why did you turn back? We told you to go! The mission is our main priority!” Klaus shouted as Neva quickly broke the crystal that bound his foot, they watched Yuno stand a bit in front of them, as though to shield them from the stranger.

“ Because you’re my friends.” He answered simply, Neva had to admit that statement shocked her a bit and she didn’t really know why. If this weren’t such a serious situation they were in she would probably be laughing right now. He had only known them for a couple of months and was already admitting they were his friends, whereas she had known most of her squad for over a year and she refused to call any of them that. Hell, she didn’t even want to call the people she was currently with her friends! ‘But,’ Neva thought with a shake of her head. ‘If Yuno’s already willing to admit that he considers us his friends, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to admit it too one day.’ That single thought warmed her heart a bit, before she suddenly felt a surge of mana.

“ Neva, look!” Klaus stated, pulling her out of her thoughts. He pointed toward where Yuno was standing, shock clearly on his face. As Neva turned to look she realized that was where all the mana was coming from, a smirk appeared on her face as she watched the wind circle around him.

“ Well aren’t you just full of surprises Mr. Prodigy.” She muttered as she watched him wield two spells at once and throw them at the soldier.

————

“ Yuno!” Neva shouted as she watched him begin to be overpowered by the Diamond Mage, she hadn’t noticed he never pulled out his grimoire, but now that the Diamond Soldier had, the fight was even more unmatched than it already was. Neva quickly conjured a diamond wall in between Yuno and the man, trying to do anything she could to try and help Yuno get the upper hand. But as thanks for her troubles, she was given a crystal doll created by the stranger and it just so happened to be strong enough to keep her busy.

“ Klaus! Snap out of it we need you!” She shouted as she sent another diamond shower at the doll. It was almost a life size version of the ones she had made when she was a child, except hers didn’t move, and they for sure didn’t try to kill anyone! She quickly blocked another attack before looking over at Klaus, who appeared to be stunned for a few moments, finally snapped out of it and began to try to attack the stranger once again. But it failed. The stranger created another doll just like the one she was fighting.

“ Why are you so hard to beat?!” She shouted at the doll as she slashed at it with her blade again, she was able to cut across what would be it’s chest, but it wasn’t enough to take the damn thing down. ‘I don’t understand! My magic is different from there’s! So why isn’t it able to cut through?!’ She thought indignantly as she dodged another one of its spells. Her magic was made out of carbon, theirs was made out of minerals, hers was made from one of the strongest materials on the planet, theirs was not, so why in the hell could she not cut it down?!

“ Just surrender.” Neva turned toward the voice’s and her eyes widened. Yuno was being overwhelmed, and appeared to be frozen just like Klaus was a moment ago. ‘Son of a-!’ Neva quickly conjured a diamond hammer and hit the crystal doll square in the chest, knocking it onto its back. She smirked in satisfaction before rushing to aid Yuno.

But she didn’t get very far.

The crystal doll suddenly appeared in front of her. ‘What the hell? I ended this didn’t I?!’ Neva thought before suddenly she watched as the doll pulled it’s fist back. Crap. There was nothing she could do, she couldn’t block it, she couldn’t move out of the way, she had to take a direct hit. So she did. With a soft ‘oof’ the doll punched her square in the stomach and sent her flying across the room. All the air was knocked out of her lungs as she slammed into the wall next to the dungeons entrance, she slid down onto the floor and watched as Klaus was starting to become overwhelmed by the doll he was facing, and Yuno was about to be dealt a finishing blow by the Diamond Soldier.

‘I’m sorry guys,’ Neva thought weakly as her vision was beginning to darken and she heard the crystal dolls footsteps inch closer and closer towards her. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to protect all of you…’

The last thing Neva saw before she slipped into unconsciousness was a giant crystal ax about to crash onto Yuno.

———

I’m sorry if this isn’t very good but I hope you guys like it~! I should have episode 5 out in a couple of days than I’ll be able to move on to a couple of other stuff for this series and my fanfics 💕! But I hope you all enjoyed and I hope you all have a good day 🥰!

[yeehawetc]

Title: Bachelor’s Grove

Pairing: none

Summary: It’s Christmas 1885. Dutch is talking to anarchists, Hosea’s trying to scam an old man out of his house, and Arthur’s trying to figure out the very weird kid they just picked up. Nobody knows if they’re going to keep him, and John doesn’t want to go back. 

Warnings: some gory imagery; almost-kind-of-you-decide-whether-it’s-magical-realism? 

On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368408

@wolfmeat​, I was your secret santa! (I bet you never guessed. Love you) 

i.

The sun glancing off the frosted windows of the station house blinds Arthur temporarily as he slips off Boadicea. He tugs off his heavy mittens to tie her to the hitching post, then stuffs his chapped hands quickly back into his coat pockets. There was an inch of ice on the water bucket this morning in camp. Arthur wishes Dutch had chosen a warmer morning to get caught with a known anarchist distributing anti-government literature.  

He steps inside, and again can’t fucking see for a minute. The station’s dark even in daylight, old wood lit by dusty kerosene lamps that stink louder than the general musk of a constant cycle of drunks’ piss and tobacco spit. Arthur stops for a minute inside the door to let his eyes adjust, and the officer at the desk barks at him. 

“What you want, son?”

“Payin’ a social call,” Arthur says, and takes the wad of bills Hosea counted out for him and tosses it onto the desk. The fella’s eyebrows hop nearly off his face, and Arthur scans the cells while he counts the money. It doesn’t take him long to pick him out. There’s not many people in the 18th district jailhouse wearing black silk and sitting on the cot like it’s a goddamn throne. 

Dutch stands to meet him when Arthur approaches the cell, straightening his vest and checking the time on his pocket watch. As if Arthur were here picking him up from a social function, as if he didn’t have a huge purple bruise over one cheekbone. 

“Good morning, Arthur,” he says, spreading his arms wide. 

“Hosea’s gonna have your hide,” Arthur tells him. Dutch waves that away blithely, picking up his coat. He limps elegantly to the door of the cell and extends a broad hand to the jailkeeper, who doesn’t take it. 

“A merry Christmas to you and your family,” Dutch says, beaming. Arthur can tell he’d like to knock the man’s teeth out. “Very sorry to insult your hospitality this way, but I’m afraid I ain’t inclined to spend another night in the company of the state.” 

The guard isn’t impressed. “Go on,” he says, “before I change my mind.” 

Dutch, Arthur notes with some dismay, is clearly in a good mood. For the first fifteen minutes of the ride back to camp, Dutch expounds on the uselessness of the state and the pathetic bankruptcy of soul that must lead a man like that wretch back at the jailhouse to feed his family off the profits of a government that’s nothing more than a tradition, and a cruel and foolish one at that, and Arthur picks at the loose wool on his mittens and watches his breath steam in the air. 

“The true place for a just man, Arthur, is a prison,” Dutch shouts to him through the blistering chill as they wind south towards Bachelor’s Grove. 

“True place for a man who can’t run on a sprained ankle, more like,” Arthur says, and Dutch throws his head back and laughs so loud a crow gets startled off the fence they’re passing by, and Arthur can’t help himself, he’s grinning. 

“We’re onto something good here, Arthur,” Dutch says as they pass into the woods. “Silas tells me that Leslie Ashville—that haggard old maggot who owns the steel works where Silas’s poor cousin lost his hand last month—is losing his mind.”

“This the same Silas who got you arrested last night?” Arthur asks. 

Dutch ignores him. “Old Ashville’s cracking, Arthur. Talking to folks as ain’t there and forgetting his own name. They say he ain’t gonna see the year of our Lord 1886, and it don’t seem right to me to let that fine gentleman die alone, with no one but his vampire of a nephew to carry on his legacy.” 

“So,” Arthur says, starting to see where this is going, “you’re goin’ to apologize to Hosea for getting yourself arrested by inviting him to con a dyin’ man out of his money?”

“A dyin’ industrialist,” Dutch confirms brightly. 

The camp’s a cluster of tents and wagons in a stand of oaks just south of the quarry pond, a respectful distance from the scattered headstones of Bachelor’s Grove cemetery. As they ride in, Arthur can see Hosea and Miss Grimshaw hurrying between the tents, ducking to look under the wagons and talking hotly. He catches Miss Grimshaw’s last sentence on the wind as he and Dutch ride closer: “...can’t have gone far in this cold.”

“What’s happening?” Dutch inquires as he slips down from the Count, favoring his hurt ankle just a little.

“The boy’s disappeared,” Hosea says, and Arthur doesn’t miss the relief that settles over Dutch’s features when he realizes this latest catastrophe is going to postpone a conversation with Hosea about his own sins. 

“Go on, Arthur,” he says, “you look up thataways, and pray he ain’t fallen down that quarry. I’ll look off to the west, and Hosea, you and Miss Grimshaw stay here in case he comes back on his own.” 

Arthur sets out grudgingly on foot. This ain’t the first time the kid’s given them trouble. In fact, Arthur reflects, he’s been more trouble than anything else since the moment Dutch caught sight of that rabble of homesteaders tying a noose to a walnut tree and decided to investigate. When they got closer and it turned out the fearful criminal due for a lynching that day was a twelve-year-old kid with an armful of onions and a crazy look in his eye, Arthur was the one who picked the kid up and carried him to safety while Dutch and Hosea argued with the would-be executioners. And then, Arthur was the one who got onion juice spit in his eye for his troubles and a nice set of bite marks on his neck. 

The kid’s calmed down in the weeks since, or at least been effectively convinced Arthur isn’t trying to kidnap him, but he still bites. And apparently that ain’t all. Once they got him back to camp and a bowl of stew in front of him, he told Dutch his name’s John, his folks are dead, and he knows how to kill a man. Those facts, in that order, and if they didn’t light Dutch’s face up. Dutch likes the odd ones. Arthur tries not to think too deeply about how that reflects on him. 

John’s odd, all right. He talks to himself all day; talks to animals too, and rocks and trees. And, strange enough, he’s a hell of a shot—hit every one of the cans Dutch lined up for him a week after he joined the camp, “just to see what he can do.” But he’s young, younger even than Arthur was when Dutch found him, and that’s a problem. Dutch said he’s safer here than on his own, Miss Grimshaw said a child his age got no business running with outlaws, Hosea said he ought to go to an orphanage, and John started hollering so loud nobody could finish the argument, and in the month since the question of what’s to be done with John has stood open. For now, it seems, he’s with them, but one of these days somebody’s gonna have to make a decision. 

But maybe John’s made a decision of his own, now. This isn’t the first time he’s run off—he seems to have a special talent for that—but the longer Arthur trudges through the snow, the more it seems John might have made a real shot at it this time. 

Arthur skirts the mouth of the quarry pond, looking reluctantly for any sign of a little body floating in the glassy dark water ringed all around with ice, and ascertains to his satisfaction and relief that John hasn’t drowned. He’d be sure to, if he had fallen, based on the almighty fuss he put up the first time Miss Grimshaw tried to get him to wash himself, shrieking that she was trying to drown him. Dutch finally intervened, grabbing John by his collar and belt and tossing him bodily into the creek, where it immediately became clear John’s never been in water deeper than his big toe. Arthur grins to himself as he picks around the clumps of buckthorn skirting the edge of the pond, remembering the look of dumb outrage on the kid’s spluttering face when he resurfaced and realized he was only knee-deep. 

Arthur turns away from the quarry and up the snowy path towards the cemetery gates, squinting at the beaten stones that line the ground on either side. He can’t make out the names, but Hosea told him it’s mainly railway workers and homesteaders buried here, Russians and Germans and Irish. Folks who came from worlds away to get run over by wagons, or catch the grippe, or just to blow their own brains out when the crops failed and the government turned a blind eye. Ma’s buried in a place that looks like this. Pa too, maybe, only Arthur didn’t stay to see. 

He watches a red-bellied woodpecker hammer busily at someone’s gravestone, and wonders if he should start to worry. 

Then he turns onto the path leading up to the cemetery gate, a rickety wrought-iron arch planted between two spreading white cedars, and sees the kid. He’s sitting in the snow next to a tall granite monument, arms clasped around his legs and his head ducked down onto his knees, drowning in Hosea’s spare coat and Miss Grimshaw’s old scarf. His hair, as usual, hangs down over his pinched face like he’s trying to hide it. 

“Hey,” Arthur calls out, and watches as John’s head snaps up like a spooked deer. But he stays where he is, body held tense and unmoving, as Arthur jogs forward through the icy cover of snow. 

Up close, Arthur can see the kid’s been crying: his eyes are red, his cheeks are wet and chapped, and there’s a goddamn river of snot traveling down his chin. Still, when Arthur asks if he’s all right, he snaps, “A-course” and glares as if Arthur accused him of some grave offense. 

“You scared folks, runnin’ off like that,” Arthur tells him, nudging John’s leg with the toe of his boot. 

John shakes his head. “I ain’t scary.” 

“Never said you was.” Arthur holds out a hand to pull the kid up. John doesn’t take it. “Come on now.” 

John shakes his head, straggly hair flying side to side with the vehemence of his refusal. Stubborn as a horse’s ass is one thing they’ve already learned about John, and it ain’t Arthur’s favorite quality. 

“What happened this time?” he sighs, settling himself against a gravestone opposite John. “Hosea said you just up and disappeared.” 

John shrugs. “I ain’t talkin’ to you.” He’s picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of the coat, frowning furiously at it. 

“What, did Grimshaw try to make you wash again? Because you know you stink.” 

“Don’t neither.” 

“You do,” Arthur assures him. 

John sniffs, pulling his sleeve over his face and smearing snot even further across his cheek. “I ain’t goin’ back,” he says. 

“Suit yourself,” Arthur says, shrugging broadly. “You wanna run off on your own, get yourself strung up by another pack of tetchy farmers, I guess that ain’t no business of mine.” 

“No it ain’t,” John snaps, nodding in satisfaction. 

“Awfully cold, though,” Arthur remarks, pulling his coat a little closer and squinting up at the sky. “I do believe that’s a storm comin’ in off to the east there.” John pokes his head up from the depths of Hosea’s coat to swivel his skinny neck around. “Still,” Arthur goes on, “you’ve obviously made up your mind, so I ain’t gonna try to talk you out of it.” He stands up, brushing snow off his coat. “Shame about them pies, though.”

John squints at him. “What pies?” 

“Pies?” Arthur says. “Oh, the pies—oh, that ain’t nothin’. Only, I know Miss Grimshaw was plannin’ a heap of pie for Christmas. Mince pie, she said. Maybe apple. And Hosea, he’s made friends with a fella down at the slaughterhouse, figures he’ll get us a pig to roast.” 

John stares. “I never seen a pig roast.” 

“Well,” Arthur says, “I guess you ain’t gonna see one this year. Seein’ as you’re goin’ it alone now.” John squirms irritably in his snowy seat, frowning at Arthur. Arthur waits, listening to crows scream in the cedars. 

“They was fixin’ to take me back to the nuns,” John says finally, in an unusually soft little voice. Not looking at Arthur. 

“What,” Arthur says, startled, “Hosea and Grimshaw?” 

John nods. “I heard ‘em. I was diggin’ in the dirt by that big ol’ stump an’ I was eatin’ some cheese an’ then I heard the lady say ‘this ain’t no place for a child, I heard him cough’ only I wasn’t coughin’, I just had some crumbs in my throat, an’ then Hosea said ‘he ain’t settlin’ in so good an’ I think we oughta see if them nuns’ll take him,’ an’ Dutch weren’t there and now he’s gone they’re gonna take me back there an’ so I got my coat an’ I snuck off ‘fore they could catch me an’ I ain’t goin’ back, if you take me back they’re just gonna make me go back to the nuns an’ they’ll cook me an’ eat me an’ then I ran an’ I ran an’ I heard someone comin’ so I hid behind the graves only then I thought maybe it was dead folks so I waited an’ then I heard someone else comin’ but it was you an’ I ain’t goin’ back, I ain’t gonna let ‘em do it.” He breaks off, breathing hard. His cheeks are red. 

Arthur, a little dizzy trying to parse out that garbled spew of words, thinks he can see tears gathering in the corners of the kid’s eyes. Passing over, for the moment, the idea of cannibal nuns, he sighs and says, “Look, kid, ain’t nobody gonna send you anywhere without Dutch’s say-so, and Dutch ain’t decided yet.” 

John frowns. “But he went to jail.” 

“Yeah, dumbass, and I went and got him out,” Arthur says. “He’s out lookin’ for you right now.” 

The kid’s eyes get wide at that. Arthur sees him take a shaky little breath and whisper something to himself that Arthur can’t catch. 

“Come on,” he says, “I’m freezin’ my nuts off, and you ain’t gettin’ cooked alive by nobody this Christmas. Come on back, and I’ll tell Grimshaw an’ Hosea to lay off talkin’ about nuns.” He holds out his hand again. 

This time, after a little consideration, John takes it, tugging hard as he struggles up to his feet. Arthur’s astonished at how light he is; the kid weighs nearly nothing. He sets himself on his feet, pulls Grimshaw’s scarf over his grimy face, and looks up to Arthur. 

“An’ we’ll have pie?” he asks, hopefully. 

“Sure,” Arthur nods. “Pie and pig.” 

“I ain’t never had a Christmas dinner,” John tells him as they head back towards camp. 

“What, never?” 

John shrugs. He’s playing with the loose ends of his scarf, tossing them back and forth on his palms. “I heard about it, but I never had one. Me an’ pa, one time we stole a whole duck an’ he said that’s Christmas dinner, but it gave me the trots an’ I shit till I yelled.” 

“Thank you for that,” Arthur says. 

John nods, clambers over a wooden fence, and drops down the other side in a little flurry of snow. “What’s it like?” he asks, and the question’s so dumb and so oddly sweet that Arthur feels a little twinge in his chest. 

“I dunno,” he says. “Like a party, I guess. Folks make good food and talk and sing, and go to church I suppose, only I ain’t been since I was a little, little kid, littler than you.”

“I ain’t little,” John interjects, scrambling over a rock.

“Well, I was,” Arthur says. “But my ma used to make supper, and we’d have turkey and fish and ham and potatoes and beans, and after she’d play on her organ.” 

“What’s a organ,” John asks. 

“A kinda musical instrument,” Arthur tells him. He hasn’t thought about this in years, can only vaguely picture the boxy little organ in the corner, Mama’s pale hands on the keys. The melody’s long gone. “Sorta like a piano, I figure, only it’s got pipes and pedals. My ma had one from a catalogue, and she said it kept her company out there in the country.” He remembers that: the way she’d sit at the organ in the evenings, not even playing some nights, just sitting. The way she cried when they came back from town and the organ was gone, sold to a man Pa found looking to pay good money for a secondhand Beckwith for his wife. Arthur remembers that, all right. 

“So,” John says, “ya play music and ya eat?” 

“More or less,” Arthur says. “S’posed to be some kinda holy day, but mostly folks just like to eat.” 

They’re nearing camp, now, and Arthur can see the defensive curl in John’s shoulders. When he sees Dutch sitting at the camp table, though, he breaks away from Arthur’s side and dashes over, planting himself next to Dutch, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. 

“So you found him, Arthur,” Dutch greets him as Arthur approaches the table. 

“Out hidin’ in the graveyard,” Arthur says. “I guess he prefers the company of dead folks to ours.” Dutch laughs, and John scowls. 

“I weren’t hidin’,” he says. “And I didn’t see no dead folks.” 

Arthur leaves him with Dutch, leaning intently over Evelyn Miller’s America and shooting Dutch shy reverential looks, and goes to find Hosea. He’s by the fire, poking at the dull coals, and he raises a hand as Arthur approaches. 

“Found him all right?” 

Arthur hums his yes, settling himself on the log Dutch dragged out of the woods as a seat. “Told ‘im we’d have pie for Christmas,” he tells Hosea. “He liked that.” 

Hosea laughs. “Our little associate seems mightily driven by food,” he remarks drily. 

“Like a damn pig,” Arthur agrees. Hosea chuckles, stretching his legs out and lighting a cigarette. 

“I take it Dutch filled you in on his latest scheme,” he remarks, and Arthur can tell from the crinkle at the corner of his eye that excitement’s overtaken his annoyance at Dutch. 

“The Ashville thing? He mentioned it,” Arthur says. “Somethin’ about stealin’ the fella’s legacy, or something.” 

“Legacy, Arthur, is another word for a fat bank account,” Hosea says. “Besides, if we can play this thing right, there’s a roof over our heads in January. That boy’s already got a cough, and I for one would prefer not to spend the winter thawing out my backside every time I need to shit. I’ll need your help with the paperwork for this one, though.” 

Arthur nods, rubbing his hands together in the growing warmth from the fire, and feels odd. Doesn’t know why he feels, suddenly, choked. He feels the way he did when Hosea and Dutch first picked him up, as though any wrong word would have him out on his ear or worse. Like all his words were caught in his throat, because he couldn’t pick the ones that were right. 

Hosea, naturally, doesn’t miss a thing. “What’s on your mind?” 

Arthur hesitates, chewing his lip, thinking about John’s blank, tearful face; about Mama crying the night the Beckwith disappeared; about old Leslie Ashville alone in his house on Cherry Street, talking to people who aren’t there. About the look on John’s face, hope and wonderment, when Arthur said Dutch was looking. For him.

“He’s scared of us,” he says finally. “Scared of you. And Grimshaw, but that’s—I mean, she scares everyone.” 

Hosea snorts gently, but all he says is, “Give him time.” 

“How much time?” Arthur says. “Dutch ain’t said if he’s staying with us.” 

“Dutch’ll decide when the time’s right,” Hosea says, as if that settles it. As if Arthur hasn’t heard John whimpering in his sleep every damn night since they picked him up. Arthur turns to look at him and Dutch—two dark heads matched at the table—and hopes the right time’s soon. 

ii.

The house on Cherry Street is three dusty stories of Italianate brick, lit from within by a dozen candles. From the street, it looks warm, even festive—someone’s hung a grand ring of pine and holly on the heavy oak door—but as soon as Hosea steps inside, he feels the chill. It’s different from the brisk winter evening outside: a dry, sickly cold that seeps through Hosea’s coat and settles along the joints of his bones. 

Someone’s dying in this house. Hosea’s felt that cold before. 

He follows the maid down the hallway to the parlor, past the cavernous recesses of unlit rooms.  Behind the false front of lamps, this house is dark and silent, save the single corridor of light that traces a line down its center. Hosea watches a chandelier of thick, ugly crystals sway mutely above his head as he passes beneath, and fixes his mind on his story. 

It’s his second visit to the Ashville mansion. On the first, he introduced himself as William Ashville, the long-lost offspring of the affair a group of Ashville Steel workers told Hosea about over bad whiskey at the Red Hen. It seems the story’s well known among Ashville’s discontented employees: the lady’s name was Eleanor, and Ashville promised her marriage, then left her at the altar and came west instead to make his fortune off the work of honest men. Nobody’s been able to give Hosea an exact date, but one fellow, with a rough white beard and teeth so sparse and loose Hosea suspects he lost one in his beer over the course of the conversation, remembered the year Ashville turned up in Chicago as 1856, so Hosea’s dated the affair to about thirty years ago. He considered, briefly, having Dutch step in as the prodigal bastard, but this part requires a delicacy that Dutch, for all his charms, lacks. Besides, Hosea flatters himself that he can still play thirty. He borrowed a bit of Dutch’s pomade for the occasion, and a little of Susan’s face powder—and besides, old Ashville’s eyesight isn’t that good. 

All in all, Ashville took the news of his unwitting fatherhood surprisingly well. Hosea, who after thirty-odd years of disregard for the fairer sex unexpectedly became surrogate parent to an unwashed teenage criminal, can attest to the shock that comes with that sort of arrival. True, there was a moment of initial skepticism from Ashville, but the family bible Hosea produced (purchased from a bookseller in the Levee, embellished by Arthur with the names of a whole fictitious lineage for poor forgotten William Ashville) seemed to turn the tide of his disbelief, and the love letter Hosea wrote after making a study of Ashville’s handwriting clinched the story. Today, Hosea’s back, in character as young William, with two missions: to lend cheer to his aging father’s lonely indisposition, and to lift a copy of the old man’s will. 

He hears Ashville’s voice before they reach the parlor: halting, guttural, like water through a clogged pipe. He’s murmuring about the newspaper, about catching a train. The maid leads Hosea into the room, where an unfed fire lights a frail circle around Ashville’s chair and casts long shadows across the rich Turkish carpet, and Hosea can see that it’s empty; that Ashville’s talking to no one. 

“Sir?” the maid says, leaning down to the high upholstered chair by the hearth. “Young Mr. William here to see you.” 

Mr. Leslie Ashville, sole owner and proprietor of the Ashville Steel Works, looks molded of lean clay. He’s wrapped in a brocade robe that looks like it hasn’t been washed since the early ‘70s, his head bare save the airy thatch of white hair shrouding the glare of his scalp. Hosea finds him fascinatingly grotesque. 

“Good evening, father,” he says, settling in the chair across from Ashville, who acknowledges his presence with a faint hum that turns into a cough. 

“Is that you, William?” he croaks, finally, and Hosea leans closer to take his hand. 

“I’m here.” 

“Thought I saw your mother last night,” Ashville rasps. “Thought I heard her, in the walls.” 

“Perhaps it was her spirit,” Hosea offers. “I do believe she’s glad to see us reunited.” There’s a bulk of shadow off behind Ashville’s right shoulder in the general shape of a writing desk. Hosea makes a note, and refocuses his attention on Ashville. 

“She was beautiful, your mother,” the old man says, and then he’s off chasing the thread of that long-forgotten memory, a thread that seems to unravel every time he reaches another knot. Hosea plays the dream-weaver, dropping a hint or a suggestion every time he hears the man’s voice falter. It’s fragments he offers the old man, things that could have belonged in any lifetime, things easily forgotten and more easily misremembered: the color of a dress, the fate of an old school friend, the name of a parson or a shopkeeper; always just enough to get Ashville’s feet back under him and send him off along another strand of reminiscence. Together, between Ashville’s dying memory and Hosea’s healthy imagination, the two of them write Leslie and Eleanor’s love story by the light of the fading fire as the evening deepens into night. 

The bells of St. Clement’s are chiming ten when it finally happens: Ashville stammers, trails off, and doesn’t look to Hosea for the next line of his memory-fantasy. Instead, his ancient head droops and lolls magnificently, and after a moment’s pause Hosea hears a loud, guttering snore. Ashville’s asleep. 

Finally. 

Easing himself off the slick horsehair of his seat, Hosea crosses to the shadowy desk he noticed earlier in the evening. It’s a heavy thing, made of rich cherrywood and full of drawers and cracks and pigeonholes. Hosea returns to the center of the parlor for a candle, and sets to work searching the desk, an ear out for the maid’s footstep or a shift in Ashville’s steady, ugly breath. 

An hour later, he’s slipping out the front door into the midnight chill, bidding the maid a happy Christmas, with the thin pages of Leslie Ashville’s will flat against his side under his heavy coat. He found the lockbox easily enough, stowed in a deep drawer under a sheaf of old bills and past due correspondence, and five minutes was all it took to break the lock while Ashville snored in his seat ten paces away. The will itself is simple: all Ashville’s wealth and property deeded to his nephew Fred Ashville, the current junior proprietor of Ashville Steel and the devil himself as far as most of the working population of the west side’s concerned. Hosea thinks, as he makes his way down Cherry Street under a soft flurry of snow, that they’ll be doing mankind two services this December: keeping Leslie Ashville company on his trip towards the undiscovered country, and seeing to it that Fred Ashville never prospers again. 

The campfire’s burning unusually bright when Hosea makes his way through the last bent hickories of Bachelor’s Grove. At first, Hosea thinks it must be Dutch who’s up, caught in one of those odd brain fevers where he can’t sleep till he’s filled fifty pages with words about God and death and man’s perverse indifference to nature—but when he gets closer he sees that it isn’t Dutch at all. It’s John, hunched gracelessly on one of the logs like a disgruntled little bullfrog, tossing little twigs and dead leaves into the flames to watch them sizzle and smoke. His lips are moving, but from his distance Hosea can’t tell what he’s saying. It occurs to Hosea that he’s spent quite a lot of his time lately in the company of people who talk to the air around them. 

That’s the thing that worries Hosea. It’s not the taking him in—they’ve done as much before, and not only with Arthur. Hosea knows what it’s like to be ten and cold and empty as a tomb on Judgment Day, and he’s not about to turn away hungry mouths when there’s room at the fire and enough in the pot to go round. Besides, he’s never regretted letting Arthur stay. But Arthur was fourteen, not twelve, and Arthur didn’t talk to people who aren’t there. Arthur was just a kid whose father hit him too much, and a damn good thief. John’s something else, and after weeks Hosea still isn’t sure exactly what. 

Hosea approaches the fire, and John starts, shoving his hands under his armpits as though Hosea just caught him doing something bad. 

“It’s late,” Hosea observes. 

John shrugs. “I’m not tired.” His eyes are huge in the firelight, and Hosea has the feeling he often gets when John looks at him—that the kid is sizing him up, calculating where to strike if trouble starts. 

“I can see that,” Hosea says. 

“Is he dead?” John asks. Arthur’s been telling him about the scheme, then. Hosea makes no pretense of sensitivity when it comes to death, but having spent a full evening playing the loving son to Ashville, Sr., he feels a mite put off by the ghoulishness of the question. 

“Old Ashville? Not yet,” he says. “Go to bed.” 

John doesn’t go to bed. He leans back, firelight catching the ragged ends of his hair, and says, “I seen a fella die once.” 

“So have I,” Hosea tells him. 

“He was coughin’,” John goes on, undeterred. “Blood was comin’ out of his mouth, an’ out of his nose, an’ all down his shirt an’ then—” he pauses dramatically, gathering a handful of rotting leaves into his grubby hand, “—then he shit in his pants, an’ a whole lot of blood came out his mouth, an’ the lady said he’s really dead now.” He tosses the bundle of leaves into the fire, which sends up a small gasp of muddy smoke. Hosea wonders who the lady was. Wonders where this child’s been, to tell that kind of story. 

He doesn’t ask. “You’ve been dreaming,” he says, and it’s less a guess than most of what he spun for Ashville earlier tonight. He’s seen that spooked look before—seen it in Arthur’s eyes when he was barely older than John and still fighting his father off in his sleep; seen it in his cousin’s eyes when he came back from Sharpsburg a leg light and ten times heavier for it; seen it in Dutch, sometimes, too. Hosea knows too well what nightmares look like. 

John scrubs at the snot trailing from his nose and shrugs. “I seen it,” is all he says. But he shudders, and his skinny shoulders hunch smaller against the night. 

He’s clearly not going to go back to bed, and in a way, Hosea can’t see why he should have to. It’s well past midnight now, but Hosea isn’t tired either. The moon’s high, the air’s quiet, and he’s got a job to do. He might as well have some company while he does it.

“Come on,” he says, waving towards the table. John follows him over, and Hosea draws Leslie Ashville’s will from under his coat and spreads the pages across the pocked wood. John, who can’t read and tried to bite Dutch when he offered a lesson, peers at the frail sheets with the curiosity of a spider inspecting a particularly fearsome fly. 

“Now,” Hosea begins, “what we’ve got to do is this.” 

iii.

On Christmas Eve, something happens. 

John isn’t sure at first what’s happened, only that folks are talking real loud and nobody’s telling him anything, but that’s not new. He goes into the trees and finds a big old stick and hits a stump till it falls into soft, stinking rubble, and stamps in the snow till there’s a flat circle all around. There’s a fat squirrel running around the base of a tree a ways off, and it stops for a minute and sniffs in John’s direction. 

“I ain’t smelly,” he tells the squirrel. “An’ I ain’t stupid.” 

The squirrel twitches and scoots away, tiny claws on the snow. 

“John!” Arthur calls, and John kicks bits of rotten wood across the ground until Arthur comes through the trees. “Get your coat on,” he says, nodding back towards camp; “we’re goin’ into town.” 

“Why,” John asks. He thinks about a wagon full of kids, rolling through the iron gates of the orphanage. He thinks he could kill Arthur, if he tried to put him in there. Kick his nuts, put his thumbs in his eyes and squeeze the jelly out, like that fella did to Pa in the bar, get his gun off him and point it to his heart. 

If he had to do it, he thinks he could. He’d be sad about it after, though. He likes Arthur. 

“Ashville’s dead,” Arthur’s saying. His face is split with a grin; John’s never seen him smile much. “We’re gonna be rich. We’re gettin’ the house.” 

“Oh,” John says. He can see the old man in his head, wrinkled and tiny in a house like a tomb, the way Hosea told him the night he came back with that secret pack of papers. Worms in his nose. Gobs of blood pouring, pouring out of his slack, black mouth. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

It’s a cold ride into town, perched on the back of Arthur’s horse with his arms tight around Arthur’s middle. John can hear Dutch talking up ahead, but the wind’s too quick to hear the words. John probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. He can’t understand half what Dutch says. He’s never met anyone as smart as that. He wonders when Dutch is going to find out that John’s dumb as a rock. Dumb as a rock and the devil in him, that’s what people say. Dutch don’t seem to mind the devil so much, though. John doesn’t know what to think about that. 

How exactly they got this house, John still doesn’t understand. Hosea took that dead man’s sheaf of papers, and said we’ll write these out again, and he and Arthur sat at the table for hours inking and scratching till Hosea said it was all perfect, and then there was some meetings with lawyers and magistrates and aldermen, and then it was all done, only the old man weren’t dead. John asked if Dutch was going to kill him, but Dutch just laughed and said I ain’t a murderer, I’m a philanthropist, and Hosea said that’s my old dad you’re talking about, and now John isn’t sure. But Arthur said it’s like a game, don’t you worry, and when the old man dies we’ll take his house, and now he’s dead. John squeezes a little tighter around Arthur’s middle, and tugs himself closer in the saddle. 

They’re riding through the grand part of town now, the part where every house has three floors and curly carvings on the windowsills and a pretty little tree out front all its own. John remembers sleeping here one night last summer, after Pa died, in a little stand of apple trees behind one of the mansions. He ate the hard little apples off the ground till his stomach hurt, and fell asleep in a shed, and in the morning an old African man came along and told him to run or he’d be in a pile of trouble, so John ran. He’s scanning the houses as they pass, trying to remember which one it was with the apples and the old man who said to run. 

The house where Ashville died is cold, and it smells like dust. John watches Arthur and Dutch and Hosea and Miss Grimshaw striding through the halls, crowing and laughing and saying Shakespeare, and looks to see if he can spot the place where the old man died. But there’s no blood on the floors or the furniture, just warm leather and shiny velvet and wood that gleams like gold when Dutch pulls back the heavy curtains and lets the winter sun spill over the room. 

“Merry Christmas,” Dutch booms, and Hosea says “hear, hear,” and John wonders if the ghosts can hear them too. 

Arthur takes him upstairs. Upstairs is a row of rooms, each the size of a house, each full of cobwebs and dead beetles and beds with heavy ceilings. Arthur tugs the curtains aside in each room while John sneezes in the bright dust and pokes at the silky wallpaper. 

Then Miss Grimshaw comes up the winding staircase and sets them to work, hauling carpetbags up the stairs and beating dust out of the duvets with an old broom from the kitchen. She snaps orders like a policeman and drags John by her iron knuckles to a room at the end of the musty hall and tells him it’s his. John suspects a trap, but Arthur laughs and says I ain’t bunkin’ with you no more, and John understands. After supper that night, when Dutch and Hosea pop open a bottle of wine they found in the cellar and Arthur starts singing and Hosea says John can’t have any wine and Dutch says it’s all right and Grimshaw says it ain’t, John sneaks upstairs to the Room That’s His, and wonders when they’ll drop him at the orphanage. 

He’s lying in the dust, watching moonlight crawl over the tall windows, when he hears the voice. It doesn’t sound like Dutch or Hosea or Arthur, but it’s a man, and it’s saying his name. 

John. 

John. 

John stands up. The door to the hallway opens, opens without him touching it, and on the other side’s a man who looks familiar. He’s not tall and he’s not short, with a little mustache and a fancy suit, and his hat reaches towards the ceiling and his eyes are fixed on John’s heart and not his face. 

“John,” he says, “I’ve missed you.” 

Then his face swells and melts. His eyes are hot black hollows, crawling with white worms, blood pouring out his mouth. John watches the river of black gore, swimming down his front, running over the rich, dusty carpet, the smell of shit rising thick and hot around him, and the man twitches and moans and heaves. Blood pouring out his mouth. John tries to scream and he can’t scream, he can’t breathe, and the smell of blood and shit makes him gag and retch, and the blood keeps coming, a black waterfall streaming from the strange man’s face as he sways and leers and shimmers in the dark. 

“John!” 

Someone’s holding his shoulders, shaking him. There’s carpet under his feet, warm and soft, and he gags, and hears Arthur say shit.  

He opens his eyes. He’s in the dark, in the hallway, and Arthur’s here in a big white shirt with his hair mussed up from sleep. He’s got John by the shoulders, and he’s got an odd look on his face, like something bad is happening, and John wonders if it’s happening to him. 

He looks worried, John realizes with a muffled shock. 

“You okay?” he’s asking, and John shakes his head before he can think about it. His heart’s beating like an army drum. He thinks he can feel it shaking his whole body. He steps from foot to foot on the swampy carpet, and realizes his pants are wet. “What happened,” Arthur asks. 

John’s stomach jerks and twists inside of him. If he tells Arthur the truth, he’ll be gone by morning. 

Arthur’s hand’s at the back of his head, in his hair, steady and warm. 

“Come on, kid.” 

John sucks in air. 

“It was him,” he whispers. “It was the devil.” 

Blood pouring out his mouth.

Arthur sighs, a little sound that’s almost a laugh, and says, “There ain’t no devil here. You had a dream.” He leans in, smelling like wine and horse, and pats John on the back, one arm around him pressing close, his scratchy chin brushing against John’s forehead. John thinks it’s a hug. He doesn’t know what that means. 

“I ain’t good,” John starts to tell him—heart in his stomach, stomach in his throat. “I’m crazy an’ I’m bad an’ I got the devil in me an’ he follows me an’ last year he made me shoot a man till his brains came out through his nose an’ the nuns’ll give me back to him,” but Arthur stops him, hand on his cheek, shaking his head and saying no, no, forget all that, you’re dreamin’, there ain’t no devil and there ain’t no nuns here. You’re home now, John. Forget that.

In the end, Arthur picks John up like he’s a kid, and John’s too tired to complain. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and lets him carry him down the hall, away from the room with the devil’s blood soaking into the floor and into Arthur’s room, where there’s a heap of orange coals in the hearth and a wooly blanket that Arthur wraps him in once his sodden pants are gone. They sit by the fire, John a mute cocoon and Arthur more than half asleep, and Arthur pulls out his notebook and shows John a funny drawing of a man with an apple for a head. 

John thinks about home. 

“You’re a good kid,” Arthur says, his voice soft and silly. He’s drunk. “Dutch ain’t gonna send you back, y’know.” 

John’s throat aches like there’s someone punching it. His cheeks are hot, lit up by the fire and the tears spilling up and over his eyelids. He can’t answer back. He thinks about a flat plain, gray grass wrinkled by the wind, and a heap of rocks at the edge of a hill. He can’t get the picture out of his head. Can’t get the devil’s voice out of his throat. 

“You’re home,” Arthur says, and the warmth of the fire swallows him up, and he sobs into Arthur’s side for a long time. 

Down the hallway, in the darkness, the door swings silently open and shut.