#Laura struggling again. (clenching teeth) its okay.

[artofloof]

i accidentally used way too much reverb but im not about to mix this whole thing again god save me

[fascination-street-writing]

Be With Me Tonight | Guido Mista x F!Reader

Regret is a sickening temptation - and you have ruined everything.

Content Warnings: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content (Oral & Implied), Implied Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Potentially Dubious Consent, & Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics (Past & Present)

You said you would do your own makeup. And yet, here you sit on a thrifted barstool – never mind the tweed upholstery that digs into the underside of your skirt-clad thighs, when you paid less for the stool than you would a loaf of bread – and flinch as your sister nearly prods your iris with the mascara wand clutched in her tremoring hand. She smells of hair spray and counterfeit perfume. You look to the mirror that hangs above the vanity.

“You really should change before we go,” she tells you while returning the wand to its tube. Fingers toil through your hair: she scrutinizes your appearance as though you are a porcelain doll and she your maker. You suppose that, in a way, she is. “You won’t catch anyone’s attention dressed like that.”

The reflection of your cherry-red lips mimics the frown upon your face. “Maybe I don’t want to ‘catch anyone’s attention,’” you retort. “I’m not even ready to start dating again.”

She groans. “You’re not still caught up on that perdente, are you?”

You do not have to bite back a quip because you do not have one. Instead, you bite your stained lips and look away. Though the relationship with your most recent ex had ended on mutual terms, the separation stings nonetheless.

“You know, you’ve always had bad taste in men,” your sister continues. Varnish to a wall, she rubs powder across your cheekbones. “First there was that pervertito when you were fifteen, and now a convicted murderer.”

“Can you stop?” you demand, clenching your fist. “He’s not a murderer. It was self-defense.”

“Regardless of what you think, he still killed three men. I can’t believe the landlord hasn’t changed our locks yet. I asked him almost a year ago now, ever since he was released from prison,” your sister insists, ignoring your plea. “You should’ve asked for his key back.”

“He has a name, you know.” Guido Mista – a name that once tasted like honey on your tongue, now bitter as cigarette smoke.

And your sister refuses to speak it, for she hates the taste of cigarettes. A hum dies on her lips. Her smirk bequeaths to you an urgency to cower in shame; however, the distressed look in her eyes tells you how much she fears for your welfare.

As if she has anything to genuinely be afraid of.

Guido Mista has, for most of your life, been something of an extended acquaintance to you. His is a recognizable presence in crowded hallways; after all, who else amongst the student body could muster the same courage to break the dress-code by donning a purple beanie cap atop their head? You will admit to him that you look forward to the days when a teacher confiscates his cap because it means that you get to admire his rich chocolate curls all day long from your seat at the back of the classroom. He will chuckle in response and press a sloppy kiss to your cheek while running his calloused fingers over the sides of your belly, drinking in the laughter that bubbles through you, as if you are the fountain of ever-lasting love itself.

But it was not always this way. Before Mista came a boy whose name you will etch from memory in time – remembered as a boyfriend, but never as a partner.

At your locker, he leans over you, waiting for you to stack your textbooks away. You are fifteen, and he asks you to join him behind the bleachers of the gymnasium. No more than a pet tethered by a chain, you follow him blindly to where his companions wait. You know their pubescent faces but you seldom speak to them. Their names do not matter anymore, either.

In a school dress, pitted against three boys who surpass you in height – you never stood a chance.

The squealing of the gymnasium doors and the slamming of the lock is not enough to stop them. It did little more than encourage your perpetrators to wedge you between their clothed bodies as they fist your hair and tug at the skirt that your father has only just purchased for you after you spilled grape juice over the previous one. You spot the purple beanie over your boyfriend’s blazer-clad shoulder and cry out to him – to Guido Mista.

His cap has fallen from his head, and they beat him until he gasps for air and spews bile from his throat. But he never begs them to stop because it keeps them from attacking you again. He can hardly put up a fight when every attempt to stand is quelled by the diving of a loafer-clad foot into the pit of his stomach Your boyfriend grabs him by those beautiful curls and ushers his face against the waxed floors. The glint of a pocketknife catches your eye.

The school-bell blares. The boy who had held you back throws you to the ground. The pocketknife clamors with you, just beyond the grasp of the tips of your fingers. Your ex-boyfriend (for you no longer consider him as anything more) and his boyish companions dust off their blazers, straighten their ties, and hurry off for their next round of classes. They leave you with your unsettled clothes and a boy with a broken nose.

Clutching the rungs of the bleachers, Mista pulls his body upwards:  a buoy in the sea, and you the only vessel on the horizon. You press his discarded beanie – which you cannot help but to notice smells comfortingly so of cedarwood – to his nose. Red blossoms seep into the delicate threads.  “Are you okay?” he asks you with a cough and a grimace for, as you will come to discover, he has cracked a rib.

“Yes.” Compared to his injuries, you cleared the scuffle relatively unscathed. Mista had stepped in before anything beyond the tearing of your uniform could happen. And yet, his concern is of you and not for his own well-being. “Thank you.”

He flashes you a lopsided grin. You are glad to see that, though laced with the blood that seeps into his mouth, he has not lost any teeth. His repose is infectious, and his ease illuminates your own composure. You help him to stand and together you walk to the nurse’s office, his arm slung over your shoulders and yours around his waist. Your attackers are expelled; their testimony of falsified innocence could not hold a candle to security footage, or a pocketknife engraved with damning initials. Despite everything, you make a new friend. The two of you will become lovers at sixteen – utterly inseparable.

Until the very end.

You prefer sweeter cocktails, but you accept the gin and tonic from your sister and lift it to your lips anyways. The relief of the ice pooling in the cavities of your mouth is a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the nightclub. Too many bodies, too much sweat – too many different smells, and suddenly your mind whirls. You place the emptied glass atop a table and only then do you realize that you never juiced the translucent lime wedge curled around the rim.

The circle of women whom you find yourself dancing with are strangers; you sway as though you have all known each other for a lifetime. You do not understand the words of the American pop song that resonates from the wall speakers, but it does not matter; after all, even an illiterate man can read rhythm. Across the dancefloor, your sister drags two men with her towards the restroom.

A pelvis presses against your backend – or perhaps, it is your backend that leans into the nook of the clubber swaying behind you. A pair of hands falls to your hips, though you take the lead in rocking side-to-side to Laura Branigan’s cadence. Over the sound of music, the woman to your left suggests that you all swap cellphone numbers. The woman to your right agrees with a drunken nod of her head and, giddy with excitement, clasps your hand. The woman directly across from you offers to order a round of shots to commemorate this newfound comradery. Instead of a tray filled with cinnamon whiskey, she returns with an olive-toned man clad in orange leopard print pants and a blue cross-patterned sweater that exposes his midriff.

“Hey, ladies,” the woman calls out to your circle. The lights ripple across her flushed skin like water. “This is Mista.”

You freeze, your hips suspended mid-beat. Your dance partner pouts and pulls away. Mista does not look to you, and you are grateful . . . Until his coffee-colored eyes do fall to your face after a hiccup jostles your chest. His brows furrow, gaze darting between you and the man behind you. Before his steadily parting lips can utter your name against the clapping of the bass, you are gone because you are not ready.

The winter breeze makes you shiver. The nightly chill is preferable to the sweltering sanctuary behind you, where only moments ago you bobbed along to pop songs and impulsively contemplated friendship with intoxicated patrons who will not remember you in the morning.

The green dial of your cellphone flashes and reflects upon scattered puddles.  You text your sister and tell her that you are going home – don’t wait up. Your affinity for clubbing has gone sour.

“I thought that was you.”

Your heart races quickly, so much that it might burst from the nook between your breasts and land on the ground before his white boots. “Yeah, it’s me,” you say. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too. So, what’ve you been up to?”

“Just stuff. And things.”

Mista laughs. “Stuff and things?”

“Y’know, work,” you tell him with a nod. “More work.”

“Me too.” You fidget with your purse. “I saw your sister – or, the back of her head, actually. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s good.”

“Good.”

A man stumbles through the door. He reeks of cheap bourbon and rye. You and Mista step aside and watch the man as he struggles to walk away from the club. The scene has created a lull to your painfully cumbrous conversation; you reap the opportunity, for it becomes your self-proclaimed cue to leave. You open your mouth to bid Mista adieu. The taste of your own lipstick leaves you sputtering.

“Hey, so uh, are you busy?” he suddenly asks, cutting you off. You have always believed that he could read minds. In this moment, it is as if he knows your intent – as if shuffling in your heels and tightening the grasp on your purse were not telltale signs of your discomfort.

“Not really,” you insist. “I was about to head home.”

“Cool, cool. I was just wondering because you left something behind at my apartment. I’ve been meaning to give it back, but I didn’t think it’d be right to just show up at your doorstep or something.”

“It hasn’t stopped you before,” you chide.

“I know, I know. I just figured it’d make sense to stop at my place, since it’s on the way.”

It gnaws at you – the voice in your head that tells you to leave him be, here and now. It will not do you any good, stepping back into walls once sacred to you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, and gages your reaction. Dark curls poke out from beneath the rim of his cap. You wonder if he still uses that cedarwood shampoo.

It would not do you any good to go with him. The prospect of sipping a glass of wine whilst soaking in a warm bath beckons you home. There is little trouble that you can muster with an idle night, for the night is still young and you have not given up. Though the moon has reached its peak, you cannot surrender. You have made your choice.

“Sure.”

But you never intended to make the right one.

You were sure to slip on a set of shoes before stepping outside. Through the hallway, down the elevator, across the lobby, and onto the street you wander with little more than the glow of streetlamps and passing headlights to guide your way through the dark. You find him in the alley between your apartment building and the next. The stink of a prison cell has imprinted itself onto his skin.

He slips a single nickel-plated key into your hand. “Your sister probably wouldn’t appreciate me having this,” he says.

“You can keep it. I’ll tell her you forgot it.” When he does not accept the return, you reach out and tuck the key into the pocket of his cargo pants. “Just so you have something to remember me by.”

The look in his eyes – the sheen of gloss that coats his irises – churns your stomach. In that moment, Mista reminds you of a dog scorned by his owner. In a way, that is exactly what he is. “You still have that sweater I sent you, right?”

Mustard-yellow, and one of your favorites. And one of Mista’s, too. You had sent it to him during his second week in holding. “Yeah.”

“Keep that, too.” A revolver rests in inside the waistband of his pants. It is a new addition to his appearance. It does not unsettle you, because you know that this man who killed three mobsters without hesitation would never hurt you. “Mista, I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” he sighs, kicking at a discarded soda can that had drifted from a nearby trashcan. “But it’s for the best.”

“It is.” The soda can rolls your way. You stop it with the sole of your foot; it crinkles beneath your weight. “Maybe one day, after you’re tired of working for that Bucciarati, we can pick up where we left off.”

“I’d like that.”

You smile. “Me too . . . Well, I should get going before my sister realizes I’m gone.” In your final moments together – before a pair of lovers once again becomes two separate beings – you embrace. Face buried into the crook of his neck, you speak: “You’re a good person, Mista. No matter what happened between you and those men or whatever does happen, you will always be good.”

He clutches you tighter.

“Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let this job get to you. And please, stai al sicuro, amore: stay safe.”

Back in your bedroom, you shed your clothes and don a mismatched set pajamas. Ever the optimist, you retire for the night with a heart not yet ready to be broken.

And an inescapable evocation of loneliness.

You are shocked to see the stack of hastily packed cardboard boxes. The words fragile or giunca are crudely scribbled with black marker across each one. All that remains is a worn couch with springs that poke into your skin and a square television, which sits on a box labeled libri e altra spazzatura – books and other trash.

The uniform pinholes in the barren walls are a reminder that imitators of your face, frozen in time, used to adorn the room.

“You’re moving?” you ask Mista as he tosses his hat aside and runs a hand through his hair.

He stops and looks to the boxes. “Yeah, actually,” he confirms. “The rent’s too damn high to afford on my own. I’m moving in with some coworkers.”

“You mean other gang members?” You do not miss the way he bites his lip in response. You regret your words as soon as they leave you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-no, it’s okay – you’re right anyways.” He trails off. “So that guy you were with. He your boyfriend or something?”

You struggle to recall your dance partner. “Oh, no,” you insist, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “I don’t even know his name.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. He hides the smile that creeps on his face behind the back of his hand, though he does not speak. Not another word is spoken.

It does not sit well with you, the silence that manifests in the still of the room. You are a trespasser – but so is he, for this realm no longer belongs to him, either. “Um, where’s this thing I left behind?” you finally ask; your voice echoes through the emptied space. It makes you shiver.

Mista disappears past the threshold of the bedroom that you once shared  – you wonder if he still uses the cream-colored sheets you bought for him as opposed to his preferred navy blue – and returns with a shirt: it is your mustard-yellow sweater. It is wrinkled and smells just like him and something new (gunpowder, perhaps). The dried drool marks tell you that he sleeps with it bundled in his arms. “Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You do not move to take it. “I gave it to you,” you remind him. A crushed soda can is under your foot and again, you are back in the alley saying farewell to your love. “I want you to keep it.”

But there is no alleyway – only a vacant apartment suite. He does not wish to return it; in a hasty, split-second decision back at the nightclub, he wagered his ownership over what has become his most cherished possession. Just for the chance that you might say yes.

Just for the chance to spend one last night with you.

He rolls his wrist, extending his arm further. “No. It’s for the best.”

And so, you pluck it from his grasp and tuck it inside of your purse – the final harvest from the tree, to be seeded and planted elsewhere. “I’d better get going,” you tell him. “I wish you all the best. It was good seeing you again. Really good . . .”

The doorknob hovers under your palm. “Wait,” Mista suddenly calls. You stop. He rubs the back of his neck. “Would you like to stay for a bit?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s late.” Your tongue betrays your heart. It is treason within your very soul. “Besides, it’s probably for the best if I go.”

Your reverberation of his words makes him wince. More than anything, you want to drop your purse and climb into his arms – to feel his warmth again. You need to leave. Yet, you step away from the door and take a seat upon the flattened cushions of the couch. You still remember where to sit to avoid the broken springs. “Unless, I mean . . .  I guess if you really wouldn’t mind.”

Mista perks up. You mirror his grin. He takes the spot beside you, careful to leave a considerable amount of distance between your bodies. He reaches for the remote. The reception has not improved – it remains fuzzy, pixelated, and colorless.

“I’d offer a boardgame, but . . .” He gestures to the boxes; you get the hint. The channels flash by. “Any preferences?”

“I’m fine with a cooking show,” you tell him. “Or a movie.”

He settles for the latter. At some point, you leave Mista to fetch two drinks from the kitchen. The refrigerator is nearly empty, save for a few bottles of water. When you return with your beverages, you find that he has fallen asleep. You leave him be and watch the reminder of the movie with nothing more than his heavy breathing and the voices of the actors to keep you company.

You turn the television off once the end credits begin. Mista has not moved. If not for the heaving of his chest, he might have been a dead man. Without a clock on the wall, you cannot tell the time. Prediction is all you have – and so, you predict that it is just after midnight. Regardless, you have overstayed your welcome. It is time to leave.

Your fingers brush across his arm as you lean over his hunched form to rouse him from his slumber.  You would hate to leave without saying goodbye. “Mista . . . “ you coo; your speech slurs and it is only then that you realize your own exhaustion. “I’m gonna go home, ‘kay?”

He stirs beneath you. Eyes puffy from sleep, he ogles at your figure. You hover over him, your breath close enough to ghost his cheeks. His long, dark lashes twitch when you breathe too sharply – when he parts his legs for you to slide in between them so that he might capture your lips with his own. One hand to the base of your neck, the other to your waist: he pulls you flush to his body, caging you with arms that feel unfamiliar. More muscle, you suppose.

You press against his chest and detach. His grip loosens, although only enough for you to raise the back of your hand to puckered lips to wipe the saliva from your face. He has already lost you – once more and it will become a life sentence.

“Mista,” you warn, turning your head away to resist his second kiss. The twinges of early love bloom again in the core of your belly. You want him. But you cannot have him. “We can’t.”

Your lipstick stains his mouth. It makes him look undeniably pretty.

“One night,” he pleads – yet his hands leave your body. “I know what you said, about waiting until I’m finished with Passione. But that was easier said than done. I can’t leave them; not now, maybe not ever. They’re mia famiglia. And so are you.”

Your head falls limply. “You can’t have us both.”

“Why not?” He speaks your name when you hesitate to answer. A finger hooks beneath your chin, tipping your head so that you must meet his gaze. “Why not, cara?”

He demands a truth that you have never professed. Not to him, nor your sister – and never to yourself. “I’m scared, Mista,” you finally admit. Confession weighs you down in his grasp. “Because I know the day will come when you won’t come back. It’d be better if I’m not around for it.”

A faint smile, laced with sorrow, etches upon his face. “Do you have that little faith in me?” he asks.

Faith? It was never for the lack thereof. You trust Mista with every fiber of your being because he saved you. And it was not just you – he took the lives of three men to protect the virtue of a woman whom he had never met because she could have been you. She was almost you. That night, when he had heard that woman’s screams and saw the man crouched over her bruised form, Mista felt as though his body had projected itself back into the gymnasium of the school you once attended together. Only this time, he knew how to put up a fight. He acted in the way that the constraints of boyhood had once held him back from.

No, you do not place your mistrust on Mista – you place it in the souls of every man and woman that poses a threat to his safety. The fact that you do not know how to convey this to him mystifies you. Actions are far easier than words, and so you press your lips to his once more. You feed off his touch alone.  

You recline against the backing of the couch, hands pressed flat against the cushions. keening into Mista’s palms as he slides your skirt down – past your thighs, past your knees, and past your ankles. Your panties follow suit. His mouth presses against your slick folds; as touch starved as you have become, it takes little more than his kisses to stir your core. As if commanded by muscle memory, your legs coil around his shoulders and yank him closer the moment his tongue slips past your heat. He groans against you, low and gravely. It makes you gasp when his teeth graze over your hardened nub. When he brings his finger to join his tongue, you find that you are unable to stop your hips from rocking against his lips. A second finger coaxes you, and then a third – you come undone in his mouth, heaving for air.

You cry out his name in prayer. Mista pulls away, letting your legs fall back down. The spasm of your thighs turns your abdomen to jelly. You cannot move. You draw him in for another kiss, savoring the taste of your balm that coats his skin. He mutters his desires and you nod, eager to feel him fill you again. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to the bedroom.

It fills you with gratification to see that the rumpled sheets and folded pillows beneath you are in fact the color of sweet cream.

Soft snores leave Mista’s lips. He sleeps on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other tucked beneath your head. Unlike your lover, you are wide-awake. You stare at the browning wallpaper of the bedroom wall, willing yourself to believe that the stagnant flowers are truly billowing against the wind in a field elsewhere.

You toss the duvet from your body and stand, careful not to wake him. The mattress breathes in the absence of your weight. In the darkness, you collect your discarded clothing and don your clubbing attire. You cast one final look to the sleeping dark-eyed boy before clicking the heavy door shut behind you.

A tiny voice cries out – a child from the next apartment suite perhaps, startled by nightmares no doubt. Though, as your ears strain and listen, it almost seems as though the child is calling your name. It is a ludicrous idea. Still, it unsettles you, for there is something familiar in its tone. You tighten your grasp on your purse, readjust your heels, and leave.

Regret is a sickening temptation – and you have ruined everything. 

| 4291 Words | Masterlist |

[titusthetraveler]

Travelers: Chapter 2

On the green lush slopes of the long valley was a small dirt plateau, named Runk’s Place. The old mouse’s house stood under the cover of lone trees that huddled together in the middle of the plateau. It had rocks and boulders put right at the edges, acting as a fence. The view from the top of the valley was spectacular, overlooking a large shimmering blue lake, with a few small, scattered green islands in the distance. Giant mountains stood watching over the waters, covered in light fog and clouds.

At Runk’s Place, he taught creatures nearing maturity the ancient art of fighting used by warriors, known as Amircse. Most of the citizens of the village down below were against this, implying that their training might be used to harm others, causing violence and disarray. However, newly appointed Mayor Fredil, made a law saying that all creatures must undergo Amircse training to defend themselves, if ever a dangerous time comes.

The young ones trained with long cylindrical sticks and pretend weapons for now. Later they train to use real weapons such as swords and knives. Titus, however, was to use his old redwood staff for life. It has guided and protected many of his ancestors, being passed down generation to generation. Now, he was its owner. He liked the thought of using something as old and treasured anyway.

Time seemed to snail itself through the day, as the students learned and practiced under the extreme heat of the sun, from the great sunny morning to the bright yellow late noon. Each move and strike of the stick required speed, agility, strength, and coordination. Muscles ached, sweat dropped, and groans were heard everywhere.

“Alright!” shouted Runk, turning every student’s attention to him in fright. “That’s all to be learned today. You’re all tired and exhausted, I know. Remember though to practice strikes one through twelve tonight! You have to be well mastered in those by tomorrow morning.”

A great number of the young students groaned out loud.

Runk snorted. He shook a paw at them, saying, “Dismissed! Leave!”

The students quickly left from his gaze in single file, heading to the stone-cut steps that led back down into the valley.

                                                                                * * *

“Psst!”

Titus looked behind him, wondering where the hiss came from. There was Tumfel, his loyal childhood friend. Both stepped in time with each other, careful not to trip on the steep steps.

“Beautiful sky, ain’t it?” whispered Tumfel. “You could draw that, couldn’t you?”

Gazing upwards, Titus examined the sky. He could see the dark shadowy tips of the pine trees at the corners of his eyes, but he focused on the sky itself.

“The sky is mostly red and orange, especially near the setting sun. The farther away you move from the sun, the sky turns to a deep dark blue.” Titus said, wiping a hand against the sky as if it were a framed image before him. “The clouds stand against the orange sky, as they are mostly dark blue too. Its front however, is bright gold and yellow.”

Tumfel sighed and nodded. “I don’t understand what you just said, but you are a great artist.”

“Thanks.”

Later they found themselves at the bottom of the stairs, which led to the rocky bank where Titus collapsed earlier that day in front of Master Runk. Many of the students dispersed, heading for their own homes. Since Tumfel’s own house was quite near Titus’, they went together, side by side, back to their homes. They ascended the first number of stairs upwards, over rapids and waterfalls, laughing and talking about many different things.

Then they came to the village square, which was a large wooden platform raised on stilts, like every other house in the village. It was unusually crowded, with a band playing at the center. There was some dancing and clapping of hands to the happy festival music.

“What’s all this about?” wondered Titus out loud.

Tumfel shook his head, chuckling. “Really? It’s a feast, celebrating Mayor Fredil’s birthday.”

“Oh, it’s his birthday?”

“Apparently.” replied Tumfel.

Titus nodded. Then he looked at his friend, saying, “Hey, if it’s alright though, could we go to the Spire first? I need to check out the sunset.”

“Haven’t you seen enough sunsets, Titus?” groaned the squirrel.  “Also, it’s quite a long way up. We already have a lot of stairs to climb to get back home! I’ve had quite a rough day with Master Runk, you know.”

“Oh, come on, Tumfel. A summer sunset is quite different from a winter sunset. It won’t be long. Let’s go!”

Titus raced through the dancing crowd before Tumfel realized that he was gone. He rolled his eyes, groaning, and raced after his friend with all haste. The joyous dancers made an ever-changing maze for the two, rapidly moving to the booming drumbeats of the band, with fife and fiddle accompanying it.

The Spire was a tall tower, standing and the corner of the square. The tower itself is one of the stilts holding the square up, it being the largest and thickest of the long wooden cylinders. A winding staircase wound around it, all the way to the top, where a round landing was. It once provided as a watchtower for enemies and predators, kilometers around being seen from the top.

Titus and Tumfel finally arrived at the top, both out of breath from their climb. Tumfel was the most exhausted, flopping himself on the railing of the landing like a wet rag. Titus stood beside him, simply leaning on it.

“Careful, Tumfel. You might fall off!” Titus exclaimed, pulling his friend backwards, making him fall on the floor. He shook his head at him. “Stop being so dramatic.  Now, where was I? Ah yes, the sunset.”

A gigantic, bright yellow ball of fire slowly hid itself behind the trees of the forest, its orange rays coming from behind the dark blue clouds with golden linings.  Each tree was perfectly silhouetted by the light, with a light shadowy fog dancing in between them. The blowing wind against Titus’ face brought a fresh smell of pine tree and grass with it, drowning out the sound of the festival below. Birds flew high in the sky, echoing out their calls to all who can hear.

It was like witnessing a dream.

Titus could only watch, mesmerized and overwhelmed by the spectacle. Tumfel hobbled up to him from behind.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Said Tumfel quietly, but loud enough to be heard over the wind. “Yes, Titus, you should really draw a picture of it now. All the amazing gifts Prince Agnus and his father gave to us.”

“I will.” Titus mumbled back.

Suddenly, a loud thud came from behind them, bringing Titus back to reality. The two friends turned around to see someone struggling to carry a large wooden crate. Titus and Tumfel ran over to assist, both carrying the heavy load in their small paws.

The stranger replied to their act saying, “thank you! Boy, was it tough getting it up here.”

Titus could not see the stranger, only looking at the brown wood and rope before him, trying to focus on carrying the box. He clenched his teeth at the great amount of weight bearing down on his arms.

“Where do you want us to place this?” asked Tumfel. “quickly, miss!”

“Oh! Just behind you, over there.”

Tumfel began walking backwards when the stranger called his attention. “Not you, silly. I was talking to the mouse!”

Titus began to move backwards, as Tumfel moved forwards. They set the crate down, slowly and carefully, near the railings.

“There you go miss,” Said Titus, shaking his aching muscles off. “Anything else we could assist you with- “

Titus looked at the stranger, to see her staring back at him. She was a pretty young mousemaid-who looked strangely familiar. Her light brown fur sparkled wet in the sunset,

small droplets of water dripping down to her clothes. She wore a light blue tunic, with a dark brown cloak, with a silver shiny brooch sitting on her chest. Her chestnut eyes gleamed brightly with both surprise and joy. Her smile… no beautiful words could compare.

He knew this mousemaid.

She stammered, clutching her paws to her chest. “T-Titus? Is it you?”

He was in tears; they both were. Titus gave a slow nod to the stranger.

Suddenly, they both leaped forwards, coming together in a tight, warm embrace. They squished each other till they could no longer breathe. Wet tears streamed down from both of their eyes. Then they both started laughing joyously.

“Titus!” She cried. “I thought I would never see you again.”

Titus smiled deeply. “Me too… Laura. It’s good to have you back home.”

In the background of it all, Tumfel stood quietly, looking over the scene. He did know who this strange mouse was, or where she came from, or how his best friend Titus knew her so intimately. He felt left out of something grand and important. What was going on here?

Tumfel walked up to the both of them, with a stern expression. “Well, will someone want to explain who this newcomer is…Laura?

Titus turned around to face his friend, putting a paw over Laura’s shoulder. “This is my best friend, Laura. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t remember Laura, Titus,” replied Tumfel. “I thought we were best friends.”

“Well, I mean we are best friends. You both are.” Said Titus quickly.

Tumfel snorted. “I still don’t know Laura.”

Laura walked up to Tumfel, smiling. “I remember you, though. Tumfel! Titus used to tell me all about your weird antics before.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Tumfel, raising his paws. “Perhaps we can back up a bit? As far as I could remember, Titus never told me anything about you, pretty mouse.”

“I did!”

“Did not.”

Laura shook her head. “Okay, Tumfel. I’ll tell you my story, since you don’t remember.

“Two months ago, I lived here. This was actually my home. Titus was my best friend back then, and we were together always. I do remember him telling me about this annoying red squirrel who always seemed to whine and command his elders what to do…”

Tumfel looked at Titus, his face glowering.

“But then,” Laura continued, “my father decided to take off on a small dinghy boat, with his family. He said business was more profitable traveling. I remember seeing Titus for the last time…” she then looked at Titus, “and I gave something for both of us to share. Remember?”

Titus’ eyes widened, recalling something from the past. He looked at his redwood staff, where wrapped around it was a small chain that had a silver medallion, or at least, half of it. He unwrapped it, letting it lie in the palm of his paw.

“You said, if we kept it always, we would always be safe,” whispered Titus. “Do you have the other half?”

Laura smiled. “Of course, I do.”

She lifted from her furry neck a similar medallion; it was the other half. She politely took Titus’ half, and aligned them together. They fit perfectly.

Tumfel gasped. “The Symbol of King Leone’s Peace.”

The pendant was circular, with the image of a paw holding a large olive leaf. A wavy crack went through the middle at an angle, where it was split into two.

“It’s handed down generation by generation in my family.” Said Laura. “I do believe it has protected all of us. For some reason, my mother says that it’s the same pendant that Prince Agnus wore in the Great Time of Darkness.”

Titus and Tumfel gawked at Laura in astonishment. She only shook her head, giving Titus back his half of the pendant. Laura examined hers again.

“Honestly, I don’t believe her. Recently, she’s been sick in the head and soul, muttering strange things over and over again. And that,” Laura looked back at the other two, “is why we are here. Maybe she’ll find rest and peace here, at home.”

“Has she?” Titus asked.

Laura shrugged. “Yes… sort of. It’s working, in a way. Maybe it’s best that she lives out the rest of her days here.”

“Does that mean,” replied Titus, “that you’re leaving again? So soon?”

She nodded sadly, closing her eyes. “I’m afraid so. But,” she said, looking up at Titus, “there’s enough time for us to catch up, maybe.”

Tumfel then spoke up. “Right then. What’s in this crate anyway? It weighs like a boulder.”

Laura looked at him, her expression changing to a happier one. “Well, my mother has been invited by the Mayor-what’s his name-Fredil, to do some storytelling. It’s for his birthday, I think. This crate has some certain things that she wanted me to bring up here.”

“Oh, she’s storytelling up here?” Titus asked. “That’s nice.”

Tumfel stared upwards dreamily. “She made the best cookies.”

Laura and Titus stared at him, confused. Tumfel only shrugged.

“I remember her mother, but not her.” He said, pointing at the mousemaid. “Her name was Marie, wasn’t it?”

Nodding, Laura said, “Yes, that is her name. How did you know if- “

“Anyway, I could help with setting things up. Looks like you two have a lot of catching up to do. What can I do?” Tumfel interrupted.

“Thank you Tumfel!” said Laura. “Maybe you and Titus can help me get a few more things from below.”

With that, she headed down the stairs, humming a little tune to herself. She disappeared into the dark lengthening shadows, as the final rays of the ending day shone on the treetops.

Tumfel walked over to Titus, nodding. “As much as I hate to admit it, she really seems like a good friend for you, Titus. I think I just forgot all about her.”

Titus nodded, smiling at the silver pendant lying in his paw.

[cwnerd12]

Royal Council, Again

“Royal Council, Again” Morning light shines on David’s face. He opens his eyes, and sits up. He’s still in Jessie’s hotel room, in Reinhardt’s suit, on the sofa. Jessie sips coffee at the table. David, “Shit!” Jessie, “You fell asleep while we were talking last night, I didn’t want to wake you up.” David, “I have to get ready for Council!” He grabs his phone, “My phone’s almost dead!” Jessie, “You have two hours. You can still have breakfast with me.” David, “No, I really have to get going, Mom!” He gets up, goes over, and kisses her on the cheek, “I’ll see you later, okay?” Jessie grabs his wrist, “David, whatever happens today, just know that I’m proud of you. You’ve done nothing but honor your father and Eli, and I know they’d be so proud, too.” David, “I have to go.”

In the back of an SUV, Abby, wearing her uniform, shoves a protein bar into David’s hand. Abby, “Fucking eat something, you need to be as ready as possible.” Monique, in the front seat, turns, “Do not get crumbs on your uniform.” David awkwardly angles his head away from his chest and eats. Abby, “Did you at least sleep last night?” David, “Yes, I did.” Abby nods, “Good. Just remember, David, not only are you a better leader than Abner, you’ve fucking earned your right to sit at Council. You deserve to be king. That’s something Abner will never have.” David smiles sadly, “I think Michelle is gonna be there. I don’t know if they’ll let you talk to her.” Abby, quietly, “I’ve been trying not to think about that. I don’t know what I’ll do if I see Michelle but then can’t be with her.” She wipes her eyes. David, “I’ll do what I can.” Abby, “Whatever happens, happens. There’s a lot that’s riding on this council, and me seeing Michelle is just a fragment of all that. Try to keep your focus on what’s really important.” David, “I will.” Abby, “I believe in you, David. I’ve believed in you ever since I met you. It’s been an incredible honor to be at your side.” David, getting emotional, “Don’t say that shit right now. It’s hard enough to keep myself together without it.” Abby, “Okay. You’ll do great. Because you are great.” David, “Thanks, Abby.” The SUV approaches the palace. Crowds swell out front, waving countless AFG flags and signs of support for David. Abby, “Holy shit. You’d think you were already king.” David gawks at the crowd as the SUV pulls to a stop. Abby puts her hand over his, “You ready?” David nods, still awed by the size of the crowd. He undoes his seatbelt, opens the door, and gets out. The crowd roars and chants, “David! David! David!” In Jack’s hospital room, Helen sits beside him as they watch TV. Helen, “There he is!” Jack watches without saying anything. Helen, “He looks good in a uniform. No wonder you like him so much.” Back at the palace, Abby steps by David’s side. Up in the throne room, looking down, Michelle sees her, and clasps her hand over her mouth, her eyes full of tears. In a shitty hotel room, the Bros sit around, watching on a small TV. Ethan, “There’s our dumb baby brother. On TV. Again.” Sean, “Shut up, man.” David looks down at Abby, and she gives him a reassuring smile. Abby, “Let’s do this.” They begin to walk towards the door together. Cameras flash, and TV reporters yell, “General Shepherd! General Shepherd!” David simply waves and keeps going. He and Abby go inside the palace.

Inside, an employee gestures them to the elevators, “General Shepherd, this way, please.” In a waiting room, Abner talks to Kings Lawrence and John while Laura, Warner, and Anthony all talk to their advisors. David and Abby enter. Abner casts David a dirty look, but then pretends to ignore him. Laura goes up, “David! How are you?” She hugs him. David, “Still alive, I guess.” He looks over at Abner. Laura, “Just know that whatever happens, I’m squarely on your side. No one else is the rightful king of Gilboa but you.” David, “Thanks, Laura. Will you give me a minute?” He goes over to Abner, “Your highness, may I speak to you?” Abner casts him a suspicious look, and then says, “What do you want, Shepherd?” David, “I just want to say, whatever happens today, the most important thing here is Gilboa and its future.” He sticks out his hand, and Abner shakes it awkwardly. The door opens, and Gerald enters. For a moment David and Abner are united in giving Gerald their deadliest, most hateful looks.

The monarchs line up with their advisors beside them, David and Abby at the very end. Abby, “Just be yourself, David. You’re the one that everyone loves.” The doors open, and the monarchs begin the march into the ballroom, set up for Royal Council. The crowd stands and applauds. Everyone is divided into national contingencies, the flags of their nations hanging above them. The AFG contingency is a wall of solid blue. Monique, Asher, Shay, and Joel sit in their formal uniforms at the front. In the middle, Beth sits, nervously applauding. In the Gilboan contingency, Rose and Michelle, still wearing mourning black, clap, while Michelle struggles to keep from crying. Abby sees her, and smiles, tears in her eyes. Michelle puts her hand over her heart. In the Moabian contingency, Jessie applauds and cries with pride while Frankie hoots and fist-pumps. The monarchs gather around the table in their correct places. David stares down at his nameplate, General David Shepherd, Army of Free Gilboa. Emma stands at a podium, “Royal Council will come to order. When your name is called, please sit. King Lawrence Merritt of Edom.” King Lawrence sits. One by one, the monarchs are called out, each name earning polite applause: King John of Samaria, King Anthony of Aram, King Gerald of Gath, King Linus of Gilboa, Queen Laura of Moab, and finally, “General David Shepherd of the Army of Free Gilboa.” David steps forward. The crowd explodes into raucous applause. David sits down, and looks around at the crowd, heartened by the support. Abby looks around and smiles brightly. Abner scowls. He leans in to speak into his microphone, “That’s enough.” The applause comes to an abrupt, awkward end. Everyone stares at Abner. He goes on, “It is my privilege to invite my fellow monarchs, and General Shepherd, to Shiloh Royal Council today. Today, we gather to debate who is the rightful king of Gilboa, myself, or General Shepherd. The law here could not be more clear, a king has a right to declare a successor, and in his will, King Silas declared me his successor. I’m not as handsome or charming as General Shepherd, but I am very much the King of Gilboa.” The Gilboan contingency applauds, but Rose and Michelle don’t. Everyone looks at David. David takes in a deep breath, “I think the people of Gilboa couldn’t be more clear, they want me as their king.” The AFG contingency roars, and Michelle applauds. David smiles, “King Linus and I have both lead armies, but Linus only lead in King Silas’s footsteps. I’ve spent the past two years fighting and bleeding for Gilboa. When Silas and Linus refused to acknowledge the Amalekites, I dedicated myself and my army to fighting them,” he raises his broken hand, “I got this beating Alek Amal’s face in.” Shouts of support from the AFG. David grins, confident, “When it was clear that the Amalekites were the greatest threat to Gilboa, I put aside my differences with Silas and united our armies to fight them. Because of this, we saved hundreds of lives at the Western Mall. When Gath tried to invade Gilboa, our armies again united, and we stopped the invasion. I’ve survived things that by all accounts, should have killed me. I’ve lost dear friends, both when they died and when they turned against me. Even facing horrific loss after horrific loss, I’ve kept fighting, because I believe in what I’m fighting for: A peaceful future. A free Gilboa. I believe I’ve earned its crown.” Sustained applause from all of the crowd. Jessie beams with pride. Warner, “I cannot abide a homosexual as king.” Boos from the crowd. David, “With all due respect sir, if I may correct you, I’m bisexual. To be honest, I really don’t like labels, although, I am somewhat partial to the Japanese euphemism, ryototsukai. It means one who wields two swords.” Warner, “A bisexual can’t lead an army.” David, “Were you home sick from school the day they taught about Alexander the Great?” Laughter. Warner shoots him a look, “And where did you learn this bisexuality?” David, “At the Dietrich-Brando Institute of Bisexual Arts.” Warner, “You’re just gay.” David, “Your mom didn’t think I was just gay.” Abby’s eyes widen in shock and horror as the crowd erupts with laughter and cheers. Frankie hoots, “Shit, son!” David suppresses a smirk. “His sexuality is irrelevant, Warner.” Warner, “It’s not irrelevant when a leader lies about the sort of person he is.” David, “I’ve never lied.” Warner, “And what about your relationship with Jack Benjamin?” David grows more serious, “I never denied being in a relationship with Jack. Everyone close to us and in the AFG knew about us. But we made the decision to be discrete so that no one would try to hurt me by hurting Jack.” Warner smirks, “And that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it.” David determinedly doesn’t look at Gerald. Gerald, “I will say that when I shot the prince, I only intended to hurt Silas. Any additional hurt was… incidental.” David clenches his teeth and  fists, struggling to keep the burning fury within himself. Abner gives Gerald a hateful stare. Rose struggles to swallow her disgust, and Michelle jumps to her feet. Rose grabs her wrist and tries to pull her to sit back down, but Michelle resists. Abby looks on, struggling not to cry. Finally, Michelle gives in and sits back down. John, “I don’t understand everything that’s happened. What is your story, General Shepherd?” David, “Uh, are you willing to sit here for a while? If you want the full story, I’m going to need some help,” he turns back to Abby, “You want to help, Abby?” he turns over and looks at the AFG, “I’m gonna need my officers, and uh, Princess Michelle should probably come down here, too.” Abner, “They will stay where they are seated.” John, “Where did this all begin?” David, “With the tank, I guess.” John, “What inspired you to go against orders, facing a court-martial, risking not only your life but the lives of the two captive soldiers you were after, and the lives of those in your camp?” David, “Well, my mom will tell you that I’ve always been an idiot, but, I knew what was going to happen to those soldiers if someone didn’t intervene quickly, and, even though at the time, they were just two strangers, I couldn’t stand doing nothing. Unlike King Linus, who during his time as a soldier was perfectly content to let King Silas do all the heroics, I decided to do the right thing. I did something incredibly stupid, and nothing since then has been the same.” John, “Is that when you fell in love?” David blushes slightly, “I- I knew about Prince Jack beforehand, I knew his reputation and the image he projected. The soldier I met that night was someone very different, someone that I don’t think many people ever were allowed to see. He said his name was Jack, and he was from Shiloh, and that he was going to be king when he left the army…” he pauses, “I guess I should have picked up on something there,” soft laughter, “But I didn’t realize who he was until King Silas entered the tent, and walked right past me when I tried to introduce myself. For a while I thought that the person I saw didn’t really exist, but, he came back. And I knew when I saw him again that I was in love with him.” In his hospital room, Jack cries. Abner, smugly, “Has it been difficult, being separated from him?” David, “The worst six months of my life.” Abner, “What would you be willing to sacrifice to see him again?” David, “I’m not capitulating to you. I still have support.” Abner, “So you would be willing to walk out of here, not being able to see him again, if it meant taking the moral high ground and insisting that you are the rightful king?” David, “If I have to, I will continue to fight, and I know that nobody here believes that you’re a good king.” A roar from the crowd. Laura, “My support goes to General Shepherd.” Anthony, “As does mine.” Lawrence, “You must admit, Linus, General Shepherd has shown exemplary skill in leading his army.” Abner, “Was he skilled when he killed Alek Amal and set off thirty bombs across Shiloh?” David, “I had no way of knowing that would happen.” Abner, “Alek Amal was the master of laying traps, how could you not think he wouldn’t have a trap laid for you?” David, “I thought it would be a trap for me, not innocent people. And I, at least, was actually trying to stop Amal. If I had done like you and ignored him, he’d still be killing people.” Applause. Abner scowls, “You aren’t as skilled a leader as you pretend to be, and you aren’t as morally righteous, either. Tell everyone about the execution of Douglas Ericsson.” David, “Doug was a traitor who caused the death of eighty-six people, and whose continued treachery forced the AFG to go into Ammon.” Abner, “Is that what you tell your mother? Do you always leave out the fact that he was a friend of yours?” David, “He was a traitor, and he had to be executed.” Abner, “Executed by you?” David, “It had to be done.” Gerald speaks up, “Gath is at war with Gilboa. What are each of you going to do about this?” Abner, “You killed my king and my best friend-” Gerald, “He killed himself.” Abner, “I am going to destroy Gath. It’s the only option I see.” Gerald looks at David. David, “I’ll be honest, I want to do the same. I want to bomb Ashdod into oblivion and then mount your skull in my office. But I’m not going to do that. You are not the people of Gath, and the people of Gath don’t deserve to suffer because of what you did. I set out to end the perpetual wars that Gilboa finds itself locked in, and I still mean that. I intend to settle peacefully with both Gath and Ammon.” Lawrence, “I’ll admit, General, you have proven yourself as a leader. But the law is the law. I’m afraid that I must support King Linus here.” John, “I concur.” Warner, “I concur.” Gerald, “I concur.” David, “You said I was king! You shot Jack, Silas killed himself, and then you looked straight at me, and you said, ‘You’re king!’” Gerald, “I didn’t realize that Linus had been chosen as successor.” Abner, “Supporting a rebel like Shepherd undermines all of our crowns! If Shepherd becomes king, what will happen next? Will there be insurrections in Ammon? In Aram? In Edom? If Silas can be overthrown, any one of you can be overthrown!” Anthony looks from Abner to David nervously, “As much as I like you, David, I must concur that Linus is king.” Laura, “You come from a stable country, Anthony. Every day, I wake up and face numerous groups that are trying to overthrow me. Gerald and Warner both do, too. David may stop fighting, but others will come for Linus. Because the people want what David wants. They want peace, and they want freedom, and they are willing to fight and die for it. Do you know how I’ve kept the peace in Moab? I listen to my people. I respect them. I honor them. And because of that, my people support me. Because I know where my people’s support lies, I am not afraid of being overthrown. I know that I am loved. David is loved. And love is always stronger than fear. And so I object. And I will not back down. David is the rightful king!” Applause from the AFG. Warner, “Are you going to keep us here all night, then?” Laura, “You only support Linus because you want Gilboa to collapse! You want to spread your twisted version of Christianity across the world, and you know you can defeat Linus, but not David! I ask my fellow monarchs, what will become of your countries if Gilboa collapses?! Linus may have the law on his side, but when it comes to who is the right leader, the answer is overwhelmingly David!” Abner, “I am not incompetent! For twenty-five years, I led Silas’s army, and I led it well! Silas was a smart enough leader to know that nepotism would only hurt him! He never would have appointed me General if he didn’t believe I was a capable leader!” Laura, “You try so hard to be Silas, but what did he ever do for Gilboa? If he was as great a leader as you say, they wouldn’t be burning his effigy in front of his own palace.” Abner, “You cunt!” Boos and hisses from the crowd. David, “For the record, I would never use that kind of language against a woman.” Applause. Laura, “You will never have my support, Linus. I will sit here until I pass out.” Abner, “If Shepherd agreed to something, would you support him?” Laura, “David will never support you.” Abner looks at David, “How’s your mental health, Shepherd?” David, “What?” Abner, “You’ve been fighting  this war for a long time. I know what kind of effect it has on soldiers. Do you sleep well during thunderstorms?” David bristles, “I’ve been seeing a doctor who diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. I actually rather resent the implication that being affected by mental illness makes me somehow weak or unfit to lead. This sort of stigma only encourages brave, good soldiers to avoid treatment and does incredible amounts of harm. Depression and PTSD, well, quite frankly, they suck, but they’re treatable. I’ve been treating mine, and I remain strong and willing to fight.” Abner, “Do you have nightmares?” David, gritting his teeth, “Yes.” Abner, “Have you ever been suicidal?” David, “There was a moment after Jack was shot and you announced your kingship, but… it passed. And I had people looking out for me.” Abner, “If you’re already traumatized, why keep adding to it? How much longer can you fight? How many more battles are in you? How many friends are you willing to lose? You must be tired.” David, “I will keep fighting as long as I have to.” Abner, “You say you want to negotiate peace with Gath. That means long, exhausting hours spent face-to-face with that man,” he points to Gerald, “You watched him shoot the person you love more than anything else. Aren’t flashbacks to traumatic events a part of PTSD?” David keeps his gaze away from Gerald. Abner, “Look into his face right now, and tell me what you see.” David raises his gaze. Abner, “Do you see him shooting Jack? Do you hear the gunshot? Do you feel to cold air of Mt. Gilboa? Can you smell the blood?” David, “I don’t understand how you can look at his face and not see the face of the man who sought to kill your king and best friend.” Abner, “Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. And I don’t kid myself. I know he’ll never agree to peace, he’ll only try to hurt me if I give him the chance. Do I don’t give him the chance. You have your ideals, Shepherd, but I’ve watched first-hand what it takes to be king, and I know what the world is really like. Sometimes, you do what you have to do, even if it means execution. Do you want to be king, David? Do you really want to be king? Have you ever really wanted to be king?” David, “If this were solely about what I want, Jack and I would be living in a beach condo in Moab. This is not about me, and it never has been. It’s about my brother, Eli. And my father. And Reverend Ephraim Samuels, and Leo and Nora Levinson, and Isaiah Clemens, and everyone who died because King Silas did nothing to stop the Amalekites, and all the names in files in the MSS building, and all the loved ones who have spent years wondering what happened. This is about something much larger than myself, and what I want is completely irrelevant.” Abner stares straight at David, “I will let you see Jack.” Absolute silence in the room. Everyone hangs in suspense. David stares at Abner. Abner, “Council is on my side, David. You’ve lost. If you continue to disagree, you will walk out of here, and never see Jack again. If you concur with the council, and agree to stop fighting, I will let you see him.” David sits without saying anything. Michelle has tears in her eyes. Jack clutches Helen’s hand. Abner, “You don’t even know what condition he’s in do you?” David stares at Abner, “No.” Abner he looks at the other monarchs, “I’ve deliberately withheld any update on the prince’s condition, for a moment like this. Brain injuries, as you must know, can completely destroy a person’s mind. People with brain injuries often can’t speak, can’t walk, lose their memories, don’t recognize the ones they love.  They are left an empty body with no mind at all,” he looks at David, “You don’t want Jack to be left all alone like that, do you?” David, his voice wavering, “He’s not like that. He’s doing well, that’s why you’ve withheld any announcement about him, you don’t want to give me hope.” Abner, annoyed, “Jack woke up five days after he was shot, late in the evening. I believe his sister was there with him at the time. He recognized her and was able to squeeze her hand. At first, he couldn’t speak, and he could barely move. He couldn’t even hold his head up. Since then, he has progressed well. He has regained a few words. He’s almost able to stand on his own. He asks for you, David.” Tears fall down David’s cheeks. Jack, softly, “No, no, no.” Abby and Michelle exchange nervous glances. Abner, “Brain injuries like Jack’s take highly intensive therapy, and still, they take years to recover from. Jack has and incredibly long and difficult road in front of him. He needs you, David.” David shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, “I want amnesty. Complete, unconditional amnesty for anyone involved with the AFG.” Laura, “David, no.” David, “And there has to be reform. Things can’t go on like they did under Silas.” Abner, smiling smugly, “I can agree to that.” David, “Then I concur.” Jack, “No!” Laura has tears in her eyes, “David!” He looks at her, “Laura, please.” Laura puts her hand over her mouth. Shay, Joel, Monique, and Asher all exchange tense looks. Laura sniffs, “Fine. I concur.”Emma rushes up to the podium, “With this agreement, Royal Council is hereby concluded.” Abner jumps to his feet, “I thank you, fellow monarchs!” He vigorously begins shaking hands. Abby rushes up to David, “What the fuck?! David!” David, quietly, “Go be with Michelle, Abby.” Abby looks at Michelle, who cries. Abby, “David…” David, “Go be with Michelle.” He stands up, “I want to see Jack! Bring me to Jack right now!” Abner, “He’s just at the hospital. Go see him.” David turns around and begins marching towards the exit. Beth sobs uncontrollably. Abby looks from David to Michelle, back to David, back to Michelle, and then runs towards her. Michelle runs toward Abby, and they tearfully embrace. Shay, Monique, and Asher sit stunned while Joel hangs his head.

(“Sky Full of Song” Florence + The Machine) David, minus his jacket and tie, barges into the waiting room of the hospital, where Dr. Hussein waits for him. Dr. Hussein, “General Shepherd.” David, “Where is Jack?” Dr. Hussein, “Before I take you to him, I should prepare you-” David, “I want to see Jack!” Dr. Hussein, “He had surgery about a week ago, so his head is still bandaged. His speech is very limited-” David, “Please, please, just take me to Jack!” Dr Hussein, “All right, follow me.” Cut to: Dr. Hussein opens Jack’s door. and David rushes in, “Jack!” He sees Jack, sitting in his bed. Jack, “David! No!” David rushes over and hugs him and kisses him, crying uncontrollably, “Jack, Jack…” Jack, crying too, “No, no, no.” David, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He looks Jack in the eye, “I’m tired of fighting. I’m so fucking tired.” Jack struggles to say a word, and finally blurts out, “King!” David, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Jack, “King David!” David, “That’s not going to happen, Jack.” Jack, “No!” David kisses him again and again, “I love you. I love you so fucking much.” Jack, “David, David…” In her room at the palace, Michelle and Abby passionately make love. Rose fixes herself a drink, the portrait of Silas looking over her shoulder. In her room, Helen looks at a picture of Seth and Silas. In front of the palace, Asher, Shay, Joel, and Monique all stand dejectedly. Joel, “So what now?” Shay, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Monique, “I think we’re supposed to just live our lives.” Joel, “That’s bullshit.” Monique, “I’m going back to the MSS building. I’m hungry. They should have dinner ready soon.” Asher, “You guys go there without me. I need to go somewhere.” At a bus station, Beth buys a ticket, “One for Menasseh, please.” In the palace ballroom, Abner laughs with Lawrence, John, Warner, and Gerald. Anthony stands by them without really joining their conversation. Laura cries in the back of her limo. David carefully lifts the edge of Jack’s bandage, revealing the bullet scar on his forehead. David, “You have a scar.” He shuts his eyes and kisses it. He looks into Jack’s eyes, “I can’t tell you how badly I’ve wanted to see your face with a scar instead of a wound.” Jack buries his face into David’s neck, and David caresses his cheek. Abby and Michelle lay in each other’s arms, looking into each other’s eyes. Abby, “I’ve missed you so much.” Michelle, “I know.” Abby, “I love you.” Michelle, “I love you, too.” Rose sits on a sofa and looks up at Silas’s portrait, a glass of scotch in her hand. She knocks back the last of it and sets it on a table. She cries bitterly. Abner and Emma host the other kings and their queens at the traditional post-Council dinner. Laura’s seat is conspicuously empty. Jack lays on David’s shoulder while David holds him. Beth boards a bus marked Menasseh. She sits down in her seat, very much alone. Outside the MSS building, AFG soldiers and citizens gather, holding candles. Joel, Shay, and Monique arrive and get out of their car. They look at the vigil gathering, the flowers set at the memorial wall. Up in his office, Reinhardt looks down at it all. Asher sits in an empty synagogue and prays. David speaks to Jack, “I have to tell you, I- I slept with a girl. I-” Jack claps his hand over David’s mouth. Jack looks up at him angrily for a moment, but can’t sustain it. He moves his hand away and kisses David forgivingly. David, “I’m so sorry.” Street lights shine over Beth’s face as the bus travels down the highway. The tears on her face sparkle. Abby and Michelle sit on a sofa, looking at the news. Helen watches the news. Emma watches the news. Jessie watches the news. A reporter reports from the now massive vigil in front of the MSS building. Joel, Shay, and Monique stand at the top of the stairs. Joel raises his fist, and others raise their fists with him. Asher sits in contemplation. David and Jack lay together, peaceful and quiet. The door opens, and Rose walks in. David stands up. Rose stares at him for a long moment, and then steps forward and hugs him. Awkwardly, David hugs her back. Rose looks at Jack over his shoulder. Rose, “You’d better take good care of him.” David, “I will.”