#Noontime Nightmares

[clusterfuck-yandere]

PUPPY OBSESSION V

Yandere Leon Kennedy x Reader

Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Y’all wanted it, so y’all got it. Thank you for being so patient and waiting an entire fucking year (Christ, has it really been that long??). And so — without further ado — I hope you enjoy part 5 of this quirky series, tee hee.

This is in HC format.

The reader is gender neutral.

Contains: feelings of paranoia, being hunted, deliberations on murder, Stockholm syndrome if you squint.

↳ ༉‧₊ You woke up to the worst pain in your life.

And that’s no exaggeration, either.

Your legs felt like they were splintering at the bone, and your cheeks stung of tiny cuts. Not to mention your aching joints and muscles.

After a while, however, you managed to sit upright without falling flat back on the ground. And that’s when you decided to assess your current situation;

You had no idea where the fuck you were.

It was morning, at least, so you were able to see the tall trees that surrounded your battered form. The only thing you could hear were the soft chirps of distant birds.

Lost in a forest, you noted. So, escaping WASN’T just a dream…

Part of you wanted to rejoice at this revelation. You were finally free; free from him. After being in that basement for god knows how long, you escaped..!!

But another part of you knew it wasn’t that simple.

You knew he was coming after you. Hell, he was probably searching all night, and even still searching. There’s no way he would just let you hit him with a vase, jump through a window, and disappear into the woods.

You might’ve escaped, but you quite literally weren’t out of the woods yet.

Which is why you found yourself struggling to your feet. It hurt like a bitch (maybe jumping out of a window was a bad idea), but the remaining adrenaline of the night before — mixed with your unwavering determination — got you standing in no time.

If you wanted to remain free, you had to keep moving.

It was the only way.

↳ ༉‧₊ Walking through the woods was a nightmare in itself.

And it wasn’t because your legs ached with every step. Well, that might’ve been part of it, but it definitely was the least of your worries.

Every single sound you heard — every snap of a twig or crunch of a leaf — sent waves of terror through your body. For all you knew, any of those sounds could’ve been him.

God, what if he was following you from a distance? Carefully watching until you took a rest, which would be the perfect moment for him to catch you off guard?

Then again, he probably wouldn’t be patient enough for that. If he saw you, he’d probably waste no time in tackling you or something.

A shiver went up your spine, though you didn’t know if it was the chilly morning air or the thought of him charging at you…

All the more reason to keep moving, you told yourself.

But… moving towards where?

These woods were unfamiliar to you, and you weren’t sure if Leon had neighbors in the woods.

Maybe you could find a nearby town? Or a campsite of some sort? Even a highway would be good enough.

Whatever was closest, you’d find a way to work with it.

Anywhere that wasn’t near him was like heaven, after all.

↳ ༉‧₊ The woods seemed to go on for hours.

And, admittedly, it probably did.

You had no idea how long you were walking for. But the sun was right above your head, meaning it was almost likely around noontime.

Though your rumbling stomach was really the only indication you needed for the time…

Okay, you had to admit; your escape wasn’t so well-thought out. You were so hung up on the actual escape part that you didn’t really think about what would happen afterwards. And that was really evident in your lack of food… which is kind of important for survival.

Maybe I should’ve taken a bit longer to plan…

You shook the thought from your head. There was no way you would spend anymore time in that place. If you had to sleep one more night with him, you might’ve lost it.

… Though, maybe you already have lost it.

Even so, you still had to keep moving. No matter how tired your pained legs were, you had to keep looking for something. There was no time for a break; you couldn’t take a break.

↳ ༉‧₊ Your body, however, had other plans.

By the time the sky was a brilliant orange color, you were practically crawling on the forest floor.

You bitterly thought about how pathetic you must’ve looked; wrinkled clothing caked in mud, dirt underneath your fingernails, hands clawing into the earth to drag the rest of your body forward…

And it didn’t help that your stomach was rumbling louder than you would’ve preferred…

Or that your throat felt so dry…

However, your luck seemed to be turning around a bit when your ears picked up on a soft, trickling, gushing noise.

Water.

The thought of a river or stream nearby motivates you enough to shakily get off of the ground, your legs stumbling towards the promising sounds of nice, cold water.

It didn’t take long before you managed to find yourself on a riverbank, jagged pebbles crunching under your feet as you lurched towards the clear and glittering water.

You wasted no time in cupping your hands and plunging them into the river. The cool water felt refreshing against your hands, creating a soothing ripple effect across your entire aching body.

Was this water clean? Probably not. God knows what nasty particles were swimming around in this unfiltered river water, and you did not want to know where this water was coming from.

But none of that stopped you from bringing your hands up to your lips and gulping it down.

You repeated this action about 5 or 6 times, the cool water doing good to quench your thirst. Despite the earthy taste — and the overwhelming flavor of straight-up river — it was probably the best water you’ve had in a while.

↳ ༉‧₊ It was then that you decided to take a break for the rest of the night.

The sun was barely peeking behind the tree line at this point, and wandering in the dark wasn’t going to do you any favors.

Besides, that little voice in the back of your head that was pleading for you to rest was getting on your nerves.

You cupped some water into your hands once more to splash your face, effectively removing whatever dirt and grime you had collected. The cold liquid against your skin made you feel much more rejuvenated than when you initially woke up.

You also took the time to dip your sore feet into the river to provide some sense of relief. A sigh of relief was pulled from your lips as you looked up to the darkening sky.

Why did it have to be you? Why did this sick fuck have to destroy everything — your promising career, your general sense of safety, your entire life — all because of his borderline psychotic obsession?

Did you piss off whatever god was out there so badly that they decided to punish you like this? Did they create Leon Kennedy to be your own personal demon? Someone that would latch himself onto you like a parasite and drain you of everything you loved?

I... I have to make you love me, his twisted voice echoed in your head. I— I need to make you love me… pl— please— please love me…

Love me…

Love me…

Love me…

A distant twig snapping made your shoulders jolt.

↳ ༉‧₊ It was him.

There was something about the way a shiver ran up your spine that made you know.

He was somewhere nearby.

So, as quietly as you could manage, you pulled your feet out from the river and frantically scanned your surroundings.

There was a thick, good-sized tree with a bush next to it that would (hopefully) provide adequate cover should he look your way. Hiding from him made you feel pathetic — you were supposed to be an officer; someone who was fearless and brave — but you had no idea what he was armed with.

Or if he minded cuddling with a dead body.

That’s why you darted towards the tree. You paid extra mind towards the dead leaves on the ground, making sure not to create any sound that would alert him, as you dove behind your makeshift cover.

It was quiet for a few moments. The only sound you could hear was the trickling body of water next to you, and you were starting to doubt yourself.

Maybe it wasn’t him after all…

But another twig snapped — sounding much closer than before — and your stomach dropped completely.

Crunch… crunch… crunch… crunch…

You could hear dead leaves being stepped on by careful feet, getting louder and louder by the second. Your head carefully peaked out from behind the tree and bush as you silently prayed for it to be someone else; anyone else.

But, of course, fate never worked in your favor.

When he came into your field of vision, you had to fight your initial urge to bolt the other direction. But you knew better than to give away your location and have him chase you in your current state.

So, instead, you took notice of his current state.

He was still in his RPD uniform, though it was caked in mud and dirt. His hair was sporting a similar grimy look with dirty blonde strands poking every which way.

You weren’t close enough to admire him in full detail, but you did manage to catch the cuts that littered his face.

As well as the good-sized chunk of porcelain that was embedded in his forehead.

A dark part of your mind felt satisfied at this.

↳ ༉‧₊ Fortunately for you, he didn’t seem to notice your hiding spot.

You watched him slowly the riverbank, most likely trying to pick up on any signs that you were at least nearby.

It felt like hours passed before his head lowered towards the river. His shoulders hitched upwards before sagging downwards; you guessed it was from him heaving a sigh.

Maybe that means he’s given up, you thought. Or at least moving on to a new area.

But any hope of that went out the window when he suddenly dropped to his knees, his hands clutching at the pebbles on the riverbank.

You weren’t expecting him to do that, which is probably why you felt your entire body flinch. Your eyes narrowed as you watched him intently.

What is he doing?

Your question was quickly answered by the front sniffling noises that filled the evening air. Leon’s entire body seemed to tremble as the sniffling turned into full-on sobs.

He was crying.

Of course. Just your luck to have him come to the exact same area you’re in… just to cry.

All you could do was uncomfortably watch him wail into his hands, his body curling into itself.

“… (Y/N),” you could faintly hear him whimper. “(Y/N)… wh-where are you?!”

The way he sobbed out your name crawled underneath your skin, sending a deep chill up your back.

He reminded you of a lost child crying out for his parents…

Except this lost child needs to fuck off, you mentally spat out.

In between his hiccups, you could hear those disgusting I love you’s he would mumble into your ear. The ones that would haunt you during the night, or when he was away at work.

“I… love y-you… I-I love you…”

“I love you…”

“I love you…”

“I love you…”

It would always roll off of his lips like a prayer.

His wailing soon turned into soft whimpers, which then turned into soft sniffles. What felt like an eternity of his cries piercing your ears was finally over.

He looked as though he was asleep.

Find a rock, a dark corner of your mind screamed. Find a rock that’s big enough to crush his skull in.

Killing him… that was…

Well…

You couldn’t explain it, but something about that idea just didn’t sit right with you.

Which was absolutely crazy to you; this was the guy that stalked you, broke into your house, kidnapped you, kept you in his basement for god knows how long, and tried force his twisted romantic fantasies onto you.

A psycho like him deserves to die, that dark voice reasoned with you.

But…

Maybe it was some sense of morality that was holding you back. To kill another human, well, is a crime. Leon is a piece of shit, but murdering him wouldn’t make you any better. As much as part of you thought he deserves death, you knew it wasn’t up to you to make that call. If anything, if he deserved anything, it was professional help (in a nice padded room far away from you, might you add).

Even so, the dark voice was persistent.

Kill him. He’s done nothing but make your life a living hell. He’s practically hunting you down, for fucks sake, and he won’t stop until he has you again.

And if that ever happens…

God, what would he even do to you?

↳ ༉‧₊ You found yourself in a moral dilemma.

The night was upon you, and Leon remained asleep on the riverbank.

It would be an easy kill, you mused to yourself. If you were quiet enough, you could pick up a rock, sneak up on him, and hit him as hard as you could. Over and over and over again.

But… what if he woke up? What if he managed to grab the rock from your hands, or heard you approach him to begin with? Would you win that fight? Would you be able to outrun him?

And… more importantly… would you have enough willpower to strike him in the first place?

Surely, you would, right? This man is terrible. All of your rage should be bubbling towards the surface, giving you the strength to cave his fucking face in.

But something was holding you back. You didn’t know what it was, but it somehow trumped over your anger and caused anxiety to claw at your mind.

Kill him… kill him… kill him…!!

You felt your hands trembling as you stared down at them.

I… I can’t…

It just wasn’t right. Leon was fucked up in the brain, sure, but should he really die because of it? In his sleep, no less?

It might not be right, but it might be the only way you can get the hell out of here.

So…

↳ ༉‧₊ What is your plan of action?

[ariel-seagull-wings]

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

@themousefromfantasyland @tamisdava2 @the-blue-fairie @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @thealmightyemprex @minimumheadroom @professorlehnsherr-almashy @amalthea9

(WASHINGTON IRVING)

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,  Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,  Forever flushing round a summer sky.                     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out,—an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather’s “History of New England Witchcraft,” in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,—the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart,—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee,—or the Lord knows where!

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk!—he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence.

I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined: his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore,—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away,—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across his mind,—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash,—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog’s-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s “History of Witchcraft,” a “New England Almanac,” and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT.

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humourous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor—he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds—when they have reason and law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove?

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove—

“That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures—provided we will but take a joke as we find it:

“That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.

“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state.”

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts.

“Faith, sir,” replied the story-teller, “as to that matter, I don’t believe one-half of it myself.” D. K.

THE END.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone: Limpany V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Limpany V : A Proposition, Of Sorts

Scared and alone, Ruth tries to forge a path forward. Where that path goes, however, is anyone’s guess.

cw: violence. very surprising, right?

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“It was fortuitous that we should ride by you, Miss Ruth. God be good, He was watching out for you.”

The wagon bounced against the rough dirt trail. The two old draft horses lumbered on as the wooden wheels groaned and creaked under pressure and weight.

Small hands weave through your hair, trying to tame the wild kinks and waves that have gone days without any care. Another hand softly touches your shoulder. You look up to find the mother of this family giving you a reassuring smile. She whispers softly to her young daughter, who is attempting to braid your hair as you sit on the floorboards of the wagon. As much as you try, you cannot return the smile, only nodding with downcast eyes. 

You pull your knees to your chest, making yourself small within the covered wagon. 

“Miss,” the woman, maybe ten years older than you, pipes up, softly rubbing your shoulder again, “Are you sure we can’t take you any further than Blackwater? We’re heading north after stopping there.”

“No,” your voice is small, as you look up at the woman sitting atop a trunk, “Thank you, I know folks in Blackwater. You and your husband are good, kind people, ma’am.”

She smiles, squeezing your shoulder. “The word instructs us to be generous to those less fortunate. It is the least we can do.”

“Praise be.” A masculine voice interjects from the head of the wagon. The father of this family was a strict, solemn man, long-bearded, and had not once smiled in the hours you have been riding in their wagon.

This family came upon you stumbling, dirty, and exhausted along the side of the road where the foothills gave way to open prairie. Your cheeks were sunburnt and hair windswept, red-rimmed eyes made you a pitiful sight for this family, passing by in a wagon in the noontime sun. A Mormon family, traveling east from the valleys beyond Gaptooth Ridge.

It had been two days since you fled the cabin along the ridges of the Lower Montana. You’ve barely slept, barely eaten, hiding in the woodlands, afraid of being caught by the men who so kindly escorted you away from the old cabin. You had no idea where you were going, trails crisscrossing the woods and foothills, just knowing that Blackwater was east. 

“Miss?” 

You look up, craning your head to the side to acknowledge the small voice addressing you. The daughter, probably no older than twelve, hands you a small mirror. You take it and look at her handiwork. Your blonde hair, dirty and unkempt, was tamed into two braids that trailed down your shoulders.

“T-thank you, miss.” You croak out, bringing a bright smile to the girl’s face. Handing the mirror back, you try to smile back, but are unsure if you are convincing in any way.

“Take some rest, Miss Ruth,” the mother places a hand on your shoulder, handing you a shawl, “Still several hours til we reach Blackwater.”

You nod your thanks, taking the shawl. Leaning back against a crate, you close your eyes, praying to God that you will wake up and this will all be a terrible nightmare.

—

“The Lord tests those he favors, Miss. Believe that He will reward you if you keep the faith.”

You swallow, nodding to the stern man atop the wagon bench. “Thank you, sir. You and your family have been very kind.”

The man’s wife, who had climbed out of the wagon bed, walks up to you, the brown checkered shawl you had wrapped around you earlier in her hands. She offers it to you with a smile. “Please, take this.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“Nonsense,” she presses the shawl into your hands, and you close your eyes before slowly reopening them.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

She nods back to you, “May the Lord grant you comfort in your time of need.”

You say your goodbyes, waving at the young daughter in the back of the wagon as the father snaps the reins, jolting it forward. As the wagon lumbers noisily away, you pull the shawl around your shoulders, sighing. You turn, wringing your hands, and start to walk down the road, into the heart of Blackwater. Past the construction of new buildings, the post office, shops, and saloons. Past men and women mulling about, a newspaper boy cries out about the election of a new Senator in Lemoyne. Dust blows down the street, a cloud you shield yourself from with a raised hand over your eyes. It hasn’t rained in god knows how long. Ducking behind a slow-moving wagon, you glance up at the street sign, confirming that you were heading in the right direction.  

Minutes later, you find yourself standing in front of a door you knew too well. You had memorized the way the sign’s paint was peeling in the corner, how the paned window needed cleaning in the upper corner. How the bell chimed when the door opened.

Silas Smith, M.D., Physician

The doorknob seems to mock you, your hand wavering inches from it.  You swallow, your stomach at your feet. Here you were, dirty and disheveled, with nothing, relying on the kindness of strangers. The first day after you left the Lower Montana, you swore you were going to die on the road to Blackwater. Maybe it was divine providence that brought you that family’s wagon - for even though you had never been a believer, you probably would have died of thirst on the open prairie if it were not for them.

Your fingers wrap around the brass, the metal warmed from the afternoon sun. You sigh, close your eyes, and take a deep breath before twisting it and pushing open the door. The bells chime, just as you remember. You close it behind you, as you hear footsteps coming from the hallway. “One minute!”

You smooth down your black skirt, trying to look presentable, but your white blouse underneath your leather vest is irredeemably dirty, the brown dust of the prairie staining the fabric. You run your hands over the braids in your hair, which, fortunately, were still orderly. One part of you that at least looked put together.

“How can I… Oh!” The doctor walks up, losing his train of thought as recognition sweeps over his face, “Missus Shaw, it’s good to see you.”

He takes his spectacles from where they hang on his collar, placing them on his face. He blinks as his eyes adjust, then sees the state of your clothing.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

Your eyes water over. The dam that had been holding back the all-encompassing weight of your reality burst as your shoulders shudder and the room is filled with your gasping sobs.

“F-Frederick…H-he’s…. he’s dead,” you hiccup, utterly and completely unable to control the deluge of tears from your eyes. “K-killed…”

“Rosalia!” The man calls back down the hallway, before leaning over your shaking form. He places a hand on your shoulder, extending the other down to you, “Oh, Ruth, alright, come here, let’s get you in here.”

You take his hand and let him walk you in from the foyer, but feel your face crumble again with a shuddering sob.  Rosalia dashes down the hallway, a bewildered look on her face for a second before she moves quickly to your side, quickly throwing an arm across your back, and pulling you into her embrace. 

“Missus Ruth.” She whispers, and that is all it takes for you to curl into her and openly weep into her shoulder.  Rosalia rubs her hand across your upper back in comforting circles. She looks up to her husband, with a questioning look, and over your heaving breath, you can hear him quietly tell her what you did.

“Mister Shaw was killed.”

You look up at Rosalia and move your glance between her and her husband. “I- I have nothing, I have no p-place to go, I didn’t… I didn’t  k-know what else to…” you trail off, closing your eyes tightly against welling tears.

“Oh, no, claro. Missus Ruth, you can stay with us.” Rosalia offers quickly, pulling back you into an embrace. “Come, I was just starting dinner . ”

“I-I’m sorry, I know I’m imposing…”

“Nonsense.” Doctor Smith pipes up, rolling back the sleeves of his shirt, “I’ll take out the spare cot. It may not be the most comfortable accommodation, but we have room in the storeroom for you to stay in. We’re leaving for Mexico at the end of the week, but please, stay to get back on your feet.” He nods and moves past you and his wife, down the hallway of the office.

Rosalia rubs your back with one hand and hands you a handkerchief with the other. “Missus Ruth, come, let me get you fed. I take you to get new clothes in the morning and these washed.”

They usher you further into the building, past the examination room that you had been in far too much over the past several months. Upstairs, in their living quarters, you’re fed, you’re examined by the doctor, you’re given copious amounts of water for dehydration. Doctor Smith and Rosalia quietly move around you, as you find yourself slipping into the withdrawn quietness you recognize from the other day, the heaviness, the slowness, the darkness weighing on your shoulders.

As night sets in, Rosalia leads you to a small storeroom back downstairs, where Doctor Smith has set out a cot. She brings a blanket, a pitcher of water, and a bowl for you to wash your face.

“Tomorrow we will go out and get you what you need.” She had said before giving a sad smile, closing the door behind her.

You sit on the cot, surveying the storeroom. The candlelight flickered against crates and boxes, casting shadows in the small room. You unbutton your vest, sliding it tiredly down your shoulders. Folding it and placing it atop a box at the foot of the cot, you sigh as you pull your boots off, setting them on the floor. You divest of your dirty blouse and skirts, bared down to your chemise. Tossing the skirt upon the pile of clothing, you stop as you hear something clink onto the wooden floor. Grabbing the candle, you wave it along the floorboards to attempt to find what fell. You see a glint shine against the light briefly and get down on your knees to run your hand across the floorboard where you saw it.

Your fingers find purchase on something metallic, as you close your fingers around the object. Turning your palm around, you open it next to the candle. Your eyes immediately begin to water over. In the center of your palm is the gold circle of your wedding ring. It must have been in the pocket of your petticoat. Your fingers slowly close around the ring as you pull yourself off the floor to sit on the cot. You put the candle down on the crate next to you and leaned over to blow it out. With your free hand, you grope for the blanket on the end of the cot that the doctor left. You find it and pull it toward you, spreading it over the cot.

Curling into a fetal position under the blanket, you begin to sob quietly in the darkness, clutching your wedding ring tightly into your chest.

-

“Go ahead and pick one.”

“Rosalia… I don’t-, I don’t want a handout.” You whine back at her, but she cuts you off with a wave of her hand. 

“No, no, no arguing. Missus Ruth, you’re getting a dress. Go and pick.”

You sigh and follow the stout woman into the tailor’s shop, scolded. You squirm slightly as the clerk looks up and greets you, eyeing your dirty blouse sleeves. You had been able to beat the dust out of your black skirt and wipe down your leather vest to look somewhat presentable, but the cream color of your blouse was tinged a red yellow from being out on the prairie. Instead of having the blouse cleaned, you were just going to get rid of it. There was no salvaging it at this point.

After much prodding, you select a grey woolen dress and another black skirt. Rosalia orders two more blouses over your objections. The clerk takes the order and cash from your benefactor, stating that the clothes can be picked up the day after tomorrow.

“Thank you, really, you didn’t have to do that.” You say meekly as you exit the shop, holding the door open for Rosalia.

She sighs, “Señora. If you feel so strong about this, how about you help me in my husband’s office until we leave. We will pay you.”

Considering there weren’t enough hours in the day for you to work and earn enough to repay what Rosalia and Silas have already given you, you agree heartily as you walk with her across the street. After another stop in the general store for provisions, you and Rosalia return to the office.

Doctor Smith is rearranging dark bottles of different liquids on the shelves when you return.  Rosalia takes her items upstairs to the living quarters, leaving you with the Doctor.

“I see you survived a shopping trip with her, get anything good?” He laughs, turning back to the shelving.

“Rosalia bought me a few items of clothing… thank you, Doctor Smith.” You say sheepishly, feeling awkward to be so dependent on the kindness of others.

“Oh, good. We want you to be comfortable. Do you have an idea what you’re going to do?”

You blink, of course, you knew this was temporary. They said as much last night. They are about to leave for Mexico, and you can’t think to outstay their kindness forever. You run a hand over your forehead and think back to this morning, as you and Rosalia began your day with a walk along Sisika Avenue, along the wharf and the shores of Flat Iron Lake. You recall eyeing the docks, Lemoyne Eastern Riverboat Company, thinking of times long ago, and days gone by.

You shake yourself out of your thoughts,  “I… I think I’m going to go back to Saint Denis. I lived there several years ago.” 

“Let me get the ferry ticket, at the very least.” Doctor Smith says, taking your hands in his.

“You’ve already given me so much, I can’t take more from you.”

“Missus Shaw.” He says, in a scolding tone.

“Doctor Smith.” You parrot back, exasperated.

Rosalia butts in, “Miss Ruth, she is going to help out for the week before we leave. I told her we will pay her for it.”

Smith nods, a smile on his face. “That sounds like an agreement we can work with, right, Ruth?”

Seeing that they are a united front, you give in. “Sure, Doctor Smith.”

-

Days pass. Rosalia teaches you how to wrap a splint on the arm of a boy who fell off his father’s wagon onto a flat river stone in the Dakota. You cringe as Doctor Smith sets the bone, and your heart aches when the boy cries, but his arm was saved.

Doctor Smith shows you how he stitches a wound shut on the forearm of a workman that sliced it open on a timber axe; working on building a warehouse near the wharf. Stitching skin is not all that different from the sewing of fabric that you’ve done all your life, once you get over the squeamishness.

Patients filter through the office over the week. A woman suffering a malady of the stomach, an old man with a lingering cough, a child running a fever. You watch the doctor dispense remedies and cures, tonics and medicinal herbs. 

At the end of the week, the doctor hands you a leather satchel to pack your few clothes in, and an envelope with more money than you knew you earned, but the doctor could not be dissuaded. You helped them pack their wagon, and on the day they are to leave, you help to tidy up the office, and pack yourself up. After Doctor Smith locks the door to the office, you tearfully say goodbye to Rosalia and wave as their wagon clambered down the street and out of view, heading west. 

You instead look east, toward the wharf. The ferry to Saint Denis was to leave at dusk. You had enough time for a meal before boarding. You look down the street, to the Blackwater Saloon, and decide you have enough money to at least have a quick bite to eat. Adjusting your shawl over your grey dress, you pull on the strap of your satchel as you push through the glass doors of the saloon. It's busy, hazy with cigar smoke and the smell of whiskey wafts through the air, sure to have been spilled on the floorboards, permeating them.

You move to the bar, order a bowl of stew from the bartender, and sit at a small table on the side of the room, hoping to remain unseen amongst the patrons of the bar. Unfortunately, as tucked away as you were, a mustachioed man at the bar caught your gaze before your eyes darted away. He smirked, leaning against the bar, downing the shot of whiskey in front of him, and turning toward you. His dark hair was shorn short against his head, and you could see in the way he swayed as he pushed himself off the bartop, that he had been a patron for most of the day.

“Pretty Miss, what are you doing all alone at the bar? D’ya need a big strong man to protect ya?”

“I’m fine, thank you, I was just leaving.” You spit back, drawing away from the man, whose stench of whiskey was close to nauseating. You push away from your seat, leaving the stew half eaten, losing your appetite. You grit your teeth and turn away from the table and the man that had sidled up to you. You eye the door, taking a step toward it.

“Hey, c’mon now, Miss, Miss!”

The man - the drunk - caught your arm and yanked you to the side, leaving you stumbling. You regain your footing, turning to face the man, who leers at you, still holding on to your forearm.

“Sir, let go of me.” You say icily, trying to pull your arm back.

“Now, you’re breaking my heart, darlin’.” He responds, not letting go. 

“Let go of me.” You spit, swinging at the man with your open palm. You make purchase with his face, and his head swings to the side. Unfortunately, his grip on your forearm only gets stronger. The mustachioed man turns back to you with rage in his eyes and grabs you by the shoulder, and you crumble, gasping as your old wounds flare in pain. 

The saloon is crowded, noisy. No one notices a man drag a woman out the side door and into the alley between two buildings. 

“That wasn’t very nice, lady. I should treat you nice in return.”

“Leave me alone!” You screech, trying to scratch at the man. He has wisened up since the last blow you were able to catch him on, however. He pushes you back against the brick wall of the saloon and the wind is knocked out of you. His hands clamp on your shoulders like vices, and you wince.

“Pretty little thing, maybe I should take you home and make you mine.” 

He leans in, with terrible whiskey breath, and you turn away, closing your eyes tightly and gritting your teeth.

“Now, I reckon it’s been a while for someone as old as me, but my friend and I think this lady doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

Both of your heads turn toward the voice coming from the end of the alley. A figure stands between the brick walls, his face shadowed against the light emanating from the open street behind him. 

“Piss off!” The drunk yells, turning back to you and moving one of his hands from your shoulder to your waist, as you push back against him, he shoves you against the brick again, and you bang your head on the hard wall, hissing in pain.

“You should leave her alone, good sir.” 

“I said piss off!” He rolls his eyes, turning his head back toward the interloper. He barely had time to look before a large form barrels into him. You’re unhanded, sliding down the wall as you gasp. The two stumble further down the alley until they crash into a box of crates, the wood breaking and splintering under the weight of the two men.

“Miss?”

You’re surprised, looking in the other direction, toward the street. An older man, the one you realize was the one speaking, moves closer to you, extending his hand down. You take it, allowing him to pull you up. “You alright? That ruffian do anything to you?”

Great, more people involving themselves in this mess. At this point, you just want to board the damn ferry, and get out of this stupid town and stupid state. More wood splinters at the end of the alley and you grimace. 

“We’ll take care of that man, miss.”

“Please don’t, sir, I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” You plead, hands on his forearm.

He laughs in return. “Sweet girl, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. My friend over here, he can handle himself.”

At that, the older man leans backward, looking down the alley. He nods to you, and you lean to look past him, and he places a hand on your upper back to steady you.

Oh.

He was right. Very right. The drunk who had been manhandling you was getting the daylight beat out of him in the alley. The other man whaled on your harasser, his limp form crumbling to the ground in the pile of broken wooden crates. 

You look back, eyes raised, at the man next to you. He smiles, turning you away from the brawl and walking you to the street. “Come here, ma’am. Didn’t seem like you were takin’ a liking to that gentleman. ”

“No.. no… t-thank you.” You mutter, still trying to calm your nerves.

He takes off his black hat, studded with a brown leather band, with one hand, gallantly placing it over his waistcoat.  He had a shock of greying hair, clean shaven, lean. Put together, you note, unlike the drunken man who approached you earlier.

You also note the gun belt at his hips, a bone-handled revolver fastened into a holster.

“Seems like this here man isn’t going to bother you anymore.” He nods back to the alley, where the brawl seems to have ended, decisively. The other man, the compatriot of the one in front of you, walks up the alley, shaking his hand a bit before clenching his fist again. You notice blood on his knuckles. He’s a large, looming figure, pacing out into the sunlight. No wonder the drunk lost, looking at the size of this man. He scowls, looking back at the alley again before wiping his knuckles against his black pants. He adjusts his worn leather hat on his head, running his hand down his bearded face. He, too, wears a gun belt slung around his hips, revolver gleaming in the sunlight.

“Give ya much trouble there?” The older man laughs, bemused.

“Naw.” He drawls in response, inspecting his knuckles.

“So, what’s your name, Miss?”

You shake your head, coming back to yourself. You’re so tired of running and worrying and overthinking, these men didn’t seem like Pinkertons, you sigh and don’t even bother coming up with a fake name on the spot. If you’re going to be killed, you’re going to be killed, telling two men at a saloon in a town you’re leaving isn’t going to change that.

“Calluna Shaw.”

The younger of the two men looks at you with a questioning expression, eyebrow cocked. “Calluna… like the plant?”

“My mother was a bit eccentric,” you reply, slightly off-kilter, trying to tame errant strands of your hair that had escalated their binding, “I go by Ruth.”

“Hosea Matthews, Miss Shaw,” the older man shakes your hand, “And this fine example of poor manners over here is Arthur Morgan.”

“Miss.” The other man, Arthur, simply nods, tipping his black leather hat.

“Any family we can take you to? A father, brother, husband?” Hosea asks, brushing off the dust that accumulated on his vest as a wagon passed on the dusty street.

Your gaze moves downward, your voice is small in your reply. “No… I’m a recent widow.”

“Ah,” Hosea clicks his tongue, “my condolences, Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Well, before that gentleman so rudely interrupted you, you were in the saloon? Can we get you a drink? Dinner?” The older man asks. 

“I was just finishing up, I need to catch the ferry to Saint Denis tonight.”

Arthur scowls. Hosea chuckles softly. You cock your brow in questioning.

“Ah, Saint Denis. The big city. So many people-” Hosea looks at Arthur while pulling a packet of cigarettes from his vest pocket.

“Too many people,”  Arthur interjects, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s there for you, Missus Shaw?” Hosea asks, placing a cigarette between his teeth.

“I… I don’t know, I guess. I lived there about ten years ago, but I haven’t been back since.”

Hosea strikes a match, lighting the cigarette. He waves his hand, extinguishing the flame before dropping the used match to the ground.  He tosses the pack of cigarettes at Arthur, who catches it easily, sliding one out before tucking it in a satchel slung across his shoulder.

“Well, safe travels to you, Miss. I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for in Saint Denis.” Hosea places his hat on his head.

“Thank you, Mister Matthews. And to you, Mister Morgan. Thank you to both of you for stepping in when you did.”

Arthur simply nods in response, lighting a cigarette behind his cupped hand. Hosea taps on your hand gently as he holds it. “Arthur, be a gentleman and take the lady’s bag.”

The younger man rolls his eyes but turns his head to blow smoke from his cigarette, placing his matchbook back into the satchel at his hip.

“Oh, no, I am more than capable-” you interject, flustered. You reach toward your leather bag on the ground, but Arthur snatches it up before you can.

“Nonsense. Besides, the boy needs a lesson in manners every so often, ain’t that right, Arthur?”

Boy? You think, he’s got to be older than I am, at the very least. You quirk your eyebrow as Hosea cheerily offers you his arm. “Miss, let me escort you to the ferry dock. You never know what kind of ruffians you can run into here.”

Arthur mumbles under his breath, placing his hat back on his head with his free hand. He looks annoyed as he moves around you and Hosea, walking in the direction of the docks.

You take Hosea’s arm, “T-thank you, sir.”

“So, Saint Denis. I’ve been there a few times, but not in many years.” Hosea says, leading you down the street at a leisurely pace, several paces behind Arthur. “What do you plan to do there?”

“I don’t really know. Find some work, I guess. I don’t have much to fall back on. I’ve fallen on… difficult circumstances recently…” You say, sighing. Hosea gives you a pitying look. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Life has a way of really giving it to us sometimes.”

You purse your lips, looking ahead. Several feet ahead of you, Arthur moves up the street. You turn back to Hosea.

“Is he your son?” The earlier comment came back to you, as you try to make conversation.

“Arthur? No. Picked him up as a teenage delinquent. I try to teach him manners, but you can see how well that went.” He laughs, coughing slightly to clear his throat.

“Delinquent?”

“Hasn’t grown much out of it, I’m afraid.” 

You smile, laughing softly at Hosea’s comment. A smile graces the man’s face as he winds his arm tighter around yours. 

“I know you said you’re goin’ to Saint Denis, but if you find yourself needing people ‘round, well, you’re welcome to come with us. We move around a bit, but have a good group. Several women too.”

“Oh,  thank you, Mister Matthews, but I really should make that ferry.” 

“Of course. You just seem like you need some lookin’ out for.” Hosea replies, leading you up the stairs of the pier, unwinding his arm as you reach the top. People have started to queue ahead of the blue-painted ticket window in the building set further down the pier. Arthur waits, smoking his cigarette, next to a bench.

“Thank you again, gentlemen.” You say, turning to Arthur and Hosea in turn.

Arthur places the leather bag on the ground next to you, gently at least. He takes the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and drops it, crunching the end under his boot. “ ‘M gonna get the horses ready,” he turns toward you, dipping his hat quickly, “Good luck in the city, Miss.”

“Thank you,” you reply. He takes his leave, his large frame moving between people and horses and wagons gathered at the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake.

Hosea smiles, “Offer still stands, Miss Ruth.”

He nods, backing away, he taps the rim of his hat with two fingers in a mock salute before turning back toward the town. You wave in return, watching him disappear into the crowd. You sigh, moving to the line of people near the ticket counter. You gaze out at the lake, the evening sun reflecting on the water.

What was waiting for you in Saint Denis? You haven’t been back there in years. Fleeing there as a young woman, alone in the world. Like the past ten years hadn’t happened.

“Miss?” 

You shake yourself from your thoughts. You’re at the ticket counter, and the uniformed man behind the desk looks at you expectantly.

“Y’buying a ticket to Saint Denis?”

Your heart beats loudly in your head, deafening in its staccato rhythm. You stare at the man, who quirks his eyebrow at you.

What was waiting for you in Saint Denis?

Nothing. No one. At all. No family, no friends. Nothing.

“Miss?”

“No. No, I’m not.” You spit out, leaving the queue and hurrying back to the road, away from the ticket counter.

Your breathing is heavy as your mind races. You look around, eyes darting this way and that, shooting across men and women and horses and movement, searching for your possible salvation in a black studded hat.

Nothing, you don’t see them along Sisika Avenue. 

You hike your skirt with one hand, grasping tightly onto the leather bag, and run, darting around and through people queuing for the ferry. Back toward the saloon, would they still be there?

Rushing down the block, past the butcher and the sheriff’s office, you look for them, eyes darting this way and that, head on a swivel as you come upon the saloon that you had met them in. You could not see them, the thin, older man and his younger partner, who was built like a brick wall.

You raise onto your toes, trying to catch sight of them the length of the street. Finally, you catch sight of their hats, the two men mounted high on horses, turning off of the street and heading north, on the road out of town. Leaving Blackwater, leaving you behind, leaving you alone. You are utterly alone in this world.

You run, grasping your skirts in one hand and your bag in the other, weaving past people on the street, catching sight of the horses as you round the corner. They were almost out of earshot. Your lungs feel as if they are about to burst, but you throw your bag to the ground and cup your hands around your mouth to amplify your voice.

“Wait!”

You see the two men pull on the reins of their steeds, causing them to circle around on the road. Hosea nudges his grey horse forward, walking back down the hill toward you.

He smiles at you once in earshot. “Change of heart, dear girl?”

“I…” you trail off, still breathing heavily.

A large red mare trots up to you as well. The man atop it scowls, which makes you reconsider your current path of action for a passing second.

“I’ve got nothing…and no one, Mister Matthews. There’s nothing waiting for me in Saint Denis.” You explain, voice breathy after your dash from the docks.

“Come with us, Missus Shaw. We’ll watch out for you.” Hosea extends his hand forward toward you.

Arthur narrows his eyes, “Hosea….” He warns, trailing off.

“Now, now. C’mon Arthur, what has Dutch always said? We save folk who need savin’.”

He eyes you, up and down, warily. 

“Fine, fine,” he retorts, grumbling. He swings his leg over his mare’s rump, jumping down to the dirt. The large man lumbers over toward you, motioning with his thumb to Hosea’s horse. “C’mon Miss, up you go.”

He grabs your waist and heaves you up onto the rump of the grey Turkoman as if you were nothing. You clutch your small bag in your lap as you get situated, smoothing your skirts down.

“Y’good there, Missus Shaw?” Hosea looks over his shoulder as Arthur remounts his horse.

“Yes, and please, y’all just call me Ruth.”

“Alright there, Ruth. Let’s be on our way.” Hosea replies, pulling on the reins.

The horses trot away from Blackwater as the ferry’s horn sounds, piercing the stillness of dusk. You’re not on it. The lights of the town are starting to come ablaze, as you look back on the receding skyline against Flat Iron Lake.

You are on a road heading north.

-

END CHAPTER 1: LIMPANY

[lennart11412]

SLEEPY HOLLOW

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

[ejaydoeshisbest]

As a young child...

As a young child, most of my fears were rooted in abandonment. Getting lost when I let go of my mother's hand in a mall, in a crowded street, in a public marketplace where dead eyes connected to silver-blue scales and amputated taloned feet and spilling dark intestines waited to be weighed and taken home.

As a young child, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that everything would be all right in the end. The house will still be there. Warm food will be ready at the table, bubbling and rich. Someone will always take care of me until I learn to take care of myself. My bed still holds the shape of my weight. The afternoon sun will still spill into my room where my GameBoy awaited reactivation. There are many lives in many of my games. Many times to try again. My fainted Pokemon just needs to be taken to the Pokemon Center. One short heal and they'll have their fighting spirit back. I knew that pain was only temporary. Simply remedied by an episode--well, let's face it--hours of favorite noontime cable cartoons.

As a young child, I did not think that my shyness and sensitivity would grow with me and eventually overpower me. That they will work against me instead of for me. I did not think of chronic illness and instability. I did not imagine that even when I see the sun, my body will not feel its warmth, and even when I see color, I will know only its name and not its character, its significance, or its memory. I did not think that a person could crack like porcelain and splinter like wood. I did not know that even amongst people, I would feel abandoned and alone.

As a young child, all I knew was that even though life was hard, it was good. I thought that nightmares were far and few between, and were left in the darkness of our dreams. I thought they would not bleed into our waking daily existence.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan]

LinkedUniverse Fanfic Ch. 10: Noontime Nightmares (pt. 1)

Stop! You’ve Violated the Law!

So, you’ve stumbled upon this original post for my Linked Universe fanfiction. That’s okay, it happens to everyone. As of March 2021, I’ve uploaded the entirety of this fanfic to my Archive of Our Own page. Along with finally giving the story a name–Oops! All Links: A Linked Universe Story–I made substantial edits to some of the chapters. These range from minor stylistic revisions to fixing a gaping plot hole that kinda completely broke the character conflict in the earlier chapters. I also renamed and renumbered (but not reordered) the chapters. Specifically, this is now Chapter 12: Noontime Nightmares.

The AO3 iterations of these chapters are the definitive versions. So, if you would like to read this fanfiction, please do so on AO3, right here. With this embedded link. Hehe. Geddit? Link?

Note: My screen name on AO3 is FrancisDuFresne. Yes, that is me. I am not plagiarizing myself.

Anyway, for posterity’s sake, the rest of the original post is below the cut.

That dark forest the Links entered last chapter of my @linkeduniverse fan narrative? Yeah, it’s pretty dark. Part 1 of 2. Word Count: 2418

Nearly all light was blocked by the forest’s dense tree canopy. The heroes were glad they decided to light their lanterns, but even they seemed to not be able to pierce more than a few yards into the darkness. Wild was reminded of a similar forest north of his Hyrule Castle. He hoped they would not encounter the monsters he did there here, too.

The Links spent two uneasy hours walking through the woods. Twilight hadn’t sensed anything strange in his wolf form, but that didn’t sate their feeling they were being watched. Wild still had two arrows nocked on his bow; Warrior instructed him to fire at Twilight’s signal. Warrior was determined to neither get ambushed nor be defeated in one.

“I don’t like this,” Hyrule whispered. Holding his lantern at arm’s length, he still could barely see Legend ahead of him.

“None of us do,” Legend replied. “Unless one of us does. Does anyone like this?”

Time smiled. At least one of them was trying to keep the mood light. “No, I can’t say I’m very fond of this.”

Wind, used to sunny days on the high seas and night sky starlight playing off the water, agreed. “Yeah, not the biggest fan.”

Twilight was put on edge by the suffocating darkness. His heightened senses as a wolf could barely pierce it. It brought to mind the dark cloud that sent the group out of the illusory world of the burning village. That thought unnerved him even more. There was nothing except the faint scent of his friends behind him and darkness ahead.

Three more hours of this? He thought. I almost want something to happen… Wait.

A new scent appeared. It was familiar. The stench of rot and death, a few yards ahead and to the right. Looks like I jinxed it.

The Wolf barked and pointed his head in the direction. With no hesitation, Wild loosed his arrows. The THWIP of the them hitting a target bounced and echoed off the trees. Now fully alert, the others clipped their lanterns of their belts and drew their weapons. Wild nocked two more arrows as Sky moved ahead of him and Twilight.

They walked slowly towards what may be a slain monster. The light of their lanterns fell upon a stag pinned to a tree. It was dead. Two arrows stuck out of its neck; that they expected. What they didn’t anticipate was a massive spear skewering the poor animal through its side. The weapon was long as Time would be tall with Twilight standing on his shoulders, and nearly as thick as a small birch tree. From what was exposed of the head, it seemed to be a jagged, razor sharp rock of some kind. It was shoddily tied together with old ropes.

The stag, pinned to the tree by the spear, seemed to have been dead for a week at least. Flies buzzed around it, and it reeked horribly. Hesitantly approaching it, Sky’s lantern showed it was missing its hind legs. He gagged. He turned back to the group and shook his head as if to say, this isn’t good.

“What the…” Hyrule said as he inched toward the carrion. “What could have done this?”

Wild’s thoughts raced. “Something big. Hinox, maybe?”

“Hinox aren’t that big,” Four said. “Only ten feet, max.”

“Yours, maybe,” Wild replied. “Mine are giants. Five times my height, easy.”

“Oh.”

“What’s a Hinox?” Wind asked. He said it almost as if not wanting an answer.

“Big, muscle-y creatures,” Legend explained. “One-eyed, love bombs…”

“Love bombs?” Wild scoffed. “What kind of Hinox are you guys used to?”

“Something more explosive than yours, apparently.”

Time didn’t like this one bit. “Cut the chatter. We need to be on guard. This thing probably likes prey that stand around and talk.”

“And something tells me we’re the perfect prey,” Hyrule muttered.

Suddenly, Twilight barked again. Following the wolf’s snout, Wild pulled his bow’s string and let two arrows fly. Another THWIP. The heroes warily followed the sound. Their lanterns’ light fell upon a what looked like a fox, again affixed to a tree. The entire font half of its body seemed to have been torn off. This time, a man-sized halberd held it in place. Time pulled it free. He shook off the fox and held the weapon out to the others.

It was finely made, with smooth curves, a polished head, and stained wood. The blacksmith who made it was clearly a skilled one. The materials looked expensive. “This is no traveler’s spear,” Four observed. “This belonged to a knight.”

“So,” Wind ventured, “where’s the knight?”

Warrior looked down at him with one eyebrow raised. “Do you really have to ask?”

“Not really.”

“Figured. Well, it looks like whatever thing is, it’s several yards tall, can use weapons, and has a taste for raw meat.”

“Hm…” Wild put all these pieces together in his head. “I’m definitely thinking a hinox like the ones I’ve seen. Funny, I had to fight one in a forest like this.”

“At least you’ll have experience, then,” Hyrule said. “Plus, you have us now.”

Twilight was still transformed. He was trying to pick up any other scents. As his companions were talking, he picked something faint up. What’s more, he felt a soft rumbling under his paws. Almost like multiple sets of footsteps… He tried to pinpoint where it was coming from, but it was all around them. He looked to the others. They hadn’t noticed any of it. He transformed back.

“Guys, we have company,” he said. “From all directions. Sounds like footsteps and smells… not good. Worse than this carrion.”

“Yep,” Wild confirmed. “Hinox.”

“Is that plural?” Legend asked Twilight.

“Yes.”

“Great.”

Warrior looked to the resident amnesiac. “What can we expect?”

“Five times our size, fat, dim, sometimes armored around the legs. I usually used spears because it’s not safe to get too close to them. They’ll create shockwaves by beating the ground with their hands, and like jumping and crushing people under their rears. Time, pass me that halberd.”

Time handed it over. He was better with a sword anyway. Wild took it and tossed it between his hands, as if checking its balance. He readied it in both hands and took a stab into the darkness. Then he twirled it into one hand, then the next, then back. The hero nodded, evidently pleased with the quality of the weapon. It also gave him an excuse not to use his shield, which he stole from a Stalfos and wasn’t comfortable at all.

“Twilight?” Warrior asked. “How many did you sense?”

“I couldn’t tell for sure. Four or more.”

“Then I’m not sure if we should split up.”

“I should be able to take one myself,” Wild pointed out.

“Right. Pairs for the rest of us, then?”

Before anyone could respond, the footsteps Twilight heard began to become audible to them. A few seconds later, the stench hit them too. Twilight was right, it was coming from all directions. “We’re being surrounded,” Sky said. “We might want to get creative with our weapons.”

“I agree,” Time assented. “If swords aren’t working, don’t hesitate to use anything you need.”

Now the footsteps were growing louder. In a few seconds, the monsters would be upon them. The heroes’ lanterns were infuriatingly dim in the oppressing darkness. Warrior pulled out his Fire Rod. “I can’t take these shadows, we’re sitting ducks!”

He held the Fire Rod aloft and ignited the tip with a layer of flame. The firelight illuminated not four, not five, but nine Hinox less than ten yards away. Wild’s description of them was accurate, the others silently confirmed. The reek of the monsters filled the heroes’ nostrils, forcing them to hold back gags. They readied their weapons. Swords and shields glinted from the fire. “New plan,” Warrior whispered. “One-on-one. Got it? Break.”

In a flash, Wild stowed his halberd and drew his bow. He nocked three arrows and fired them straight into the nearest Hinox’s single eye. The giant monster recoiled with a deafening roar, reached up to its face, and tore the arrows out of its eye. Blood splattered the ground, but the injury didn’t seem to bother the Hinox. It kept moving forward. Wild gaped at it. That usually did some serious damage. Only nine arrows left... Wild thought. Got to conserve them.

The others saw this and stared at the monster. Not many creatures can take three arrows in the eye and keep going. Wild slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his new halberd. He rushed at the Hinox. It stared down at this tiny man sprinting at it, confused by the sight. Most things ran from it. Undeterred, it raised its hand to squish the puny thing. As it was about to bring the three-fingered hand down, Wild jumped to the side. He readied the spear.

The young hero’s feet skidded on the leafy forest floor. Taking a half-second to ground his feet, he stared down his target. Aiming straight at the Hinox’s fat gut, he let loose a flurry of stabs. Again and again, the finely-crafted halberd pierced the monster’s tough skin, sending blood into the air. Wild felt flecks hit his face as he attacked. He worked his fingers furiously, turning the spear slightly with each stab, the axe-like head digging in and tearing flesh as it exited.

The monster roared in either fury or agony, Wild didn’t care. Its entrails torn, it stumbled onto its back with a deafening THUD. Wild ran around to its side and jammed the halberd between the Hinox’s ribs. He used the spear’s handle to vault onto the monster, pounded his boot into its chin, and leapt upward. He twirled the weapon above his hand, secured his grip on it, and spiraled downward.

The halberd’s head bored straight into the Hinox’s eye. After three rotations, Wild righted himself, dug his boot into the monster’s forehead, and jumped to the ground. The roaring stopped. The felled monster ceased its writhing and went limp. Wild cast a look at it to ensure it was dead. Satisfied with his work, he went on to help his friends.

…

By now, Sky was working on his own Hinox. He drew his Beetle and shot it to the side. The flying weapon distracted the brute. It swiped its hands through the air, trying to swat it down. The hero saw a moment to strike. He rushed to the monster’s leg, hoping to cripple it. He raised the Master Sword and made an inward slash. The blade struck the wooden guard the Hinox wore on its leg. It was stuck.

Sky yanked on the handle to free the blade from the wood. One tug didn’t work. Two. Three. The blade came free and Sky stumbled backward. By now, the monster remembered its prey. It turned back around to face Sky. Spotting the puny Hylian, it crouched down. It was preparing to jump. Sky remembered Wild’s words and turned tail.

He was several yards away by the time the Hinox’s enormous behind slammed into the ground. The shockwave still threw him forward. Narrowly dodging a faceplant, Sky managed to get back on his feet. The Hinox was coming for him again. Sky’s eyes darted around the monster, trying to find a weak point. There! he thought. Found one!

The young swordsman spotted what he was looking for. The wooden guards the Hinox was wearing were held in place by some frayed ropes. That was something Sky could work with. He drew his scattershot and filled the its pocket with pellets. He pulled back, aimed for the eye, and let go. He knew it wouldn’t do much to stop the brute, but it would distract it. With the monster blinking away the tiny ammunition, Sky made his move.

Taking off at a sprint, he replaced the scattershot with his sword and ran underneath the Hinox. At just the right moment, he made two deft swipes. The ropes sliced apart and their load fell to the ground. The Hinox was still trying to figure out what was happening when Sky ran back the way he came. He held the Master Sword aloft and charged a skyward strike. Lowering it to his side, he ran under the Hinox and spun on his heel. The charged spin attack sliced clean through the monster’s legs. Sky ran clear before it collapsed in a heap on the ground. It wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

…

The world froze. Wind was holding the Phantom Sword aloft, using its time-stop ability. All sound and breeze stopped as he dashed around the Hinox. He had to make the most of this moment. He took his hookshot out mid-step, held it in his right hand, and readied it. He aimed up and chose his target.

With a squeeze of the trigger, the chained weapon fired out into the stagnant air. It dug itself into the side of the monster’s head. Wind knew it wouldn’t dig deep enough to do any serious damage, but he wasn’t planning on it. He picked up more speed as he sprinted. By now he was directly behind the Hinox.

The hero kicked his feet off the ground into a high leap. At the apex of his jump, he squeezed the trigger on the hookshot again. The chain retracted, shooting Wind into the air. Using the momentum of his leap, he rushed up to the monster’s neck. He raised his sword. A split second from hitting the Hinox, he swung the Phantom Sword.

SWISH! The blade cut straight through the nape of monster’s neck, severing its spinal cord. Wind felt time begin to restart. He planted his feet on the slowly collapsing Hinox’s neck and pushed off into a backflip. He landed on the ground and was just retracting the hookshot’s tip as time resumed fully. The titan collapsed on forest floor. In quite literally no time, the young hero had felled the giant.

The Phantom Sword was exhausting to use without the fairy Ciela’s help, so Wind took a moment to recover his strength. He looked up at the rest of the fight. The others were still working on their Hinox. He could just barely see them through the darkness. He smiled at the sight. The Hinox looked tough, but his friends seemed to be having an easy enough time fighting them. Nice, he thought. Gimme a sec, boys. I’ll be right there.

[thearchivistsjournal]

Day 39,

The Catacomb nightmares were… bad… last night.  It was even darker than normal; just enough eerily unsourced light to guess at suggestions of surfaces if I strained my eyes and concentrated to the point of pain.  I was constantly bumping into walls and low-hanging arches and outcropped grave markers; tripping and falling on uneven sections of floor or scattered pottery until I was forced to give up and crawl.  And through it all, on top of the sense of being lost and trapped from the last two such nightmares was the knowledge that someone or something else was here with me and that I had to keep moving because of it.  Whether I was terrified of losing it or terrified of it finding me I can’t say after waking, only that the terror was mixed with anger, frustration, and tears from the agonizingly slow pace I was forced into.

In the end, it was hunger and thirst that finally woke me.  And yet when I woke, despite being in a bed I was still in a near-lightless stone-walled space and for a moment I despaired that I was still in the Catacomb Depths after waking.  I began flailing, tangling myself in my sheets as I groped for the nearby diffuse glow and knocked the lantern crystal from my bedside table.  As the crystal lost its heavy cloth covering and tumbled to the floor I found myself in the windowless archive bedroom, made strange by the underlighting casting shadows at unusual angles.  Shaking, I disentangled myself from the bedsheets and stumbled over to uncover the room’s other lights.

I realized now that I was hyperventilating and made a partially successful attempt to slow and calm my breathing before opening the door to the rest of the archive.  I found myself pacing back and forth, compulsively touching things to reassure myself that I was awake now.  Even with the conscious knowledge that I was fine, unharmed, and safe I recognized that I was having a panic attack and just needed to calm down, but the knowledge that I was panicking simply fed itself into an irrational loop of panicking about panicking.  Fear of being so afraid that I might pass out and hurt myself for real.  I kept going back and forth between trying to dress myself, eating something, and getting myself to step outside for fresh air and sun, but as soon as I started to make progress towards one thing I’d be beset by the idea that one of the others was more urgent and I was making the wrong choice so I’d abandon it and switch, only to repeat the cycle and come back to the original course of action.  It didn’t help that my throat was so tight I felt that I would choke every time I tried to swallow something.  I tried to write in this journal as I often do to calm myself before bed but couldn’t find any coherent thoughts to put to words and only wound up thinking about my symbol comprehension issue.

I can’t say how long I spent trying to get myself together vs how long I simply slept in, but the sun was at its noontime height by the time I finally got myself out onto the cobblestone street in a semblance of functional lucidity.  As I made my way out of the Village people greeted me as I passed by as if it were any other day.  I kept asking myself why none of them were trying to help me.  Couldn’t they see that I was distressed?  Barely holding myself together?  But of course, I was holding myself together now.  Forcing that panic down to keep it from showing or controlling me even while it stayed on the edge of my mind.  And if I seemed a bit distracted to onlookers, well, that was normal for the strange, absent-minded Archivist, now wasn’t it?

Once I reached Siren Overlook I took a seat on one of the pillar stumps and let the song wash over me.  With the intent of avoiding a repeat of the last time I was here, it was my hope that sitting on hard stone I’d be less likely to fall asleep than lying on soft grass.  Whether magic, placebo, or just normal soothing music, the listening to the song really did help to relax the nervous tension that had been in my muscles since before waking and lull that pulling sensation at the edge of my consciousness.  It’s amazing how good it feels to be able to let your mind drift without constantly getting caught on obsessive thoughts, and so easy to take for granted.  Looking back, I can’t help but wonder about possibly dangers of dependency or even addiction to self-medicating mental health with otherworldly music, but in the moment I could only be thankful for relief from the ravages of my own thoughts (or the thoughts inflicted upon me by the mists and Catacombs if we choose to believe that).

As I sat there in peaceful contemplation looking down over the Village, I almost didn’t hear Lin arrive.

As I turned to see who was approaching she was already starting to turn around to leave.  When she realized I’d seen her she started stammering an apology for bothering me, but I told her it was fine and patted the empty space on the pillar next to me.  She gave a one word “Thanks” as a reply and took a seat with her back to mine.

We sat in silence like that for a while until I heard a quiet sniffling behind me and realized that Lin was crying.  I turned around, thinking I should do something to comfort her, yet finding myself unable to initiate physical contact or form words that didn’t sound insincere or condescending to my own mind.  So instead I simply asked if she wanted to talk about it.

She said no.  Then she said yes.  Then she said she wasn’t sure how.

I said that was fine, and that I’d be here if she figures it out.

A few minutes later the sound of tears ceased and I felt a weight against my back as she was now leaning back on me.

I asked if she was feeling better.

She said she was, a little.

I shifted my posture until we reached an equilibrium of back-to-back resting support.

That’s how we were when we heard a sneeze and looked up to see a somewhat abashed Vernon, out of uniform for once, apologizing for interrupting and saying he’d be on his way.  We chuckled and offered him a seat on our stone stump.  He accepted.

It was Vernon who broke the silence several minutes later, venting about how he feared that he’d handled the situation with the brothers poorly and that it was his fault their father died without his family nearby.  That if he’d been more decisive maybe things could have been resolved sooner.  And what if the brothers started resenting one another for how things played out?  His job was to help resolve conflicts, but what if he’d just transformed it into a worse one?

Lin spoke up at this, telling him not to blame himself.  That he couldn’t have predicted how things would turn out and he certainly isn’t responsible for other people’s feelings or behavior.  And besides, at the end, Bartolome wasn’t even aware of who was or wasn’t there, and hadn’t really been for weeks.  She would know, she was there.  She’d watched for months (alongside her father) as the old man grew less and less lucid and his sons became more and more distant.  She was the one who had more and more become the man’s primary caregiver, keeping him comfortable, administering food, water, and medicine, and changing his sheets as his sons grew unable to bear the sight of a father who didn’t recognize them and her own father shifted his attention to other patients with sniffles, and headaches, and cuts that could be made better.  She was the one who was acting upbeat every day for a sleepy old man who probably didn’t even notice.  She was the one who couldn’t even get angry at the brothers for not wanting to see their father like that after having had to do so daily herself.  She was the one who didn’t even have a day to process how she felt about it all because she’d had to ready the body for a funeral, and then attend the funeral, and then spend the mist night wondering what it’d be like when her own father got that old and if he would keep his mind to the end or not, and then got woken up at the crack of dawn to knocking on the door because the doctor and his assistant were needed to deliver a baby, and even though it’s normal for births to shortly follow funerals it’s not normally that soon after, and so she’d spent the morning dealing with all the pain and blood and everything that goes along with childbirth and how that to her always overshadowed how happy the parents might be holding their child afterward and how she was terrified of ever having to go through that herself but her parents wanted her to find a husband and have kids and she didn’t want to disappoint them and everyone else her age had already done so and were happy but she wasn’t even sure even wanted any of that and… and she finally ran out of breath and energy to keep speaking.

Neither Vernon nor myself knew what to say to all that.  I ended up with a simple, understated acknowledgement that that was rough.

Lin started apologizing for ranting and burdening us with her problems like that.  We started reassuring her that it was fine.  She thanked us.

Then she turned to me and half-jokingly said that now that she and Vernon had shared why they came up here today it was my turn.

I gave a forced laugh and said that it wasn’t anything nearly so personal; that I just get bad nightmares about being trapped in the Catacomb Depths every mist night, and that according to Pat that’s a fairly common thing for outsiders.  Lin mentioned that the old archivist never said anything about having to deal with that, but maybe it’s just a “most, not all outsiders” thing, or maybe he was just good at coping and covering it up.

I feel kind of bad for not mentioning the other part of what had been bothering me lately, but in the moment there, feeling better and having just listened to them share their personal troubles, the idea that all this – even them – might not be real just felt absurd and self-centered to the point I could barely imagine how it had ever bothered me.

Eventually, we shifted on to lighter topics and started making our way back to the Village where we went our separate ways again.  Feeling better but not up to going back to the library today, I went on back to the house where I’m writing all this now.

The nature sprite had been busy in my absence the past several days and rearranged all the furniture and swapped around the contents of all the drawers and cabinets.  I’m sure over the next few days I’ll find this annoying, but at the time I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it.  After the past couple of days, being literally haunted by a mischievous spirit is a surprisingly refreshing change of pace.  Then again, the bathtub was also full of crabs (thankfully smaller than the last one brought into the house), so that was less fun to deal with.

There were also some fruit and strips of dried/preserved meat on the kitchen table.  I figured it was 50/50 either a prank from the nature sprite to taste bad and/or make me ill or a thank you gift from Maiko for letting her use the house on the mist night.  In my current mood I was willing to take those odds, and I’m not sick yet, so I’m guessing I have Maiko to thank for tonight’s dinner.

But still, I’m tired, I’ve been writing for a while now, and I think I’m due for an early(ish) bedtime.

<==Previous          Next==>

[marvelous-writer]

i’ll chase away your nightmares and keep you safe

Summary:

Tony looks at him with a worried frown as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and a side of chips. He reaches a hand up and brushes a few stray curls off of Peter’s aching forehead. “You don’t look too good, Pete,” he says.

“I don’t feel that great,” Peter admits, not having the energy to pretend that he is.

“How’s your head feeling?”

“Hurts,” Peter mumbles miserably.

“Hmm,” Tony hums, as he braces his hand against Peter’s forehead.

Peter lets his eyes slip shut as he leans into his cool hand, bringing only a small amount of relief to his pounding head. He almost wants to cry when Tony takes his hand away.

“You do feel a little warm. I wouldn’t have had you slaving away out there in the sun if I’d known you didn’t feel good, Pete.”

“It wasn’t this bad earlier. I think I’m just tired or my brain is fried,”

OR

Peter experiences a bad migraine while he’s staying up at the cabin and Tony helps him through it.

Word count: 3,159

Genre: whump, angst, hurt/comfort

Link to read on Ao3:

A/N: Part 3 of @webpril

Peter squints against the harsh sunlight as he wipes sweat off his forehead, trying to ignore the pain pounding away in his head. 

“Hand me that wrench, will you?” Tony asks from his position kneeling on the grass in front of the pressure washer that had broken down as they started to power wash the house.

Peter nods as he reaches into the red toolbox and grabs said wrench and hands it to Tony. “What do you think? Is it going to make it?” He asks with a hint of sarcasm. 

“Well,” Tony says with a grunt as he tightens a bolt on the machine. “I think she has a few more good years left in her.” He says, shooting a smile over his shoulder at Peter. 

Peter smiles in return, trying not to wince when his head lets off a particularly sharp throb. He’s had this killer headache since he woke up this morning but it hasn’t been this bad until now. Sitting out here in the middle of a heatwave in the sun probably isn’t a wise decision on his part. He’d rather be inside where the cool AC is, sprawled out on his bed in the dark, sleeping this off. But he’d never say no to spending time with Tony, even if it involves a mundane task of fixing a pressure washer. 

“So… I was thinking—” Tony says as he hands Peter the wrench back when he’s done using it. 

“That can be dangerous,” Peter says. 

Tony huffs out a laugh as he shoots a grin over his shoulder at Peter. “Like son like father, I guess.” He says. 

A warm and fuzzy feeling bubbles up in Peter’s chest at his words as he smiles, ducking his head down as he puts the wrench back in the toolbox. “What were you thinking?”  

“I was thinking… what if I made some fettuccine Alfredo for dinner tonight, get some ice cream at your favorite place down the street, and we can have a nice, relaxing family movie night?” Tony asks as he wipes his oily hands on a hand towel, standing up from the ground with a small grunt when his knees click in protest. 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Peter says with a smile as he pushes himself up from the ground, only to pause when his head gives off a particularly sharp throb from the new position. He reaches up and rubs at his forehead, hissing slightly though gritted teeth. 

This always happens when he tries to work through the pain of a headache, which hopefully isn’t upgrading to a migraine but with Peter’s luck, it probably is. 

And of course, Tony’s dad senses tingle. 

“You okay?” Tony asks, looking at Peter with his brows pulled together in concern. 

“Yeah… just a headache.”

Tony’s still frowning as he looks down at his watch to check the time. “It’s a little after noontime, so how about we head on inside and I’ll whip you up a sandwich for lunch.” 

“Sure.” Peter agrees easily, letting Tony guide him inside the blissfully cool house and out of the intense sun and heat. 

They find Morgan sitting on the couch in front of the tv watching one of her cartoons, one that Peter doesn’t know because it came out sometime in those five years during the Blip. 

“How about you sit with Morgan while I get lunch started?” Tony suggests. 

“Okay,” 

Peter slips his shoes off at the front door before he walks over to the couch, wincing at the sunlight pouring in from the windows, mixed with the obnoxiously bright colors from the cartoon on the tv. He plops down on the chaise section of the couch next to Morgan and throws a pillow over his face to shield himself from the light. 

“Are you okay, Petey?” Morgan questions. 

“Yup…” Peter mumbles beneath the pillows. “M’ all good, Morgs.” 

“Why are you hiding?”

“M’ not hiding. Just trying to sleep and the light’s bothering my eyes.” He tells her. 

“Does your head hurt like Daddy’s does sometimes?” She asks. 

“A little.” 

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Morgan whispers.

“S’okay.” Peter mumbles. 

 It takes only a few minutes before Peter feels himself drifting off to the soft murmurs coming from the tv, but he can’t quite fall asleep with his head pounding away. It almost makes him want to cry at the unfairness of it all—why his brain just won’t shut off and let him fall into a pit of painless nothingness.

He’s taken out of his almost-asleep state by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “Pete, you awake? Lunch is all ready.” Tony says in a soft voice. 

“Mhmm…” Peter hums as he slowly sits up, letting the pillows fall away from his face, finding the room’s curtains to be drawn with the tv off, settling the space in a soothing semi-darkness. 

Tony looks at him with a worried frown as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and a side of chips. He reaches a hand up and brushes a few stray curls off of Peter’s aching forehead. “You don’t look too good, Pete,” he says. 

“I don’t feel that great,” Peter admits, not having the energy to pretend that he is. 

“How’s your head feeling?” 

“Hurts,” Peter mumbles miserably.  

“Hmm,” Tony hums, as he braces his hand against Peter’s forehead. 

Peter lets his eyes slip shut as he leans into his cool hand, bringing only a small amount of relief to his pounding head. He almost wants to cry when Tony takes his hand away. 

“You do feel a little warm. I wouldn’t have had you slaving away out there in the sun if I’d known you didn’t feel good, Pete.”

“It wasn’t this bad earlier. I think I’m just tired or my brain is fried,” 

Tony huffs out a small laugh. “Your brain isn’t fried, Pete. You’re just tired and you’ve been overworking yourself lately. How about you eat what you can and you can nap until dinner?” 

Sleep. That sounds pretty nice right about now. 

“Okay.” Peter agrees easily. 

…

After lunch, Tony helps Peter upstairs to his bedroom and draws the black-out curtains, engulfing the room into darkness, much to Peter’s relief. 

Peter is about to lie down but Tony stops him by handing him one of his pain meds. 

“But they make me feel weird and loopy,” Peter argues weakly. 

“I know you don’t like taking them, but it’ll help with the pain,” Tony says. 

Peter sighs but takes the pill anyways just to please him, swallowing it down with a few sips of water from the cup Tony gives him. 

When Peter is lying down on his side with his eyes closed, he hears Tony walk out of the room and down the hallway to the bathroom before the sink turns on, until footsteps approach his room. 

Peter breathes out a relieved sigh when he feels a cool, wet washcloth being placed over his eyes and forehead. 

“Better?” Tony asks as Peter feels the bed dip down next to his hip. 

“Mhmm…” Peter hums, feeling the coolness take the edge off his headache so it no longer feels like his head is at risk of exploding from the pressure. “You gonna stay?” He asks hopefully. 

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Tony says, hearing him get up again before the bed dips down beside him until he feels the man’s hand card through his curls. 

The feeling soothes Peter as he breathes out another sigh of relief as he allows himself to relax, feeling the tension leave his body. 

It only takes a few moments before Peter finds himself drifting off to sleep, feeling the pain grows duller as his consciousness fades away. 

…

Peter can’t breathe as dust begins to fill his lungs. 

He looks up with wide, tear-filled eyes at Tony, who’s standing several feet away from him, looking equally as scared as Peter.

“I don’t wanna go,” he pleads, voice wobbling as he takes a few stumbling steps towards him. “P-Please—P-Please, I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go.” 

Tony opens his arms as Peter falls forward, but instead of falling into Tony’s arms, he falls right through him as Tony suddenly crumbles to nothing but a pile of ashes. 

“N-No!” Peter screams as catches himself on his shaking arms, saving himself from face-planting on the orange, dirt-covered ground… which is now covered in Tony’s ashes. “N-No…. p-please,” Peter sobs as he carefully picks up a handful of it, only to break out into a harsh cough that has him doubled over, finding that he’s coughing up dust. 

Ashes. 

That’s all he sees. 

Ashes. 

Peter blinks away the tears in his eyes as he looks around himself, seeing figures of ashes floating in the air where the Guardians and Dr. Strange once stood. 

He’s all alone. 

Peter takes in a shuddering breath as he looks back down at himself, only to see that his hands are now disappearing, dust falling from his fingertips, joining Tony’s on the ground. It quickly travels up his hands, then his forearms, climbing up his entire body. 

Peter sucks in a gasp, feeling like his insides are now full with his own ashes, suffocating him. 

He’s dying. 

He’s all alone. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

They all fall down. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

They all… fall… down. 

Peter’s eyes snap open, only to be met with a horrible, pulsating pain radiating through his skull, feeling like it’s about to explode as something hot shoots up his throat. 

Peter shoots up into a sitting position as he gags, only for more waves of sharp pain to stab at his head as he tries to get up. But the moment that he manages to swing his legs over the bed, he gags again and hot, liquidy vomit spews out of his mouth, landing all over his lap and the floor. 

But the only thing he can see is ashes. 

Peter gasps in the middle of a gag, only to break out into a harsh round of coughing but it only brings back the memory of him coughing up dust in his nightmare… or was it real? Is he already dead and this is a dream? Or his worst nightmare that he’ll have to live again and again in a constant, torturous loop?

His head and ears are pounding too much, Peter doesn’t hear the pair of footsteps running up the stairs towards his bedroom. 

Peter slams his eyes shut as he coughs up more bile—more ashes. 

His ashes. 

It’s happening again. 

Thanos snapped.

Half the universe is gone. 

Thanos won and they lost. 

“Peter! Peter—look at me, kid!” A voice filters its way through the sheer panic racing through him, mixing with all the pain. “Pete—open your eyes for me!” 

Peter snaps his eyes open, only to find Tony’s worried face in front of him—but it’s just like before, except Tony turned to ashes right in front of him. 

“T-Tony p-please,” Peter hoarsely says, feeling something cold slide down his cheeks. “P-Please—I-I don’t wanna go. P-Please,” he begs as he slams his eyes shut, unable to get the image of Tony crumbling to nothing in front of him. 

His breathing comes in quick gasps now, and it feels like his insides are filling up again—oh God. It’s happening again. He’s going to die and there isn’t anything or anyone that can stop it. Thanos won again—he’s always going to win. He’s never going to stop coming. 

Peter’s dying all over again. 

“Pete—you’re okay. Peter! You’re not dying—kiddo, please listen to me!” 

He’s going to die. 

Ashes. 

Ashes. 

Peter lets out a choked sob, only to throw up more bile. “I-I can’t-” he sucks in a sharp, choked breath. “Can’t breathe-”

Black dots dance around in his vision as he opens his eyes, finding a blurry figure in front of him, feeling cold hands on his face. 

“Pete you’ve gotta listen to me, bud. You have to breathe.” 

“I c-can’t,” Peter chokes out around a sob, squeezing his eyes shut again. “I-I can’t—I c-can’t!” 

“Yes, you can. You can breathe. You’re not going anywhere. I promise you, Pete. Please. Come back to me. Try to take in a deep breath, okay? Think you can do that for me, kiddo?” 

Peter sucks in a gasping breath, feeling horribly lightheaded now, but he tries. 

“That’s it, Pete. That’s it, kiddo. In and out.” Tony soothes. 

It feels like forever until Peter’s lungs give in, letting air in and allowing him to breathe. He sucks in a shaky breath that triggers a harsh round of coughing, before he opens his eyes and blinks a few times to clear his blurry vision. 

“T-Tony?” Peter asks, seeing the man kneeling in front of him with a worried expression on his face. 

“I’m right here, Pete,” Tony tells him in a soft voice. “You back with me?” 

Peter blinks, his brows pulling together as he shakily nods. He closes his eyes against the pounding behind them, mixed with horrible nausea churning away in his stomach. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbles. 

“I know you don’t kiddo. I’m so sorry,” Tony says, feeling a hand brush away a strand of damp curls that are stuck to his sweaty forehead. “How about you take a minute to catch your breath and we’ll get you all cleaned up and back into bed, okay?”

Peter blinks hard as he looks down at his lap again, but closes his eyes at the disgusting state of his lap. He opens them back up again and looks at Tony, brows pulled together. “I-Is this… is this real?” He asks. 

Tony’s face falls as he reaches up and gently wipes a trail of tears from Peter’s cheeks with a calloused thumb. “Of course it is, bud,” he softly says. “This is real, I’m real and you’re at the cabin with me, Pepper and Morgan.” 

Peter sniffs wetly. “B-But… it just felt s-so real.” He whispers. 

Tony nods as he runs a hand through Peter’s hair. “I know, Pete but I promise you it wasn’t. It was just a nightmare.” He says in a soft voice as he places the back of his hand on Peter’s forehead, frowning. “You’re burning up, kiddo. It looks like this is more than just a migraine.” 

Peter breathes out a sigh at that. “‘Course it’s not.” He mumbles miserably. Good ol’ Parker Luck. 

“How about we get you cleaned up, hmm?” 

Peter wordlessly nods as Tony helps him stand up, grabbing him a change of clothes from the dresser before slowly leading him out of his room and down the hallway to the bathroom. Tony is practically carrying him with how wobbly his legs are, but they manage to make it to the bathroom and Tony helps him sit on the closed toilet seat. 

Peter closes his eyes against the painful throbbing going on behind them, letting himself slowly slump against the wall next to him. He’s barely aware of Tony wiping his face with a warm washcloth until he’s gently shaken. 

“Pete, you gotta open your eyes for me, bud,” Tony says softly. 

Peter lets out a low, hoarse groan as he blinks open his eyes, squinting against the LED lighting in the bathroom. 

“Arms up,” Tony instructs as he helps him out of his ruined t-shirt and into a clean one. “Think you can stand up on your own so you can change your pants?” 

Peter binks slowly. “M’ kinda dizzy,” he admits.

Tony frowns at that as he goes back to the task at hand and helps Peter slide his ruined pajama pants off, grateful to have a pair of boxers on to save him any further embarrassment. Tony helps him stand up on shaky legs to pull on the clean pair of sweatpants he grabbed, helping Peter pull them up to his waist.

“I think you’re good to go, bud,” Tony says, offering him a small smile.

Peter tries to smile but he thinks it comes out more of a grimace. Tony wraps an arm around his waist and helps him out of the bathroom and back down the hall towards his room at a slow pace. When they walk back into the room, Pepper is throwing a white duvet over his bed and she looks up at them, offering Peter a warm, sympathetic smile.

“How are you feeling, honey?” She asks.

Peter makes a weak sound at the back of his throat as he blinks sluggishly, too tired to form words anymore.

“He’s feeling pretty crappy,” Tony answers for him as he guides him over to the bed and helps him lie down on the clean sheets, which Peter suspects Pepper changed while they were gone.

Despite how out of it he is, Peter feels guilty that she cleaned up after him.

“M’ sorry,” Peter mumbles as he blinks open his eyes as Tony pulls the covers up to his chin. “M’ such a problem.”

Tony frowns as he exchanges a look Peter doesn’t catch with Pepper before he looks back down at him as he sits on the edge of the bed. “No, you’re not,”

Peter shakes his head, feeling tears pricking at his eyes. “I am,” He argues weakly. “Y-You shouldn’t have to deal with me.”

“Peter,” Pepper says as she sits down on the edge of the bed on the other side. “You’re not a problem, honey. You’re sick and you’re tired. We want to help you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “Besides, it’s part of the job description.” He says with a small smile.

Peter honestly doesn’t know what he’s done in life to deserve such an amazing and caring family.

“Why don’t you try to get some more sleep?” Tony says as he fixes the blanket around Peter and tucks him in.

“Okay,” Peter mumbles as he blinks up at him with half-lidded eyes.

“Feel better, honey,” Pepper says softly as she smoothes a hand over his hair before she stands up and walks out into the hallway.

A spark of fear shoots through Peter as Tony stands up and he thinks he’s about to leave too. “Can you stay?” Peter slurs tiredly.

“Of course I can,” Tony says, the corners of his lips turning up in a small smile as he walks to the other side of the bed and settles against the headrest.

Peter slowly rolls on his side so he’s facing him and wiggles himself up so his head is resting against Tony’s chest, earning a chuckle from him in response.

“Feeling a little cuddly are we?”

“Mhmm…” Peter hums as he closes his eyes, feeling Tony’s hand settle in his hair, hearing the faint, comforting thumping of Tony’s heart against his ear. “T’hnks for taking care of me,” he mumbles sleepily.

“That’s what I’m here for, Pete,” Tony tells him, warmness in his voice as he cards his fingers through Peter’s curls.

[cornerstonc]

𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐏  𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄

NAME:  natori

RESIDENCE:  the cat kingdom

TYPE OF BED: u know lord beerus’ bed IN ALL SERIOUSNESS i do like the thought that the cat kingdom beds are not Exactly like human beds and do have a certain eccentricity about their designs and construction, etc. and i must admit the idea of natori sleeping curled on a little round mattress tickles me fjifoea despite that, i do think it otherwise fits the bill of Human Bed, essentially being a cat-sized mattress raised upon a frame of some kind

NUMBER OF BLANKETS: two, generally-- one he sleeps on top of and the other he sleeps underneath. i also like the idea that he has another he doesn’t use outside of decoration (...except for very, very rarely) which is Obviously much older and more worn than the other two. when he’s sleeping, he probably drapes it over one of those clothes horses in the corner of his room somewhere

NUMBER OF PILLOWS: he does not sleep with pillows jfieao

TYPE OF CLOTHING: i’m not sure thinking emoji bc i’ve long headcanoned that he’s easily cold, i’d also assumed he wears some kind of clothing even when sleeping, but i’m not Certain what it might be, or if he might just wear his usual clothes

DO THEY SLEEP WITH COMPANY?: not since he was a child/teen and outside of the extremely rare occasion when lune was very young. i brought this up the other day, but i do imagine that he and his sisters shared a bed all the way up until he literally left to start his studies/career bc the cat kingdom has very cramped quarters outside of the castle. i haven’t yet decided if their grandmother also slept in the same bed, but i am leaning toward Yes. he also slept in his parents’ bed until. well. their deaths (they’re cats ok they like to be snug and warm lies down)

DO THEY SLEEP BETTER WITH COMPANY?: not particularly, especially in light of the fact he’s a persistent sleep-talker, which makes him a little nervous lmao ;; if it happened to be someone he was very comfortable with and trusted, then it’d be a different story, but i can’t really think of anyone who fits that bill in his life as it is

DOES IT MATTER WHERE THEY SLEEP?: no. despite his meticulous and fussy nature, he can and will fall asleep Anywhere. which is a headcanon i’m pretty sure i’ve already brought up, and with that exact phrasing too jffieao ......also i should clarify that’s ‘anywhere in the cat kingdom’ bc it 100% does not hold true for the human world

WHAT DO THEY DO IF THEY CANNOT FALL ASLEEP?: .........idk dude and neither does he bc he can Always fall asleep

FREQUENT DREAMS,  NIGHTMARES: i think he probably dreams rather infrequently, and he falls prey to nightmares even more so. given that, as i’m about to point out right below this lmao, he doesn’t sleep very deeply most of the time, i’m not sure how often he’d slip into REM sleep or even if. cats have REM sleep ._. i’m sure they do right i mean dogs definitely dream

DEEP SLUMBER OR NAPS: i. i mean. he’s a cat, so most of his sleep comes in the form of aptly-named catnaps lmao like most cats, he will sleep upwards of like 14 or more hours in any given 24-hour period, and well. considering the fact he also happens to be a Senior Cat, that number goes up to potentially 18 hours or more lm a o (at least from what i’ve read i’ve never had a c AT rip) all that said, tho, it’s also possible the eternal noontime of the cat kingdom might muddle his instincts or Something. in any case, tho, deep slumber is just not really something he Does on a regular basis. i also feel it pertinent to mention that while i could see him occasionally skimping on meals and food, i don’t think he’d do the same with sleep, and despite his rightfully stressed reputation, he’s not usually what you’d call very sleep-deprived

WHEN DO THEY SLEEP: off and on throughout any given time period jfifoa tho, bc i do headcanon that the cat kingdom operates on a very chaotic Clock in which everyone sort of just eats and naps whenever it suits them, for a cat like natori who is trying Very Hard to keep on top of everything that goes on in the castle (and outside), this means his own sleep schedule is sort of at the whims of everyone else’s. he still manages somehow but it’s definitely a balancing act fjfieoa

WHAT COULD WAKE THEM UP: a n y t  h i n g....... since. again, he doesn’t do deep slumber on a regular basis when he sleeps, he’s pretty easily woken by a number of different triggers thinking emoji movement tends to wake him much faster than sound, tho-- that is, being touched in his sleep, the mattress or other surface he’s resting on shifting from someone else’s weight, particularly heavy footsteps, etc.

[cairspian]

            the  noontime  sun  overhead  coats the king’s exploring party with a blistering heat     ⸺     fortunately he still much prefers this  sweltering  warmth  to the chilly nights they’ve had prior in enduring the ice - cold shocks of  transatlantic  nightmares,       (   caspian tries not to let the guilt eat away at him,     mind circling the searing memory of having to pry away from peter’s embrace  &  face unconsciously pressed against caspian’s chest     ⸺     nightmares.   )       he couldn’t help the squinted disbelieving eyes as  hot  steam  from the geysers bursting out of earth’s breathing pores paint his cheeks a damp  &  flushed pink.    

            scattered rock formations each resemble the flint of a spear,     though one casted out from the others catches his eye with the telling disturbance of  humanity  wrapped around its body     ⸺      quick  recognition  impales his course of thought before mindfully surveying their surroundings.     his hand reaches the rope  &  tugs experimentally,     twice or thrice,     as if renouncing taking a chance on the hardness of the spiked boulder it is fastened around.    any other day he’d chase that  taste  of  adventure,     but not with peter following close behind,     if only for their safety.     brown gaze follows its tail down a fissure where the earth is cracked open.     “   we are not the  first  ones on this island.   ”

            emptiness.     finally,     caspian hears his heart thrum more than think in his mind,     a  hole  that  rivals  the  gaping  loss  ‘pon  his  chest  where  peter’s  head  should  lay  &  breathe  for  eternities  &  eternities.     or is it a  supposed  emptiness     ⸺     there is a rope,    after all.     he blinks thoughtfully.     perhaps men have sailed out to sea searching for  worse  things.

            caspian bends a knee  &  lets a hand search through nature’s rubble,    fingers curling ‘round a jagged stone.    the rock bounces against the uneven walls of the ravine     ⸺     he briefly wonders if there are other directions to the  edge  of  the  world,     if it would be worth following down an unexplored abyss.       he looks to peter.       (   it  is,    it  always  is.   )     a resounding  smack  echoes from the pit.     caspian feels it in his stomach before he hears it by ear.       “   what do you think could be down there ?   ”

                            plotted  starter  for  @petervel​​ !

[jasmakesplaces]

the barrow downs - who knew underground hill tombs would be scary

The Barrow-downs are a great example of how space and time can influence the feelings of those experiencing them. Traveling in the valleys between the barrows would be slightly unnerving, since much of what lies ahead is blocked by the surrounding hills. Still, even looking out from the top of a barrow, the unbroken expanse of hills leaves the distance of the hobbits’ journey “hazy and deceptive” (137). The party is walking through the barrows in broad daylight with no apparent source of danger nearby, yet the environment Tolkien creates is oppressive and unsettling.

Chapter 8 shows how time can also serve as a division of space - the danger of the barrows is amplified by the passage of time. As the group stops to rest in the shade of a stone, an unexpected nap turns their leisurely stroll into a nightmare. The warm, noontime sun they fell asleep under is nowhere to be found, instead replaced with “a pale and watery yellow” one (137). Around them is a dense fog, obscuring their surroundings even more. This dusk soon turns into midnight, when Frodo is separated from the rest of the party. This advanced darkness makes Frodo’s desperate cries, as well as the Barrow-wight’s words (”I am waiting for you!”) all the more terrifying. 

In the end, the tension of both time and space is released by our favorite guy, Tom Bombadil. As Frodo sings his song, Tom breaks through the barrow, letting in the light of day after what felt like an eternity of night. The wight is banished, the hobbits are released from the literal tomb, and resident ray of sunshine Tom gives the party a sort of rebirth before they continue on their journey.

[catilinas]

Do you have, like, a lucan playlist?

yes.

the ideal lucan playlist would be way more unhinged and probably be (intentionally) unpleasant to listen to, but i listen to this while reading abt and/or translating lucan so like. that’s not gonna happen! anyway here it is

i don’t have spotify so you have to look at it like this :/ anyway.

1. begin again - purity ring

you be the moon, i'll be the earth / and when we burst / start over, oh, darling / begin again, begin again, begin again

this is stoic ekpyrosis to me. also nice proem vibes bcs civil war is so fucked up that history is a circle now

2. caesar - the oh hellos

gather the soldiers, the heir to enfold / crown him and give him a scepter to hold / sound every horn as the columns extend / up to the hill where the king will ascend

what are “christians.” this is obviously very literally about julius caesar gathering his army to cross the rubicon and march on rome. “look to the sky where the sign will be shown”!!! whoever knew the heavens menace so!!! the omens!!! this song is also in my shakespeare’s julius caesar playlist

3. gigantomachy - cake bake betty

dark like the night, / high like the noontime, / bitter and begging my dear don't you go / your eyes were all wild, / your lips took to woo mine, / you grabbed me and tugged at my soul through your own. / i knew it well then we'd go down to the river / you'd cleanse what was left of me under the tide

simultaneously the imago of “patria” appearing to caesar at the rubicon AND julia’s ghost appearing to pompey in book 3. caesar will have your days and julia will have your nights!!! also funney bcs the image of the gigantomachy is Everywhere in lucan bcs it came to symbolise civil war. nice

4. dispenser box - squalloscope

and we’re lying in bed / making up metaphors for metaphors / you can get a family value pack of scar tissue / in a handy dispenser box / we learned that misery is a pyramid scheme / and that love, love, love is an ancient god, a fever dream

cato and marcia remarry. 

5. la valse - maurice ravel

no words but this piece was commissioned as a ballet but then rejected by the commissioner who said it wasn’t a ballet, it was a “portrait of a ballet”

the naval battle at massilia. it’s epic but it’s so over the top that it’s almost...... not epic. it has the same chaotic, physically coming-apart-at-the-seams energy as la valse. 

6. que sera - wax tailor

we need answers from you / what did you expect to find? / what is going to be our future? / it's your responsibility to do something about it! / well, i, uh... / i have the key in my hand / all I have to find is the lock / now listen to me, all of you!

caesar’s victories in spain / appius at delphi / pompey is in charge of the pompeians but he has no idea what he’s doing. the vibe of like. things going horribly wrong while people just Talk

7. worms - dizzy

reach your hand down to me and i will bite it /  i've been sleeping with the worms and i'm used to it / shine your light down to me and i'll cling to it / i've been sleeping with the worms, i got used to it

necromancy time babeyyyyyy!!! but also first person because the real necromancer in this poem has been lucan this whole time!!! this is also the midpoint of the playlist for katabasis reasons

8. paradox - squalloscope

i got matchsticks in my slacks, i want my cut of the empire / what a time to be alive, what a time to be a liar. / and we burn it all down, we raise it up / turn it around

pre-pharsalus shenanigans (WHAT are you doing at pharsalus, marce tulli???) and maybe a little bit more necromancy. also hashtag the paradox of civil war

9. legions (reverie) - zoe keating

again no words :/ sexy title though

battle of pharsalus. so horrible that it’s a nightmare come to life. no words because it’s literally nefas! you know the bit in book 7 where lucan is like ok i know ive been hyping this up for 7 books but i physically can’t talk about this anymore. yeah

10. pompeii - bastille

and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love [...] / but if you close your eyes / does it almost feel like nothing changed at all? / and if you close your eyes / does it almost feel like you've been here before?

caesar at troy. legally all classics playlists have to include this song. every ruined city is the same city. time collapses at the site of the ruin! caesar traces his genealogy back to troy! does this mean rome will inherit troy’s ruin? YOU are also LUCAN and you have Been Here Before because every retelling of the pharsalia (pharsalia nostra vivet!) is a repetition of the republic’s ruin!

11. rifle scissor stone - squalloscope (but this version specifically)

“hate to say i told you so” said the snakebite to the bone / “i’ve worked all night on this, now i’m gonna push you off your throne.” / i’ve got to get all the fireworks framed / i can’t sleep until the last lion is tame / i’ve got to line up all our potential shot wounds / i can’t lie still until i know for sure that you and i ain’t doomed

pompey’s reunion with cornelia / cornelia’s fears for pompey / pompey’s assassination in egypt. 

12. hell to the liars - london grammar 

those who are born with love / here's to you trying / and i'm no better than those i judge / with all my suffering / hell to the liars / here's to you and me / i look way above us / seeing no one free / here's to the things you love /  here's to those you fight enough / hell to the rest of us 

cato ends up in charge of the pompeians / stoicism hours marching through the desert / lucan’s thots on cato as stoic sage. this song was released the same week that i had an exam i was extremely avoiding studying for by going apeshit abt republican rome and i heard it and was like. ok cato the younger now lives in my head rent free. and that was like 3 years ago and things haven’t changed!

13. bone marrow pen - paper bird (who is now called...... squalloscope)

i’m gonna play the role of the living / until i drop dead. [...] / maybe all our new sounds will grow strong and grow loud / and i’ll come back and stay. / but we won’t dance we won’t dance we won’t dance we won’t dance on their graves, you and me. / but my bone marrow pen draws a line from our first breath to wherever we’ll be

i regularly forget what actually happens in book 10. this song is lucan’s death and subsequent immortality / the pharsalia being left unfinished. the image of lucan’s blood as words (-> producing words empties lucan of blood) in sonya taffe’s lucan in averno is like the bone marrow pen that keeps going until...... it doesn’t

[penaltybox14]

Decofiremen: An Interlude

How Silky and Josiah got their sear.  Merry Christmas to @zeitheist, who always wants to see more of these two.  @squad51goals @its-skadi @darknight-brightstar

  They graduated the same sparkling April morning, before the dew had risen from the big yard, on the first day the earth warmed enough to smell the sunshine and go about in shirtsleeves.  Kidder Parson read their names off at breakfast, to hollers and cheers. 

Fireman on the boards, proclaimed their venerable captain, and the bell had chimed for them at line-up and inspection.  Here, they got their brass-buttoned coats, their shining dress gorgets with the leather cords and the rampant horse and flame embossed on it.  The weight of it all - coats, brass, their breath still asmoke in the early morning - made for Josiah to tremble some, and he looked to Silky, who was pale and whose auburn hair fell loose from its pomade grip.  Silky was smiling with just the corners of his brows and the fine edge of his lips. 

They would be alright.  They would go together, to the same house, to the Bronx.  They would be alright.  They knew their hoses, their hooks, their ladders, their horses, they would be alright.  

"Ever been to the Bronx?" Silky asked him, on the train.  

"I would've asked you the same.  Didn't you grow up in the city?"

"It's a big city, Birchy.  I was just a little one, then."

"D'you suppose they'll like us?"

"Us?  No.  Me?  Yeah, I'll wager.  You - "

Josiah had punched him, and they had laughed.  It was a shining day and the countryside sped past, through the hamlets and the villages, until they reached the city.

The Bronx in those days was still wild at the edges, but it was wilder still by the waters, where the rivers met and the islands plied their weary trade in stones and lost souls, where ships pulled in and commerce spilled out into the warehouses and the factories, onto wagons and onto freight cars and bound for all the starry points of the world.  It would not be a quarter-hour, hardly enough time for introductions, before their first call, and they came back hours later, sweaty and dusty, smelling of smoke and steam.  They would groom the horses.  

"D'you suppose every day is like this?"

"Can't say I hope so.  Would like to know our cap's name before the next time."

"I hear you."

They would groom the horses and peel the potatoes and mop the floors and make their beds.  And scrub the wagons and the engines, and hang the hose, and reel the hose, and sharpen the axes after dark when the shutters were drawn.  Bussy Jackson was a finer cook than even Eddy, and Pal Domino, their engineer, was the bravest driver either of them had ever seen or hoped to be.  Jack Hazel was the captain then, with a drawn face and salt and pepper hair and a mustache as silver as the feathers on a percheron's legs.  When he smiled, the room was an April morning, and when he scowled, it was a hurricane.  

"He reminds me of the brothers," Silky had said, over the back of a horse.  

"How?"

"Quiet-like.  Just so."

"Silks?"

"Yeah?"

"When d'you think we'll get the sear, like they said?"

"Soon enough, I guess.  Pass me the soft brush?"

One day in May, the summer came round to check things before settling herself in for the long haul - from 40 before the morning bells, to 80 at noontime, the sort of weather to give you chills and misery.  The sun was long and hot and damp and hungry from her hibernation, and even shirtsleeves were a misery by afternoon when the call came.  A factory near the terminal, with smoke showing - and when they pulled up, the heat was rolling off the building like a great and stupefying tide, and before they'd had the hoses unrolled and the hydrants open, a window on the top floor blasted outward and they could not tell which was louder - the scream of the horses or the screams of women, and men, from on high.  The faces and the bodies, waving frantically, blurred in the smoke and the toil of the heat.  A woman's dress went up, and then her hair, and then she came down - down five stories, to a sound like rotted fruit in burlap, and sound that shook their hearts.  

"On now, come on!" Captain Hazel was shouting at them, to pick it up, to get going.  And they dove headlong into the beast, a tamer with a water-whip into the mouth of a lion.  In the midst of it, the whining cry of steam boiling inside timbers, the bellows breath, the sheer sound of the fire crawling up walls, pushing at ceilings, wrenching floors from beneath.  The fifth, the fourth floors were gone for.  The third was going.  It took them a thousand sweating, choking minutes to pry open the doors of the second-floor workroom, to drag the last few frightened living souls from their entombment.

Josiah could feel it, rising inside him, bending at his bones, racing from skull to spine to finger and toe tips, he could see them, somehow, beyond even the bricks, and he could hear Silky, too, hear Silky's skull ringing with the rhythm of his own thoughts - get through, get the water on it, get through, get the people out, get through, get the water on it, get through.  He grabbed hold of those thoughts with his own, get out, get through, get out, and another hundred years found them stumbling out to the hot cobbles, to the sooty water draining in the horse-filth and mud, the drizzle from the ladder-hoses pelting them, gasping, gasping for each other's air, grasping for each other's shoulders.  The fever was already singing, and Silky was bowing to it like he knelt before his god, and Josiah came with him.  

That was the sear, then.  That was what no nights of stories round the hearth could brace you for, no caution that could steady you when you looked into the blaze and smelled its teeth and heard the screaming past your reach.  They tumbled into it together, him and Silky.  The fever shook them both, and they dreamed of horses and dragons, dry places where keening birds wheeled and dove with sky-cut talons and beaks as sharp as the words of a scholar.  Their nightmares sang hymn-songs into damp and dripping wells and the darkness sang back sweet water, sweet and sinking water.  You could fall into the water, dive into the dark and never come up again but he kept coming up, and sometimes Pal Domino was holding a cup to his lips and sometimes all he could find through the sweat and the shaking was Silky's pale hand.  He would struggle to wake, become tangling in Silky's dreams, and fall again.  Silky would appear, startled by his presence on a twilight beach where the wind swept away words and secrets lived in the water and the smoke rose from the island and blood seeped from the sand, which held the head of the day beneath them.  

For what they were told was a week and a day, they tossed in turn, they quivered and gulped, no sweet honey that could ease their rasping breath and no cool water that could slake their thirst.  

Silky, braver, came out of it first, and in his dream he took Josiah's hand and pulled him along, and Josiah followed because he would have followed Silky anywhere.  But they came to, together, grimy and reeking, staring at the pitched ceiling above them.  Their crewmen moved about the house, their thoughts a stinging echo to raw and weary hearts.  Josiah felt his soul consumed, and shining for it.  Silky reeled.  They marveled at the richness of the world.  

"Silks," Josiah spoke first, because his tongue would form no other word first.  "Silks, you alright there?"

"I'm here," Silky whispered back.  He rolled, then, to look at Josiah.  "I am here."

Josiah propped himself on an elbow, still spinning, the world too clear to look at dead-on, like the first bright day after a blizzard.  "You are?"

"Aye.  I am."

Josiah smiled, feeling the world peel back in wholeness, and curl forward like a tide.  "I'm glad."

Silky grinned back.

They would be alright.  

[chelsfic]

Chapter 8 - Inherited - Dracula/OFC - Dracula 2020 fanfic

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

A/N: I ended up just beasting through to post this tonight. Hope you enjoy! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

Summary: Emilie falls ill. Drac freaks.

***

The fever came on suddenly. Emilie woke as she always did at seven o’clock, in apparent good health. Instead of her old, spartan room in the servants’ wing, she woke to the dark luxury of the Count’s bedroom. She’d slept there since making her decision to return and give herself over to him entirely. Falling asleep in Vlad’s strong arms, feeling the threat of his vampiric power held in check as he cradled her fragile form... it was a deeper intimacy than drinking his blood or making love. He was hesitant to indulge her at first, explaining that a sleeping vampire was a dangerous bed mate. She must not disturb him lest he wake in a blood frenzy and harm her.

“I trust you, Vlad,” she answered him, snuggling deeper into his arms and closing her eyes for sleep. “You won’t hurt me.”

And she was right. It was weeks since they started sharing sleeping quarters and Emilie never felt unsafe with him. She shifted to her side, eyes still blurry with sleep, and watched her Count in his unnerving slumber. He lay on his back, his hands resting on his chest, cold and still as the grave. Once she’d found him terrifying, she could hardly stand in the same room with him without shivering in fear. Now she was drawn to him, she worshiped him as her dark god, longed for him always.  She squirmed closer to him, pressing her warm body against him and nuzzling his pale, cold cheek. Dracula’s lips parted in a snarl and he let out a soft, hissing growl but remained otherwise still. Emilie smiled, she knew it was playing with fire, but some part of her reveled in being this close to danger.

With a final brush of her cheek against his, she crept from the warmth of the blankets and over to the wardrobe to dress for the day. The Count had ordered new dresses made for her. She ran her fingers along the rack of frocks, delighting in the feel of the rich fabrics before settling on her everyday work dress. It was warm and comfortable. She would change before Dracula rose for the evening. He enjoyed seeing his little housekeeper dressed up in finery. But it wasn’t exactly practical for chores.

Emilie still performed her duties as housekeeper. She rose early each day, tidied the Count’s room and saw that the rest of the mansion was well-kept. There was no one else to do these things and Emilie did not see the work as beneath her despite the change in her relationship with her master. Halfway through the morning she began to feel unwell. A deep cough settled in her throat, her nose began to run and chills wracked her frame. She was very near fainting by noontime and, not knowing what else to do in the big empty house, staggered up the stairs to Dracula’s bedroom. He lay just as she’d left him, statue-like in his repose. Emilie stumbled toward the bed and collapsed forward, reaching to him for help.

***

Blood. Hot, pulsing blood. Fevered skin and fluttering heartbeat. Prey. The beast within Count Dracula stirred and his eyes shot open already clouded in the haze of his blood frenzy. He sat up, the covers falling away from his naked chest. Dracula turned to see the prey: a young woman laid out for him like a sacrifice. He scented the air and opened his mouth in a snarl of anticipation. Emilie. Of course, his sweet little concubine presenting herself for him. It was right that she should do so. She was made to be his, to feed him with her life. 

He bent over her prostrate form and grabbed her up in a rough embrace. Emilie’s head fell to the side, limp, exposing the pale expanse of beautiful neck. He could see her erratic pulse pumping away beneath her smooth skin. Dracula acted on instinct, dipping forward and tearing into her neck with his razor sharp teeth.

For a moment it was bliss. She was all sweet innocence, devotion, love. Then the blood turned sour in his mouth and he reared back, gagging. The shock banished his blood lust and Dracula’s eyes faded into alertness. He looked down at Emilie lying pale and lifeless in his arms, blood gushing from a wound in her throat and he felt his stomach sink.

He dropped her onto the bed spread, hands hovering useless over her form and he called to her in a voice brittle with anxiety, “Emilie...darling…. Wake up.”

He infused the last words with a powerful shot of vampiric suggestion and it did the trick. Emilie rolled onto her side, smearing the sheets in her own blood and moaning in pain.

“Vlad!” she cried, reaching for him.

He gripped her arms and turned her onto her back, eyes flicking over her form and making rapid assessments. He hadn’t taken as much blood as he’d feared. He brought a shaking hand to his mouth, dragging his tongue over his fingers and rubbing the saliva into the wound. The wound in her neck closed over. But there was something else the matter with her.

Dracula smacked his lips together recalling the foul taste he’d never encountered from her before. Sickness. Fever. His mind raced back to a few nights prior. She’d returned home early from her weekly visit to her family. There was a fever going round the village and her mother didn’t think it wise for her to linger too long. 

No, Dracula thought furiously, watching his precious Emilie writhe in pain as sweat beaded on her brow and her cheeks flushed unnaturally red. He was so close. So close to at last readying her for the change. He’d built her up, feeding her his blood for weeks to lend her body and mind the strength she’d need to make a successful transition. The thought of his sweet girl becoming like one of his earlier botched attempts at brides...it was unacceptable. He’d taken every precaution. To have her felled now, by a pathetic human sickness. It was unbearable. But the Count was powerless. To drain her now and initiate the change would be suicide.

He must call for a doctor. The decision firmed in his mind but he glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the corner and found it was still afternoon. He couldn’t venture from the house until after dark. Fury overtook him once more but he pushed it away, determined to do what he could to care for her until such time as the Cook arrived to prepare dinner or night fell.

***

He tucked her into her bed in the servants’ wing. He’d dressed her in a long, woolen nightgown and cleaned the blood spatter from her neck. It galled him to keep her in this room which was so decidedly beneath the station of his future bride, but appearances must be kept up and the doctor would soon arrive. As luck had it, Cook had arrived just as Dracula was descending the servant’s staircase carrying the limp girl in his arms. 

The elderly Mr. Carlilse jumped backward with a hand on his chest at the sight, “What have yeh done to her, yeh fiend?!”

Count Dracula rolled his eyes in annoyance and hissed his reply, “Absolutely nothing, you idiot. Miss Emilie is unwell. She needs a doctor. Run into town and fetch one. Quickly! And shut the door behind you!”

Emilie gave a pitiful moan of protest as he lay a cool cloth on her forehead. Her body was wracked with shivers but she was burning with fever. Dracula’s eyes rolled back in his head for a moment at the smell of her blood boiling with fever. He slammed his eyes shut to banish the wave of desire.

“I know, darling. But we need to break your fever,” she swatted the hand holding the cloth weakly.

Close to dusk the doctor finally arrived. He brought with him a small entourage made up of Mr. Carlisle and Emilie’s mother, Mrs. Andrews. Dracula beheld them all with a feeling of mild annoyance but ultimate acceptance. They stood crowded in the doorway to Emilie’s bedroom, all of them clearly fearful of approaching the Count. Motherly love finally won the day, though, and Mrs. Andrews broke the spell by rushing forward and kneeling at her daughter’s bedside. She brushed right past the Count as if he were not the dark creature of her childhood nightmares. Dracula looked down at her in bemusement before beckoning the doctor inside and sending Mr. Carlisle away.

The doctor did a cursory examination of the girl. Emilie tossed weakly in delirium as the older man bent over her holding a handkerchief to his mouth and nodding authoritatively. After a few minutes he withdrew and, catching the Count’s eyes, nodded toward the doorway. Dracula and Mrs. Andrews followed him out into the hallway and stood before him in nervous anticipation. Had he not been so concerned, Dracula might have laughed at the scene they presented. A Mother and Son-in-Law anxiously awaiting news from the doctor. But he had no capacity for humor at the moment. 

The doctor slowly shook his head as he explained, “She is in danger. It’s the flu we’ve seen run through the village. Most cases I’ve seen that reach this stage of delirium have been fatal. I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be done but to keep her comfortable. Offer her plenty to drink and keep applying cool compresses. With luck she’ll survive the fever.”

Dracula glared down at the man, probing the fragile barrier to his thoughts. The man’s eyes glazed over for a moment as Dracula plundered his mind before withdrawing in disgust. All he’d found was concern and pity. What had he expected, really. A miracle? A blessing from God for him, a man who had spent his unnaturally long life seeding evil and misery?

The doctor left and Dracula watched, numbly, as Mrs. Andrew’s took up a place at Emilie’s bedside, holding the girl’s hand and murmuring softly to her. He stood rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the loving scene before him but not truly seeing it. His thoughts raced. He could feel Emilie’s pain, her wretchedness. He could feel her calling out for him to save her. But what could he do? How could he fight such a mundane enemy? The tastes of blood he’d given to Emilie were enough to invigorate her, strengthen her, but they would not be enough for this. She’d need more. Much more.

Dracula stepped into the tiny bedroom. He loomed over Mrs. Andrews, dark and menacing, and placed a clawed hand on her shoulder. The woman tensed beneath his touch but raised her eyes to meet him with a level gaze. She’s brave, he thought, Like her. All the Andrews women were brave, he supposed. After all they descended from the first housekeeper to survive longer than a year in his employ.

“Mrs. Andrews, I’d like to ask you to leave the room for a moment. If you don’t mind,” his voice was all smooth, gentleman-like manners, but she regarded him with suspicion.

“Why?” she dared to ask. He could hear her heart rate accelerating, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Still, she stood up and attempted to glare at him--no easy feat since she was just as short as her daughter and stood more than a foot lower than he did.

Dracula took her firmly by the shoulders and directed her toward the door with gentle but persistent force.

“I assure you, Mrs. Andrews. I want to help your daughter. But I don’t think you’ll wish to see this, now if you please,” he pushed her out into the hallway and shut the door after her. He paused a beat, waiting to see if the woman would force her way back inside. But she seemed to have better sense than that. 

Emilie lay senseless on the bed. She drew in ragged, pitiful breaths that rattled her whole frame. Dracula moved forward, sitting beside her on the tiny mattress and brushing a strand of hair off her sweat slicked forehead. My poor Emilie, he thought. It had been a very, very long time since Count Dracula had felt such anguish, such...heartache. Not since before he’d turned down the dark path of immortality. The feelings were foreign and unwelcome. He didn’t have the mental clarity to analyze them right now, though. Emilie needed him. 

In a swift, decisive motion he brought his wrist up to his mouth and opened his veins for the young woman who had somehow laid a claim to his soul simply by accepting him and desiring him. He pressed the wound to her lips and waited anxiously as the blood began to flow into her mouth. After a long few seconds Emilie’s eyelids fluttered and she pursed her lips, latching on and beginning to drink the blood that he offered her. He felt his essence draining into her. His history, his secrets, his shames. Blood is lives and Dracula’s blood was a heady mixture of over four hundred years of experiences, dreams, victims, and emotions. He felt it all flowing into her as she drank. He’d never given anyone else the gift of his blood, not in all his centuries of living. Now he gave more than he’d ever given before, feeling his energy flag as she drank more and more until he was drained nearly dry.  At the final moment, when Dracula’s heart froze with the icy nearness of death long averted, he pulled away from her. He sat hunched over and cradling his bloodied wrist. His vision swam and he felt a cloying sickness in his stomach. He sat there, waiting and watching until he could be sure.

Emilie slept on, her face serene and beautiful despite the blood stained lips. He brought a shaking hand up to feel her forehead and nearly wept with joy at the touch of cool flesh. The fever had broken. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically with steady, strong breaths and her pulse beat a steady tattoo in her throat. She was alive and the danger of her illness had passed.

Dracula rose and hobbled to the door, weak with blood loss. He flung it open and startled Mrs. Andrews who stood wringing her hands together on the other side. At the sight of her, the smell of her life-giving blood filling the air, he loosed a snarl from his throat and bared his fangs, eyes a demonic shade of red. The woman jumped back in fright, cowering against the opposite wall. With his last ounce of sense before the blood frenzy descended in earnest, Dracula turned from her, sparing her, and fled out the servant’s entrance. He rose into the night on a cloud of black bat’s wings, hastening forth towards the village in search of fresh blood.

A/N: Well...I really can’t tell if this chapter is any good. I’m anxious to hear your gentle thoughts. I hope you enjoyed it!

Tags:

@charlesdances​ 

@mr-kisskiss-bangbang 

@just-mimii 

@haleyea 

@dracula-s-bride 

@irrelevantwriter​ 

@felicityofbakerstreet

@festering-queen​

@kaddis-world​

[a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan]

LinkedUniverse Fanfic Ch. 11: Noontime Nightmares (pt. 2)

Stop! You’ve Violated the Law!

So, you’ve stumbled upon this original post for my Linked Universe fanfiction. That’s okay, it happens to everyone. As of March 2021, I’ve uploaded the entirety of this fanfic to my Archive of Our Own page. Along with finally giving the story a name–Oops! All Links: A Linked Universe Story–I made substantial edits to some of the chapters. These range from minor stylistic revisions to fixing a gaping plot hole that kinda completely broke the character conflict in the earlier chapters. I also renamed and renumbered (but not reordered) the chapters. Specifically, this is now Chapter 13: Hinox Hijinks.

The AO3 iterations of these chapters are the definitive versions. So, if you would like to read this fanfiction, please do so on AO3, right here. With this embedded link. Hehe. Geddit? Link?

Note: My screen name on AO3 is FrancisDuFresne. Yes, that is me. I am not plagiarizing myself.

Anyway, for posterity’s sake, the rest of the original post is below the cut.

Wild, Sky, and Wind have slain their Hinox, but what about the others? The skirmish in the dark forest continues in this chapter of my @linkeduniverse fan narrative. Word count: 2768.

The Biggoron’s Sword was originally so unwieldy when Time was a teenager that he could barely use it. Now, years of using it in lieu of a smaller sword had made him a master of the claymore. He was thankful for it as he faced his colossal foe. Getting too close to it didn’t seem to be a viable option, and without a spear like Wild, this was the next best thing.

The Hinox slammed its massive hand to the ground. Time hopped to the side to dodge. Before the monster could withdraw, the one-eyed hero managed to bring his sword down on one of its fingers. Severing the appendage easily, it dug itself into the soft ground. Hinox recoiled and shook its hand is if pricking it on a tiny thorn. That thing isn’t even bothered by losing a finger! Time realized as it lowered its other hand to the ground. A swipe!

A massive three-fingered hand swept its way across the ground. Time didn’t have a chance to jump away before impact. He felt his sword leave his fingers as he flew through the darkness. The hero’s back collided with a sturdy tree, blowing the breath from his lungs. He lay dazed on the ground, trying to remember how to breathe. The rumbling of the approaching Hinox’s footsteps him suddenly stopped, replaced by a deafening roar.

Finally gasping in a deep breath, Time looked up to see a jet of flame piercing the shadows. Following the blaze, he saw Warrior still wielding his fire rod. The flames illuminated the fury on his face. His steady stream of fire covered the Hinox. The giant writhed in pain. “Don’t!” Warrior shouted, turning up the intensity of his fire rod. “Touch! My! FRIEND!!”

Time stared on in awe as the Hinox fell to the ground in a blaze. He was equally shocked by Warrior so forcefully calling him his friend. After their conversation in the hills, he was still concerned about his place in the group. Fortunately for all of them, it looked like not much had changed.

A whiff of an acrid stench brought Time to his senses. The Hinox was a smoldering mess. And I thought they smelled bad before, he mused. With a jolt, he noticed that the jet of fire began to lick the nearby tree branches. He stumbled to his feet and yelled back “Warrior! It’s down! Stop firing!”

It was too late. The trees had caught fire. Warrior’s fury gave way to shock. “Uh oh.”

“We got it!” a shout came from behind them.

Four and Sky were running up to them, holding their Gust Jar and Bellows. The gale of their combined weapons reached up into the canopy and buffeted the spreading flames. Thirty seconds of the sustained winds and they went out in a puff of smoke. The Links heard more stomping behind them. Four looked back. It seemed he abandoned his Hinox to help Sky. “Damn it,” he cursed. “Be right back!”

He ran back to his monster. Sky turned to Warrior. “Be careful with that thing!”

“Yeah, I guess I got carried away,” he admitted sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Time said as he looked around for the Biggoron’s Sword. It was difficult in the near-blackness. “You saved my hide back there.”

Warrior now had his signature look of pride on his face. “Hell yeah, I did! You’re welcome!”

“Cool it,” Time warned him. “Stay focused.”

“Right.”

“You two already take care of yours?”

“Yeah,” Sky said. He raised his blood-stained sword. He looked to Warrior. “You?”

“Yep. I didn’t overdo the fire that time.”

“Good,” Time said. He raised his new-found sword. “We still have a few of these bastards to slay.”

…

“Hyah!” Legend cried as he swiped his sword through the air. “Stay back!”

Two Hinox had decided to gang up on him. They kept up an onslaught, buffeting the hero with fierce attacks. He couldn’t find an opening to attack. He had done nothing but block, dodge, and backpedal. Combining the strength of his power gloves with his mirror shield did a good job deflecting their attacks. At least they don’t have bombs, he mused.

“Hey, ugly!” Legend heard someone cry. He looked past the goliaths to see a dimly-lit Hyrule shouting his fool head off. “Over here, you big sons ‘a!”

The Hinox turned to face this nuisance. Hyrule doubted they could understand his words. However, he had no doubt they wanted him to stop. He also had no doubt they would make him stop rather violently. “Come get some!” he goaded, then directed at his friend, “Legend, come on!”

Legend looked over the scene. The two monsters were now lumbering towards Hyrule, darkness beginning to swallow them. Turning their backs on Legend was their first mistake. Both of them turning around was their second. With no eyes on him, Legend took his moment to strike. He shoved his hand into his pouch and pulled out his Roc’s feather and ice rod. He squeezed the feather tight in his right hand, ice rod in his left.

“Any time now!” Hyrule called.

“Working on it!” Legend shouted back.

He took off at a sprint. His pegasus boots boosted his speed, rocketing him forward at the Hinox. Ten feet from them, he kicked off the ground. His feather carried him up high into the air until he was well above their heads. At the height of his jump, he raised the ice rod and fired. A concentrated blizzard shot from the rod down onto the Hinox.

Within a few seconds, they were frozen solid. Legend alighted on one of their shoulders. He put away his ice rod and replaced it with his hammer. He raised it high above his head, faced the Hinox’s hideous face, and brought it down. With a reverberating CRASH, the force of the blow shattered the ice and the monster within. Legend began to fall. He hadn’t thought that part of the plan through.

Hyrule was watching all of this. The moment he saw Legend begin to fall, he sprinted forward. He wasn’t going to make the catch, he was almost certain. Going into a dive at the last moment, he just barely managed to break Legend’s fall. “Oof!” He exclaimed as his chest hit the dirt hard. He hadn’t thought that part of the plan through, either.

“You—cough­—okay?” Hyrule asked with a wince.

‘Yeah,” Legend replied. He still looked shaken. “Never better. Still have to finish this one, though.”

He gestured to the still-frozen Hinox still standing. Its icy stasis froze it in a terrifying pose; it looked just about ready to swipe its hand across the forest floor and scoop up some unlucky prey. Hyrule stared at it, realizing that prey would have been him if Legend hadn’t frozen it. “Thanks,” he said.

“Hey, you were the one saving me,” Legend pointed out. He stood and started for the other Hinox. “Nice distraction, by the way. ‘Hey ugly?’”

“What do you want from me? A dumb insult and living, or a witty one-liner and certain death?”

“Fair.”

Legend reached the monster. He made another swipe with his hammer. This one shattered like the last, and he appreciated that this time he was on the ground. “How are the others doing?” he asked.

“Dunno. I tried to find a Hinox, saw you had two on you, and came to help.”

“You okay after that dive?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Hyrule dismissed.

“You su—”

“Yes. Let’s go find the others.”

“If you say so.”

…

Twilight boarded his Spinner and launched forward. The ancient top brought him into a rapid orbit around his Hinox. The monster’s dim brain couldn’t make heads or tails of this, so began slamming the ground. The revolving hero was moving so quickly that the monster’s hands consistently lagged by several feet. The brute was clearly unfamiliar with the concept of leading its shots.

The center of his Spinner slowly rotated the opposite direction of the body of it, allowing Twilight to face the Hinox. His mind raced, trying to figure out a strategy. He figured the Ordon Sword would be useless unless he was dangerously close to the giant. He would have to go long-ranged.

He saw that Wild’s arrows were ineffective, but the amnesiac hadn’t used bomb arrows. Twilight drew his bow and nocked a bomb arrow. He pulled back the string, the fuse automatically lighting. Just as he was about to loose the explosive, he realized the Hinox wasn’t slamming the ground anymore.

Twilight didn’t have a chance to curse before he crashed into the brick wall that was the monster’s hand ahead of him. He was flung forward off the Spinner, the momentum throwing him too wildly to maintain his hold on the arrow. Free from his grip, the bomb shot straight into the ground only a few feet below the airborne hero.

The explosion catapulted Twilight into the air and up into the forest’s dense canopy. The world spun as he flew into branch after branch, scratching his face and exposed fingers. He felt blood trickle down from a new gash on his cheek. A particularly sharp branch slashed through his pants and cut into his leg.

Suddenly, he slammed into a tree’s trunk. He tried to get his bearings, but the darkness was too strong here among the leaves to see anything. By some stroke of luck, his bow had caught on a branch right next to him. He gave it a tug and it came free.

Thankfully, Twilight thought, this thing smells terrible. He transformed into a wolf. His heightened picked up the Hinox’s scent. He also got a dim view of the branches around him Bingo. The beast vaulted from tree to tree toward the reek. Landing his paws exactly where he wanted was much harder without Midna guiding him. Still, he did his best to keep moving.

A few seconds later, he sensed the Hinox directly beneath him. The Wolf became Hylian once more. Deciding to use his height to his advantage, he reached in his pouch and withdrew his ball and chain. He held it at arm’s length, took a breath, and dropped it. “One,” he whispered to himself, “two, three…” CRUNCH. The heavy ball of iron had hit its mark.

Twilight hooked one of his clawshots on the branch he stood on. Using the chain, he lowered himself slowly out of the canopy. He came out of the branches to see his titanic foe lying on the ground. Its skull was caved in. The ball and chain rolled sluggishly away from its target. The hero grimaced. He was proud of himself, but it was an ugly sight.

His feet hit the ground and he squeezed the clawshot’s trigger. The claw unhooked from its branch and shot back down to its handle. He collected the ball and chain and spinner then looked around. He couldn’t see his companions through the darkness. How far had he strayed from them? Here we go again, he thought. He transformed and set out to find them.

…

Four left the light and warmth of Warrior’s fire rod to face the Hinox lumbering towards him. Suddenly, the ground started shaking. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. He whipped his head around, only to find six more Hinox creeping out of the darkness. Three had spears like the one used to skewer the stag. He had slain larger monsters, but seven at once? He considered using the Four Sword’s power but cast the thought away. It would push his already tired body too far.

The giants were getting closer. He whipped around to call back to Time, Sky, and Warrior for help. They were obscured by yet two more Hinox closing in on him. He was surrounded. He wanted to run but found his legs frozen in place. Four started to panic. Nine? No way. I can’t do this. I’m done!

They were ten yards away and closing. The shortest hero had no way to tell if his friends were coming to help him. His view was eclipsed by the Hinox. The nine giants were certainly about to kill him. If he could see past them, he would know Hyrule and Wild were on their way to help.

On one side, Wild sprinted at the wall of behemoths with his halberd above his head. He brought it down, burying the tip in the soil. Using the spear as leverage, he vaulted over them and landed at Four’s side. On the other side, Hyrule recited one of his ancient spells. He felt power surge to his legs. He kicked off into a leap and flew high above the Hinox. He landed side-by-side with his companions.

Four looked at the two of them. Wild’s face and clothes were flecked with blood. The look on Hyrule’s face showed he was seriously hurt. Before Four could ask, Wild whipped around to face Hyrule. “You have a lightning spell, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do it.”

Hyrule nodded with a wince. He brought his hands together, closed his eyes, and uttered some ancient incantation. Four noticed the Hinox right in front of them. They had maybe five seconds before they met a terrible fate. How long is this spell? he thought impatiently.

Suddenly, Hyrule stopped speaking. He stared directly into Wild’s eyes. With a steely resolve, he said, “Ready.”

Wild nodded. “On my mark…”

The Hinox were closing in. They were raising their hands, ready to squash the young heroes. “If you’re going to do something,” Four shouted, “do it now!”

The Hylian Champion grinned. “Now!”

Hyrule planted his feet, raised his left hand, wound it up as if throwing a softball in reverse, and slammed it into the ground. At just that moment, Wild raised his right hand, fingers contorted…

SNAP!!

Four just barely caught the ghostly image of a beautiful Gerudo warrior before the world exploded. Lightning pounded down all around him. Over and over, bolts of pure electricity struck the Hinox. The booming crackling of thunder was deafening, drowning out their roars. Four felt his hair stand on end as static filled the air. The forest undergrowth began to catch fire.

The lightning seemed to refuse to stop. Hyrule’s Thunder spell combined with Urbosa’s Fury was truly a force to be reckoned with. The sheer brightness of it all lit up the forest, finally clearing the darkness for the Links to see. What they saw was both beautiful and horrifying. Nine massive Hinox stood paralyzed, shaking from the electrocution. The other Links knew those two had electric powers but couldn’t have fathomed the scale of this onslaught. They were stunned, but not from the electricity.

After a minute of continued attack, the lightning ceased. The Hinox collapsed in charred heaps. Sky and Four noticed the burning ground and immediately set about putting out the flames. When they were done, they joined the others in gaping at Wild and Hyrule. The two of them were staring at each other. They clearly had no idea how strong their attack would be.

Wild held out his fist. Hyrule was about to bump it when his adrenaline subsided, and the pain came rushing back. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees. The others ran to his side. “What’s wrong?” Time asked with urgency.

“I think I may have broken a rib or two,” Hyrule replied.

Legend snapped at him, “So when I asked you if you were okay after that fall, you lied?”

“We needed to stay focused on the fight,” he replied. He tried to shrug but winced in pain.

“That’s a serious injury, though,” Twilight said. “I’m a bit banged up myself, but a broken rib? How did that happen?”

“I was falling off a Hinox and he dove to the ground to break my fall,” Legend said. Hyrule glanced at him sheepishly. “He went down hard but said he was fine.”

Wind strode to his companion and helped him back to his feet. “Never mind all this, do we have any potions?”

They all rummaged in their pouches for a moment. They all emerged empty-handed but Twilight, who held up half a bottle of red potion. He glanced at his bloodied pantleg, took a quick swig, and handed the rest to Hyrule. He took it and downed it in one gulp. The pain instantly faded; his ribs were healed. He looked among his friends in the dim lantern light. They were all clearly exhausted.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

[moriibear]

Good doctor, 

This is the first of seven letters. 

It has been my most fortunate calling in life to work as a physician. As the world crumbles to plague around us, and the swollen corpses of the dead leak their fluids onto the streets, I smell only cloying chamomiles, sweet and stale, stuffed in the muzzle of this mask. This horse's snout is no more a blessing than it is a curse. They recognize it, the sick, and flock to the familiarity of my equine figure with no respect for my time. I have heard many of their prayers in my travels, and my only comfort was knowing that I would someday answer them. 

But I first had to sell my cure. 

It took me many weeks to reach the city. From my own town to the next, I searched for a man rich enough to purchase the tonic I had labored over for so many months. In that time, countless died, but I knew when I saw the red steeples of the city that the plague would be stopped. It was a fine city carved from marble and white granite, and filled with the sick. Too many sick. 

It did not take long for me to find the largest estate in the city. Its doors were thick, heavy wood and had to be opened for my arrival by two men. These were not the rich man’s servants, but his sons. He had no money left for the servants. He had sold them and all his fine furniture to fund research for the cure I now held. Though he promised me his home, his land, his eldest daughter’s hand, I refused. I could picture myself in that home, but this was a poor man with sick children in a sick city. He had no gold left for my cure. I cursed him and left. It was a fight to reach the city gates. Street merchants tried to sell me their wares, but I could see the lavender in their skin and knew better than to buy their plague.

A valley stood between me and my next destination. I entered it, traveling tirelessly on foot, knowing that if I stopped my body could be robbed of its priceless possessions. The shadows of the city stretched over me, lapping at my heels as the sun sank lower and lower behind it. I made camp for the night, thinking of nothing but a greater city ahead of me, one that would have taller citadels and richer men. In the morning I could still see the one I had left, its red roofs peaked and proud jutting over the lip of the valley. I journeyed some miles onwards, entertained only with my thoughts, and wound my way up and over a mountain. I enjoyed a leg of rabbit for dinner.

The meat was not rotten, but I tell you when I glanced back to the top of that cliff that dipped into the valley, I could still see the great spires of that city. The sheer impossibility of this drove me to my feet and back up the path, and as the sun turned the earth red and the sky indigo, I saw that cursed city, every damn building on it, floating over the valley like an island without water. It had risen and drifted from its home in the plains to cast a deep violet shadow over the bowl of the valley. As I watched, crouched low in the bushes and trembling in my thick, pale cloak, the sun sank lower until my eyes strained to make out the mammoth form looming in the air before me. Candlelight filled the distant windows until the city was dappled with yellow stars.

I did not rest that night. I lost sight of the place as I traveled onwards, taking no break for sleep or thought. My path took me into a dense wood and in a lilac mist of the morning and I collapsed into the softest patch of earth and slept. 

It wasn’t the noontime sun that woke me, but a nightmare of a grave. I was lying in it, my bedmates plum colored corpses, and fistfuls of dirt were being tossed over me. I awoke gasping, suffocated in my muzzle of herbs, but as I clawed to free myself of the mask I felt the ticklish stream of silt on my neck. I tilted back my head to see the massive underbelly of dirt raining debris over the forest canopy. In my hours of slumber the city had crept up on me, following my trail like a starving dog, and suspended over me its hundreds of homes and hundreds people, and as I laid there shuddering in wordless horror at the roots and fossils clinging to raw bedrock, it lowered ever closer, engulfing the woods in a cold, hushed shadow. 

I ripped myself from my bed and flew without notice or care for the path I had taken. The snap of twigs turned to an aching groan as trunks bent beneath the weight of the sinking city. Living wood broke before my path, their tender green flesh splitting open as they collapsed to the weight of mortar, brick, and stone. I tore the horse mask from my head and sucked in the damp, earthy musk of my doom above me. I ducked as gravel met my scalp, charging towards where just paces ahead of me shadow split the earth with light. Rock forced me to bend, then fall to my knees and crawl- it hit my shoulders, and this weight had not been felt by Atlas, bearing the world on his shoulders, nor Krishna balancing a mountain on his pinky, it was bone breaking, airless, wet--

I rolled free, and the earth trembled as the city settled down into it. The thick walls were cracked, the packed dirt crumbling onto mossy forest floor, but the entire city stood, its buildings flat faced and calm, bronze towers distantly tolling the hour of noon. Shaking, I pushed myself onto my feet and placed a tender foot to the cobblestone. Guards on either side of the gate closed off its entrance to me. With my pale robes soiled, and the horse mask crushed beneath their own city, they did not recognize me as a doctor promising the cure. The cure! I reached inside my cloak and drew it out, showed them its secretive contents, and asked them to take me to the nearest physician. The sick trailed after us, shy as moths in the daytime as though they didn’t dare believe the purpose of my arrival. I smiled at them as we waited for the physician's answer and breathed in the stench of their illness. It was as thick and sweet as overripe summer berries, fermenting in the heat of the sun. 

This is the first of seven letters I have been instructed by the physician to draft. I’ve enclosed within the precise instructions for the concoction and administration of the cure. May it find your city well. 

Respectfully, 

Doctor Henry Drosselmeyer