#PRAIRIE GRASS BITCH

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

The bush honeysuckle has a purpose now

Its protecting a small patch of native plants from being mowed by the maintenance guy

Cuz he won't cut it down. So he also won't mow that area. Which means last summer and fall we had a small patch of Prairie in the backyard cuz the trees that were blocking those plants from getting sun before were gone.

The bush honeysuckle and I have a begrudging truce for now

Because fuck the HOA

[vancomycin]

I love the Great Plains so much like :) there will never be a prettier sunrise than that over the flint hills

[yellowstonewolves]

Liar for Liar

Pairing: Wyll/Astarion

Chapter: 1/?

Ratings: Explicit in later chapters ;), mature for now

Summary: So there's this guy. "The Blade of Frontiers". Wyll Ravenguard. Can Astarion make use of the cocky righteous son of a bitch or not? Can he keep all his secrets hidden from the vaunted monster hunter? Might Wyll have some secrets of his own? (Slow burn that vaugely follows along with a Wyll Origin run. Smut in later chapters)

Ao3 link:

Astarion came to in the wreckage of the mindflayer ship, a telltale shade of green blazing against his closed eyelids He turned towards the dirt, braced every muscle.

Moments ticked by, and he was still alive.

He cracked open an eye, hissing at the sting of the sudden flood of light, and raised his arm. His skin was soaked in sunlight, glowing pearlescent with it. His head swam at the thought. The sun was warming him now, he could feel it, laying on him friendly, as if he had never been away.

He cupped his hand as if it would slip through his fingers, pressed a kiss to his palms as if daylight was something he could kiss.

Every inch of the world glowed with gifts for him, the muddy hues he had known transfigured into resplendent shades he only now realized he had forgotten. He stared at the gently waving prairie grasses and the little round stones and the dirt, even the dirt. His eyes ached but he wouldn’t let them close, not yet.

Gods help him, he was halfway to crying,at the simple beauty of a sun-soaked day, like some sort of fucking druid. 

Voices cut through the pastoral babble of nature then, and Astarion came crashing down to reality, hands whipping back to his daggers. He craned his neck in the direction of the sound.

“This tadpole’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had stuck in my head,” said a deep, pleasant  voice

Tadpole. Astarion’s ears would have twitched at that, had he not learned to suppress that reaction.  Was that what the thing in his head was called? He crouched behind a boulder, and  peeked out at them, a well built, one eyed, noble looking human and a scrawny half elf girl.

 “There was that ballad that was popular several years ago, the Snake and the Siren,” continued the man. He was handsome, the way the sun shone on his chiseled cheekbones, the spray of stubble along his jaw. But he was also familiar. He had been on that ship, “It echoed through every tavern, at all hours of the day and night. It was so annoying!”

“I don’t know it.” his companion responded

“Really? You’re lucky. It was everywhere.”

 She shrugged, “I don’t listen to music.”

“ You don’t… what, any music?”

She shrugged again.

Were they mindflayer thralls? It didn’t sound like it. But they could very well have retained all their human memories, even some semblance of a human personality, although their wills were no longer their own. He was pretty sure that was how illithids worked, although he hadn’t exactly brushed up on the lore about them recently. How negligent of him.

  They were not taking him back to the ship, not now that he’d felt the sunlight on his skin for the first time in 200 years, could  see it even now, everywhere he looked.

Would they fall for an ambush? Could he pull one off? It had been so long since he’d needed to think so hard. Usually he could just  whip out the routine, as habitual as getting himself dressed in the evening. Sometimes he wound his arm around some tipsy stranger in a tavern and found himself already in that lavish bedroom, head between their legs, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. 

It was a welcome departure to be in a situation that called for some finesse.  

The one eyed man came upon him first. He sprang into action at Astarion’s calls for help, but he did not look entirely surprised to find himself on the ground, Astarion’s knife pressed to his neck.

“Now,” Astarion purred, “I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?”

“Oh? Good for you”The man grinned, as if he were not aware how dire a position he was in“Did you watch me slay the ship’s captain?”

“No. And I didn’t--

“That’s too bad. I was in rare form. It was a sight to behold. Wasn’t it Shadowheart?”

“Let him go” the half elf said “Wyll is foolhardy but I need him alive”

“Certainly. Once he’s answered all of my questions. Now—

The man took advantage of the moment of distraction, rocked him to the side with a quick tilt of his hips, and slipped out from under him with some fancy rolling maneuver. 

Astarion swore, and crouched, ready to tackle him again. His eyes met Astarion’s red ones. 

Astarion felt a pressure in his head, something writhing, rooting through his thoughts. Astarion’s hand flew to his temple. It was Cazador he thought, heart pounding. Except it wasn’t. 

It was this man. His memories, bleeding into Astarion’s own. Astarion watched him chase some burly devil across the plains of Avernus, felt the familiar thrill of the hunt, and something else, under it. The righteous, furious indignation of an honest to gods hero, confronted with something he had judged to be evil.

The hero introduced himself as Wyll Ravenguard! The Blade of Frontiers! 

 He took the ambush in stride, “Some people lose all good sense in these kinds of situations” he said ,brushing the dust from his armor “Were I not a seasoned adventurer, perhaps I too would have succumbed to panic.”

He didn’t look like a seasoned anything. His scars aged him, but once they were accounted for, he couldn’t be older than thirty. But then, humans had funny ideas about aging.

Astarion took Wyll’s pardon magnanimously, for all he longed to call out for the insult hiding in those genteel words of his.

He took Wyll’s outstretched hand, shook it. The man looked him up and down, intensely scrutinizing. Astarion fought the impulse to cower under his steely gaze. He had more experience in keeping secrets than this whelp had in wiping his own ass. This Blade would glean nothing from him.

Hours later, Astarion stood by, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Wyll free a gith from a cage, seemingly unbothered by her hostile demeanor or the notoriety of her violent race. Astarion gleaned from their conversation that she had tried to kill Wyll on their first meeting as well. Goody. At least he wasn’t the only one.

At the first opportunity, Astarion pulled Wyll into a sidebar. As glad as he was to have someone of her stature along to protect him, he thought he’d better establish to the man who had fallen into the role of their leader that he was a far more useful companion, the last one who should be sacrificed to some rampaging monster or capricious god, should the need arise.

Astarion asked “When she breaks all your bones for failing to live up to her standards of brutality, can I have that fancy rapier of yours?”

Wyll raised an eyebrow“Many have tried to break me. None have succeeded.”

“Are you sure that’s not just up to luck?”

“A little luck”Wyll responded, “and a lot of skill. But if you’re afraid of her, I know a spell that could lend you some temporary courage.”

Astarion withdrew, trying to look as if he wasn’t pouting.

Their little group chanced upon a gently pulsing portal and when Wyll crept closer to it Astarion leaned forward, eager to see whether it would destroy him or not. 

When it turned out to contain an incredibly milquetoast wizard, Astarion was less enthused 

“How good can he be if he got himself stuck in there?” Astarion said. “He’ll probably blow us all up trying to light a campfire.”

“He was falling to his death at the time. Besides, these tadpoles are very complex, magically. We’ll probably need help of someone with a wealth of arcane knowledge” said Wyll, “if not him, then who? You? You don’t seem to be the intellectual type”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem to prefer to let your knives do the thinking for you. If indeed, you are thinking at all.”

“I am thinking.” Astarion huffed “I am thinking of all the dreadful things I could do to you in the dead of night tonight, if I got sufficiently fed up with your disrespect”

“See?” Wyll chuckled, “threatening me. That’s a poor plan if I ever heard one.”

 It’s a shame, really, Astarion thought. They were bedded down for the night, and he was filling his canteen from a stream, letting the water flow over his wrists with not so much as a twinge of pain.

Such a sharp tongue is wasted on a bleeding heart. It will fall silent, when Wyll’s blinkered valor gets him killed.

 Some memory wanted to stir within Astarion as he thought this, of another man, another time. He wrestled it down. 

He worried it was showing on his face, because when he looked up, he noticed Wyll was staring at him, from his place by the flickering campfire. He was holding a little black notebook, a quill poised over it, dripping ink as Wyll held it in place.

Astarion sauntered over, to stand by the fire’s gentle glow. He let his eyes linger on the hint of chest exposed by Wyll’s tight leather nightclothes “See something you like?” Astarion asked, infusing each word with sumptuous flavor .

Wyll’s gaze was suspicious, lingering on Astarion’s face, “Pardon me for asking, but do red eyes run in your family? Rare color, for an elf.”

Astarion snorted, relieved that he had not been caught in a moment of weakness, “Indeed they do.” he said, “Do stone eyes run in yours?”

 Wyll just chuckled, “An elemental somewhere, perhaps, in the Ravenguard family tree”

Astarion leaned just a bit closer, trying to catch a glimpse inside the notebook he was holding, but Wyll snapped it shut. 

Part of Astarion wanted to press, but his position among these odd people was still tenuous. There was no use in alienating their esteemed leader.

Besides needed to rest soon, if he hoped to have time to hunt before morning light. Should probably hunt first, sleep later but he was bone deep exhausted. He changed out of his doublet, finally, into more comfortable clothing. He’d need to pick up something with a higher neck once they reached civilization. If he was still free by then. 

His trance was predictably miserable. He woke up panting and sweating, head pounding . It took a few minutes to remember that he was free but when he did, his mood took a dramatic swing for the better.

He stalked the woods for the better part of an hour, looking for deer. By the end of it his good humor had dissipated entirely.Their party’s racket seemed to have scared all the big game away. He was just about to give up and go back to his tent hungry when the bushes behind him shook.

He whirled around just in time to see a rabbit hop from it, and pause, sniffing the air.

He took a step towards it and the creature looked up, met his eyes with its big brown ones. He could smell that its blood was pumping too fast, heart about to explode.

“There there” he whispered, keeping himself very still. 

The rabbit stared for a second, blinked. Then ,seeming to consider that he might not be an imminent threat, the rabbit’s eyes darted to a hole in the ground, about a foot to the left of it.

In that moment, Astarion pounced, teeth landing on its neck, arms and legs crashing into the ground painfully.  His fangs sunk beneath the rabbit’s  fur as its hind legs buffeted his chest. Its blood was like lukewarm water, tediously dull for all it took the edge off his thirst, albeit with none of the rotten aftertaste of plague. 

He caught a glimpse of the hole it had been looking towards, and he knelt over it, listening. There were more rabbits inside, smaller ones. He lashed out with his claws and came up with a fistful of bunny. It was only a kit,  couldn’t have been more than a week old, head the size of a peach pit. Barely a mouthful of blood in that tiny body.

  There would have been no harm in releasing it really, except that now it had made him contemplate releasing it. To inspire such thoughts was a crime that must be punished with extreme prejudice. 

He held the kit in his hand like a teacup, extended his pinky as he did so, on a whim. He pretended for a moment he was out on a veranda somewhere, finely dressed and entertaining the most refined company he could imagine—himself.

“And how are you finding your beverage, Lord Ancunín?”

“It is bland, Lord Ancunín, but there are worse tastes.”

“Too true.And how are you finding freedom, Lord Ancunín?”

“It is not bland enough. All this dreadful running about. But there are worse tastes.”

When he had finished he tossed aside the ball of fur that had been the kit, rubbed his face against the pelt of the mother, hoping to remove all traces of blood.

Just as he was leaving he saw Wyll, although the human did not see him. The man crept from the mouth of his tent, surveyed the camp, and stalked off towards the forest. He darted a look directly in Astarion’s direction, and secure in the knowledge that he was well hidden, Astarion took in his expression. The man looked haunted.

Wyll sat under the trees, chest heaving. He pressed a finger to his stone eye, withdrew it. He shook his head “Gods damn it. Why can’t I just…” He let out a groan.

 Wyll looked up, scanning the trees, as if his pitiful human eye was capable of discerning threats in the darkness. He seemed to conclude he was alone, and took out a handsome mahogany pipe from a leather pouch over his hip, stuck the end between his teeth. He drew out a smaller pouch of tobacco, crumbled the dried leaves between his long, thin fingers. He filled the bowl, pressed a thumb to pack, filled it to the top again. He pursed his pretty lips and blew, priming the pipe.

So he had a smoking habit. Astarion would not have expected it of him-a bad example to his leagues of adoring fans, surely? 

Wyll took out an arcane igniter,flipped it open and tapped the rune inside. A mote of fire flared up in the wake of his finger. Its reflection danced over his cheekbone, an orange ball wavering on his skin like the moon on the surface of a lake.

 Wyll lit up with the same hand that was holding the pipe, letting the tip of the flame brush the surface of the tobacco just for a second, without scorching the rim of the bowl. It was a neat party trick, one that Astarion had seen performed many times, in many bars, though not often with such practiced nonchalance. 

White vapor rolled out over the burning leaves. Astarion could almost smell it, bittersweet, acrid. The scent of gin-soaked hunting grounds and doomed afterglows.

 Wyll closed his eyes tight, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled. 

Wyll blew a cloud of smoke into the night air, watched it wind in tendrils towards the heavens. Some of the tension had melted from his shoulders, though not all of it.

  Astarion toyed with the idea of strolling over, asking for a pull, and then another, brushing his lips against Wyll’s inviting ones, feeling the points of his stubble clustered like stars on his skin. He imagined sucking the smoke from his mouth, pulling back, letting it leak from his parted lips like a poisoned promise as his palm cupped the hero’s jaw, thumb stroking the warm skin of his face.

Too bold, he decided, but he found himself taking a step forward regardless. A branch snapped under his foot. He winced. Shit. 

Wyll jumped like a kid whose parent had just rattled his bedroom doorknob at the worst possible moment, yanking the pipe from his lips as he squeaked “who’s there?” 

Astarion stilled himself, refrained from blinking or breathing and Wyll cleared his throat, said in a deeper, more classically heroic voice “Who’s there?”

Astarion didn’t move a muscle. 

In a much louder voice, one that echoed like a chorus of monsters from the very depths of the hells, he bellowed “Answer me!”

Astarion fought the urge to bolt.

When that produced no response Wyll shrugged, slumped back against the tree. He held a finger to his eye, lowered it just as quickly, sighed. 

Astarion recognized despair when he saw it, the stale kind, where the wounds were scabbed over with layer after layer of resignation. There was nothing to gain, he saw, in trying to muscle in on this moment, so he would take his leave.

It had nothing at all to do with that voice Wyll had shouted in. Astarion had not been pants-shittingly terrified, hearing it. 

He hadn’t.

[extervus]

Bitches love me for my native wildflower and prairie grass yard swag

[frogsandfries]

I'm so fucking sick of this lawn bullshit, I bought milkweed seeds. Fuck the police. Turn this fucking lawn into a whole preserve. Bitch imma buy some endangered tree saplings next spring and some fucking prairie grasses. Bitch, fence who. I'm gonna take my dad's idea of using a pie tin as a germination tray, germinate trays of prairie grass, dig nice little holes for my nice round mats of prairie grasses.

[imperfectly360]

Why is there an automato in the house? Dairy Queen??? Blizzard. Frosty. Mc.flurry. ice cream sundae. Soft serve. Banana foster. Frozen banana dipped in chocolate. Hagan dass. Ice cream sandwich. Drumsticks. Strawberry shortcake. Skinnish cow. Teethless cow. Ramen flavored cow. Cranberry flavored cow. Scooperman flavored cow. Hacienda flavored cow. Stalish flavored cow. "Favorite flavor cow" team I pick hairs. "I play by myself cow" "Betsey from G.B. cows" "jump towards the moon cow" "cow with bucket of flowers cow" "poor cow (Gymboree cow)" "short of cash cow" "I don't wear earrings anymore cow" "I want earrings cow" "I love the earrings cow" "I pierce cow" "why why cow" "sk cow" "religious coward" "livelier cow" "cow belt buckle horn cow" "t cow" "rooster cow" "my October cow" "freedom hunchback cow" "cow eat grass cow" "cow cough droplet mug cow" "cow licked hair cow" "ob cow" "elbow cow" "young calf cow" "Chelsea boots cow" "cow attire" "faker cow" "couch cow sister" "ouchie coachy sissier" "scare crow cow" "I watch American horror stories cow" "cowteen bars cows" "oxford cows" "1965 cows" "Ashley cows" "asleep cows" "awake cows" "cow table cow" "special cow" "I eat cow what do you eat cow" "dancing with the stars cows" "prairie farms cows" "cob cow" "broke bitch cows" "cow goes moo cows" "USDA cows" "misfit cows" "walk the walk cows" "tightrope cows" "I like to have confirmation cows" "biased bitch cows" "sisterly cows" "leopard leprosy cows" "7 days of hell 7 years of imprisonment cows" "joyed over the moon cows" "makow cows" "cremated cows" "by the cow cows"

[farmcontent]

[deluluass]

So says fate

(Hades & Persephone AU)

Content warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; abusive parents

  This time of the year cannot end tucked between sheets, laying down aching knees to snore the rest of the evening away. The crops have been bountiful so sleep is not supposedly easily had. 

  Rest is elusive for those who have toiled through the winter. 

  The time for toiling is over. 

  Spirits are high and— exhaustion be damned, the knees ache for merriment; for dancing; for, thereafter, running away from the festivities, a trail of giggles behind, hand in hand with a lover towards an empty barn; for a kiss; for a clumsy tumble in the hay. This is a time for drinking, of your name sung and savored by intoxicated lips. 

  But you have walked and walked and walked— made it past the forest that divided your world from his. It’s been hours. 

  The earth remained silent, as if in slumber, buried under unyielding snow.

  Below, where the soil should've been rich and soft and the grass thick and dewy for the dawn, there were only blades that cut through the calluses and scabs on your feet. From east to west, across the prairie, the trees stood out like fingers charred into disfigurement. They did not sway, branches unbudged by the gale. 

  A mother's grief.

  (A mother’s anger.)

  "I'm home," you called out, panting. Each breath came out in smoke. "Can't you feel me?"

  She would’ve come by now, perhaps not without a tirade about your obstinacy and immature and bumbling nature, but you could take that. You always had. You would take any mean thing she could dole out if it would mean she’d be here to see you.

  Because when the last of her anger had left you know that she’d eventually hold your face between her work-torn hands, inspecting how gaunt it’d become from all that had happened to you. Her eyes would turn glassy, crow's feet drooping. 

  And because she’s not the unfeeling bitch they claim her to be, she’d shed those indignant tears as she asks, "Who did this?" 

  And reality will dawn on her, after lifting your tattered clothes, that the wounds don't end on your face.

  And you’d lift your chin up, anyway. 

  They’re all on the skin. Merely that. They don’t go any deeper, not to the point of scratching bone. Besides, the wounds are proof of the days (months) (eons) spent trudging through valleys that had never felt a drop of rain. There is no need for shame. You’d tell her you braved steep mountains that could have sent you tumbling down a raging river at the slightest misstep; eluded the grasping hands of souls that hungered for a warm body and a beating heart. 

  You’re here now, you would say. 

  “I’m here now, mother,” you cried out. 

  The wind continued to howl. 

  You sought the pulse of every creature that once danced to the beat of your own. 

  No laughter. No dancing. No merriment.

  Finally, like a child holding onto her mother’s skirt in search of any sign of forgiveness, you said, “I’m so sorry.” 

  Penitence was the only way to a god’s good graces, innocent or not. The gods had no use for a lesser being that did not know how to kneel. And the Lady Harvest was a god first and your mother second. 

  “Please forgive me,” you told her, meaning every word of it.

  Breaking your resolute stomp, you fell on all fours and begged like you never had before: to feel that embrace that had been the only thing you ever knew before he took you away; to hear her voice; to be brought home. “I was stupid and careless and—”

  Young.

  The open cuts on your palms prickled against the snow. That did not deter you from bunching it into your hands, for nothing could ever burn more harshly than that simple truth. Your fingers curling into fists, you lowered yourself further— further than you’d already been debased, and pressed your forehead against the freezing ground. 

  It should have been spring by now. (Spring has long come and gone, you know this). You knew because you'd never stopped counting each agonizing day that passed, longing for the seasons that had come and gone. All the springs you’d missed.

  You shut your eyes tight— cheek to cheek with hale that refused to melt, and wept.

  “I’m so dirty now,” you finally admitted. “But I’m still your daughter, mama.”

  “I am still your daughter.”

  A proclamation this time, louder, with teeth bared through snivels. 

  “I am still your daughter,” you repeated.

  And amidst the groveling came a stray thought: 

  This is your lot in life.

  What did it matter that you’d suffered. 

  This is your lot in life.

  The earth is hardened with ice and the strikes you descended upon it, although more forceful with every passing second, didn’t do anything to soften it. As it should’ve been. This is how it is and this is how it would always be. All that suffering, all the tears shed, all had been just that. Like the wounds. Merely that. 

  When you pleaded, splayed and bleeding on your marriage bed, for any form of salvation to bring you back home and the only answer you had was an empty sky staring back at you. Not a sun or moon or a cluster of stars to be seen, as if everything and everyone that you’d prayed to had decided to turn a blind eye to the very same pain they promised to shield you from. 

  Exactly like this. 

  No one answers your call. The silence is so palpable, you could taste it. Then, without a warning, it becomes oppressive with an invisible, unbearable weight, and your strength, whatever little of it is left, further dwindles into pathetic shivering. 

  Ah, you sighed, yielding to that force pulling you down (for what else is there left to do), such is your lot in life. 

  You managed a faint, bitter smile, briefly stretching your already cracked lips, as you slowly raised your head. You didn’t bother to turn around. 

  “Well,” you croaked, “that was fast.”

  He didn’t respond. Didn’t move either. If he did, you wouldn't have heard it. 

  “You don’t suppose you can call my mother for me? Perhaps she’d taken a liking to you.”

  Pulling at the bit of root that made it past the cold, you added, “Between the two of us you’re the only one who gets to come up here. You have visited her, surely? She bakes the loveliest pastries. Pity, though, for she will not have me. Can you believe it? I sure can’t."

  You shake your head. "So unlike the humans in that regard. Apparently, absence does not make that great, incomparable heart grow fonder.”

  “Even if it’s towards their own child,” you told him, tightening your enclosed hands. “My, of course, you already know that.”

  There. 

  They never cared for your prayers, so they better not start with your sacrilegious jabs now. Besides, he wasn’t like his brothers who stuck their nose in every mortal business and punished the slightest whiff of profanity. This great, incomparable, and immovable creature— an enigma to both the impermanent and the eternal, will never be swayed by something so inconsequential as a deranged woman’s bitter taunts. 

  As if to prove your point, he then replied, “She won’t listen to you.” 

  You sneered. Ever the epitome of compassion, this one. 

  “Nor I, for that matter. She refuses to listen to anyone save for herself,” he concluded, that voice frigid and quiet. Just like this damned snow that seemed to go on for forever. 

  You find yourself bereft of any ammunition to retaliate with, like always. That little gibe about his filicidal father had been the last of it. But, you’d come this far.

  You’re almost home.

  She just needs to let you in.

  “Call her,” you muttered, vision fixed on the blank horizon. “Call her, my Lord.”

  He huffed, a hushed sound that exploded in the tranquility of the frost-bound meadow.

  He’s irritated. 

  Good.

  “The gods are always watching,” he only said.

  A reminder that didn't need to be said twice. The only constant in this fickle universe. The gods are always watching. Your mother can see you—  had seen every moment you’d been away from her. She was there the moment you set foot into the world of the living. She was there the night gold soaked the sheets and every other night that came after that. 

  She was there when those red lilies caught your fall, petals and filaments like the spindly legs of dead spiders against your neck.

  Your mother heard your cries then and she didn’t do anything.

  She won't do anything now.

  Because you’re a bad daughter. Only good daughters deserve the hand of their mothers, don’t they?

  You didn’t feel your skin jump anymore when he closed the distance between you two. It’s insidious. That you know his every breath simply by the way the air subtly shifts. 

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, opening his palm for you to take. “You’re freezing.”

  The edge of his cloak teased your shoulders. If you leaned into him its warmth would’ve embraced you whole. You ignored him, eyes trained forward. Then, “What about you?” 

  The gods are always watching.

  “Aren’t you a god, too?” you pushed. “Were you watching me, all this time?”

  The gods are always watching. 

  "You'd been following me, my Lord?"

  Such an inane question. How else were you able to pass through the river, the valley, the mountains, the woods? How else had you gone on your journey for so long, untouched by any spirit, malevolent or otherwise?

  He knew when you snuck out, had been aware of it ever since the seed of rebellion had been planted in your mind. He was right there. Behind you. Following you. 

  Always.

  Your mother will never see you again.

  Your husband will never let you go. 

  What use, penitence? What use, defiance?  

  (They’re all fucking with you.)

  For what? At this point, you no longer have anything left to give, not even contrition. Right then and there, your only true possession had been the snow trapped in your fists. He insists on taking from you, doesn't he? Well, this you are more than generous to relinquish. 

  You snapped towards him, crouched like a feral thing, and threw the ball of snow straight into his face. Your chest heaved as you stood.

  “Leave!”

  The shriek that left your throat had been dry, fragile, and strained, yet you still pushed that raw ache welling inside you because there was no other way to get rid of it. 

  “Leave! Leave! Leave!”

  Hot tears began rushing down your face, mingling with the spittle and snot as you took in deep, shuddering breaths.

  “This isn’t your land anymore! You don’t belong here!” you roared.

  He barely flinched. 

  He just stood there, dusting off the bits of snow clinging to his shoulder. He remained just as he'd been, motionless even as your cries subsided. 

  Then, after decades of running and never daring to look back, once again, you found yourself standing face to face with death. 

  The enraged beating of your heart petered out, skipping weakly only to collapse by the end of it. 

  His cloak shrouded him until it swept past the ground. You could scarcely tell where the garment ended and where the darkness began.

  He and it had always been one and the same.

  Nevertheless, the Lord Death stood out against the shadows with those heartwood eyes, glowing like embers that the violent winter wind failed to snuff out. 

  Its icy gusts, meanwhile, threatened to topple you into the snow for every second that you spent fighting against the current, keeping your feet planted into the ground and stubbornly ignoring your body's desire to keel over.  

  The wailing swelled, heightening into a sharp ringing inside your ears. You winced and chewed the insides of your cheeks. By the damnable gods you were not going to cry anymore. 

  You'd already done enough of that. 

  Enough, now.  

  However, the once steady branches began to rattle like corpses jerked into convulsions, and, one by one, trees started falling in heavy thuds, shaking the frozen land and bringing your knees closer and closer to the cold, and it was only then that you realized that there's never been a bigger lie than you telling yourself that you'd no longer cry.

  Enough, I say.

  You could almost hear her. 

  Enough with your insipid tears, little girl.

  Oh, but by the Lady Harvest, how could you not cry?

  No matter how hard you tried to remain stoic just as he is, your jaw still quivered, as if some sick monster were struggling to crawl out of you, and your heart constricted until the periphery of your vision was too dim for sight. 

  The Lord Death's gaze was not unkind. Only patient, in the manner of the wiser mortals when they wait in silence for the ignorant ones to work out what they mean to say. 

  Soon enough, the gale stopped, and in its place came the gasping whimpers. 

  You placed a hand over your mouth. 

  It hadn't managed to stifle the staggered bawling that echoed across the endless winter, darkness surrounding you like an inescapable vacuum.

  And there was just no way of stopping it. 

  You collapsed, body shattering on the snow, retching and keening as you clutched your stomach. 

  What did you tell him earlier? 

  Leave. 

  This isn't your land anymore. 

  You don't belong here. 

  Now, who truly doesn't belong here, stupid child?

  The flowers and leaves and trees are not waiting for the sun, you know that already. There would be no celebration, no dancing, no silly little rendezvous between silly young lovers.   

  The earth is not silent. 

  The earth is dead.

  There'd been nothing to grow and eat. The cold had been too much to bear. 

  Spring had not come.

  You were not here. 

  Look at what you've done. Was all that disobedience worth this? 

  "No, no," you gasped, choking on your tears as you struggled to genuflect.  "No, mama, I'll make it right it's all my fault- please listen- please forgive me-"

  "Don't blame yourself," you heard him say, effortlessly wrapping you in his cloak while you cried and cried and clambered out of his hold. "It is futile."

  "You don't understand, you don't understand," you wailed. 

  How you yearned to be here. 

  You'd imagined yourself crossing that border and laughing giddily as you speed towards the rolling hills, splashing the crystal clear waters of the stream with your feet, your mother watching, clicking her tongue, telling you to hurry or you won't have anything left for dinner.

  It is futile.

  There is nothing here for you now. Not your mother. Not your people. Nothing here would ever be capable of loving you in return.

  And you would've laughed had you still possessed the energy for it. What a farce you'd made of yourself. It must take some sort of inherent gift to allow things to come to this.

  Because, as it stands, the only place that you could come back to now is the very same one that you turned your back on.

“Oh, fuck off.”

  The woman wiped the froth from the liquor on her mouth, and smudged the back of her hand with rouge. 

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” Kita told her. 

  “C’mon, read the room,” she groaned. “Not now!”

  He has, indeed, surveyed the mead hall alive with food and sweetmeats and talk and music. The cause of her stubbornness to leave with Kita was difficult to miss. He was handsome, as well as tall, more so that he loudly inquired for the woman’s whereabouts as he weaved his way through the inebriated preparing themselves for a lively jig. 

  “I even charged him less than a whole night’s worth!” And because he stayed as impassive as he’d been, she added, too beseechingly as they often do, “Can’t a girl get a good tup before she goes?”

  She didn’t want an answer, that was apparent. What she wanted was more time, and for this to not have happened, but no one gets a say on fate. Not even them.

  Her body sat in the corner. Kita let the woman stare at it, at herself, face down on the table as if knocked to slumber by the drink beside her head, her hand that once clutched her chest now limp on her lap. “Fuckin’ idiot,” she chuckled, shaking her head. 

  “It shouldn’t be that bad, right?”

  “That’s up to you,” he said.

  “Will Her Ladyship of Bountiful Harvest follow my ass to hell?” she piped up, unfazed by the thought judging by that snicker. “Hated me, she did. Can’t stand the idea of a woman spreading her legs for food. If she’s so against it she shoulda stop playing favorites and pay attention to us sinners, eh?”

  Kita tipped his head. “You’re quite irreverent.” 

  The woman only gave a mockery of a courtesy. 

  “And no, you’re not going to hell,” he continued. “The Lady Harvest is not here. She won’t be there, either.”

  “Oh,” she said. “What about her daughter though? Is she here right now to see me? She must be.” 

  Kita saw a sliver of the child she used to be, wide eyed and expectant of good things as she turned to search, but just as the great mother is never present for death, the daughter typically  follows. The gods are always watching except when mortals cry for another chance; when they look up to the sky wondering whether the war they’re told to fight for was worth it; when they raise their fist at the world that had not once treated them fairly. 

  The dead can no longer worship. There is no reason to continue watching them until the very end. 

  “No,” he eventually replied. 

  That child disappeared. The woman returned.

  “So it’s just you then?”

  “Just me.”

  “How lonely.”

  The work is necessary. It matters not if he is lonely. It matters not if no one praises him because of it. Kita chose not to tell her that.

  “A little bit more, then, my Lord,” she said urgently. “Let me stay a bit longer, please, it’s- it’s spring.”

  “And so it is.”

  “Everything’s funnier, see,” the woman uttered weakly, taking one last look at the people  tripping over chairs as they pushed against each other, the spirits making them laugh instead of shamefully angry, twirling and jumping and clapping along to the melody of the lute that soared like birds. “Lovelier.”

  Her forlorn stare stayed on the ancient tree in the middle of the hall, the blushing buds on its majestic trunk and its sprawling, moss canopied branches carrying lamp lights, fireflies leading the eyes to the stars in the sky.

  “And so it is,” Kita repeated. 

  There’s another one after her. Kita could not delay any further.

  When she finally looked at him— really looked at him, and saw him for what he truly was, the woman began to look at him as if he’d snuff out everything funny and lovely about the world. 

And she followed him with her head down and without anything else to say.

  Kita thought that he’d heard crying. It no longer fazed him. 

  The work resumed. 

  Once, you were a child and easier to like, and your mother did not mind that you fumbled with the laundry. You were small. Easier to understand. Too much energy bursting out of you to pull the sheets out of the line without breaking the clothespins.

  She'd release an exasperated tsk-tsk and that would be the end of that. Even when you dragged the immaculately white sheet into the mud, swaddling it over your head as you raised your hands into claws, shouting when you ran towards your mother, "Here comes the three-headed beast! Best watch out, mortal!"

  The sheet smelled like the earth after the rain, pleasantly mingling with the aroma of your mother's dress. Oranges, apples, and fresh bread caressing your senses as you nuzzle your face into her stomach, clinging to her, refusing to let go. 

  Warm and soft, the damp cloth against your eyes had the exact same smell, gentle as it brushed your lashes. It coaxed you awake, despite the heaviness pulling your eyelids down. 

  You held the instinctive urge to chase the hand holding that cloth. 

  Back then, you had been your mother's little innocent daughter. Easier to forgive. Deserving of comfort.

  Now, you are not.

  The ceiling that greeted you was testament enough. So far above. Not the low hanging beams of your mother's house with dried herbs dangling upside down. Here, there were lacquered black pine arranged in a perfect grid, elaborate carvings of butterflies fluttering on the corners where they meet. The recessed panels in between were wide, each one painted with a camellia or a blooming chrysanthemum. A gallery of flowers for mourning. In the middle were delicate strokes of red spider lilies.  

  Death spoke. 

  "Go back to sleep," he said, lifting the blanket closer to your chest. You nudged his hand away and sat up, wincing as you did. 

  The futon was plush, like the white chemise that replaced your ragged dress. Although neither mattered much when your limbs were too numb to feel anything else. He watched you as you stared back at him, only for a brief moment, then shifted on his folded knees to wring the washcloth into a basin next to him.

  You turned towards the veranda, where there was an open view of the sky. Or the closest thing that the Underworld could have to a bright, sunlit sky. 

  There was nothing there. Just stark white light illuminated under a dome. The Lord Death’s mansion towered over everything else in this world and you wondered before what it would feel like if you reached out your hand to touch it. (Perhaps it is cold and empty and if you knock you’d be responded with a hollow sound.)

  That thought of wry amusement did not last long enough to alleviate the helplessness. 

  At the foot of the hill grew bamboo the size of pillars. 

  A sea of glass green where the valiant and virtuous rest, reminding you of what you’d lost and cannot get back. 

  How ironic it was to already be on the other side of death and still be deaf to the whispers of those who had passed. All the more ironic for someone who was supposedly hailed as their queen.

  (Once, there was a time when you thought that the possibility of hearing the dead could make this place tolerable. At least you would know that you were still with those you hold dear. At least you could hold onto a semblance of home. But many, many years passed and all you could ever hear and feel and see was him.)

  "What do they say about me?" you asked, staring at the forest. 

  He paused from soaking the cloth. 

  "Not the ones that you worry about. Those who are good would never speak ill of those they love,” Lord Death said. “They would not be there if they were to hold any grudge at all, besides.”

  What were you thinking, asking him that. He is not one to make reality less terrible than it actually is. Such is the nature of Death. But in this matter— well, you can never tell.  

  “My Lord,” you sighed, “With all due respect, but I do not think that you would know what those who can love are capable of."

  “If I gathered correctly…” 

  The voice of Death was calm, almost pensive. 

  “I take that you mean,” he continued, “that those who can love are also capable of punishment meted out of anger.”

  You looked at him. Tiny droplets of water seeped from the washcloth and into his fingers. It barely dripped out anymore, yet he still squeezed the thing as if every thread of cotton were drenched. 

  “Resentment.”

  You flinched. 

  “I killed them,” you told him. “I deserve that much.”

  “Your mother had chosen to deprive them—”

  “—Because I was selfish.” Your breath was becoming labored and you could no longer meet his eyes. “And all they ever did- all she ever did was love me. The resentment. The anger. She wouldn't feel those so acutely had she not loved just as fiercely."

  "And they are mine to bear," you added. "All of it.”

  After folding the washcloth into a neat square, Death moved closer, and you could only sit there, transfixed, as he fixed the sleeve of your chemise that’d slipped past your shoulder. 

  You felt his skin warming yours through his robe. He sat beside you, one hand moving to lift your chin, his hold light as a feather. 

  “You speak of your mother’s affections with this mouth, but it's her voice that's coming through,” he muttered. “Tell me, Spring, cannot you use your own?”

  How dare he.

  “She's my mother,” you spat back, recoiling from his hand. “She was my god.”

  “So am I.”

  Death was not something that your kind will ever have to become acquainted with, but every time he gets like this— looming over you with that sharp scrutiny, his power wielded insouciantly and as naturally as death takes life— for a split-second you are but a mortal that would trade away all the wealth in the world just to evade him.

  But you are not a mere mortal, are you not?

  You are Spring. Daughter of Harvest. 

  Perhaps not anymore, but you’d been one all the same.

  So you swallowed thickly and met his gaze. 

  “You raped me.”

  Never mind that your voice cracked, you pressed on. 

  “You raped me. What more could you possibly want.”

  “Anything,” he replied, not missing a beat. “Just not your guilt.”

  A disbelieving huff, then a chuckle that sounded as broken as it’d felt. Distancing yourself from him as far as your feeble, cumbersome body would allow, you hung your head low as you let the rueful laughter die in your chest.

  “Why?” You finally asked, brows furrowed.

  The question, you found, was not really for him. Tossed into existence for the sake of letting it known: to the empty dome of a sky; to the Fates; to the forest sitting peacefully below you; maybe just to the blanket in your grip, wrinkled out of place, chemise disheveled to reveal your thigh.

  Why?

  “You should hate me. I hate you. In fact,” you scoffed, “you should throw me to the deepest pits where the wicked go. Leave me there and condemn me and leave my name cursed forever. I disrespected you, time and again, and I let your children die. I let your children die, my Lord.”

  Your skin was unscathed, the insides of your legs the most spotless they'd been, not just in here. Even when you were up there, enjoying the caress of the sun, you had never been as uninjured as you are right now. No sign of wound, fresh or on its way to drying. No gold oozing out because you scraped against a rock, or got caught in the waves attempting to cross the river, or wittingly hurt yourself to destroy the god growing inside your belly.

  You are clean.

  He bathed you and tended your wounds.

  Just as he’d done countless times before.

  “It doesn’t change what you’ve done to me. But that doesn’t matter, does it? You are God. Death itself. You get to hurt anyone you want and we’re supposed to just accept that. That is your lot in life. It would not matter to you if I forgive you- I’m not even— ha! I’m not even in a place where I can forgive you! I just have to stay on my knees! Take it all in silence, don't I? Beg for your forgiveness! Be remorseful for- for wanting something different, something kinder! Because I feel! I feel! I do not exist because of you and I do not exist for you! And when you hurt me I’ll give as much as you’d given me and I will cry out when you pummel me and break me and- and—”   

  And he’s hugging you, cradling you on his lap, sturdy arms wrapped tightly around you as racked sobs and words that hardly made any sense sputtered out of you. 

  And he did not say hush, little girl. Enough. Enough or you’ll taste the back of my hand, little girl.

  And this is not love, even if he let you cling to him as if you were a small child that was easy to like and easy to understand and deserving of comfort.  

  This is not love. Love simply does. It comes to you on its own just as the seed grows towards the light. It is not acted upon in such a way that you pull it by its roots, destroying and making a mess out of the only place it calls its home.

  But—

  Is that not what your mother did?

  Spring?

  Ignoring the sharp stings that shot up your feet, you loosened yourself from his hold and scrambled to stand up.

  "Wh-” you rasped. "Did- did you hear that?"

  He held you up when you fell back into him, keeping you steady with a gentle grip around your waist. 

  "I heard my name," you said, panting and desperately eyeing the forest as if the green sea of bamboo would whisper back to you.

  And you know it would. 

  "I heard my name. Someone called me. I think it's..."

  Them. 

  The word withered before you could utter it. You looked down at him, imploring. 

  He smiled. 

  A small curve of his lips that had briefly, just for a passing second, made you forget who he was. 

  "I told you," he whispered. "In time."

  "I don't understand."

  The voices that had been inaudible to you. That look in his eyes, open and defenseless, wistful and yet…relieved. As if he could cry at any given moment.

  You could not understand any of it. 

  The question had been stewing at the back of your mind for a long time. There's no way of ignoring it now as he sighed and closed his eyes; as his perpetually unbowing shoulders collapsed under your touch, and as he rested his forehead against your hip:

  How is it possible that death can be so tender?

  "Just.." he began, hands caressing the back of your legs. "Just come to me, my love."

  Rough-hewn fingers kneaded away the dull pain from the muscles, inducing a shiver that ran up your spine and making you hold onto his head for support.

  He rumpled your chemise, exposing your skin the more he dragged the article with the fervid brush of his hands, his lips pressed on the curve of your thigh.

  You gasped at the feel of his hot breath. "I don't want to punish you," he said, grazing his teeth against your naked flesh. "I don't want to own you."

  "I'm not like her," he murmured, almost snarling. “I’ll mend you and take care of you everyday.” 

  This isn't the first time that he's done this. He's been above you, rutted into you while he had you pinned on top of him, had spent nights between your legs like a man starved, but this is the first that you contemplate, if not reluctantly, how soft his ashen hair felt, the ends like ink spilling through your grasp.

  You tugged at it, only slightly, but he immediately bared his throat and gazed up at you so fiercely it made you glance away, although not in fear, not in disgust, not anymore, the heat that'd been spreading all over your body threatening to combust you right where you stand. He must've caught on too.

  Because he never took his eyes off of you as he left a trail of kisses along your thighs, light and sweet, lingering to take in your scent every now and then, moving slowly towards where you ached the most.

  Too slowly.

  "Please," you sighed as you scratched his scalp, pulling his head closer.

  (Please? Please? What's happening to you?)

  "I have a name, wife," he replied, licking the sweat clinging to your skin.

  "Kita," you said in a hushed tone. "Please."

  It surprised you how easy it was to say, considering that all you've done thus far was pretend the name never existed, that he'd never tirelessly entreated you to call him that ever since you'd recited your vows. 

  And now here you are.

  You felt him smile against your skin. The rumbling of his chest as he chuckled accompanied your weak, shaking knees. 

  "You're so beautiful," he said under his breath. 

  Long fingers parted the thick, coarse hair on your mound, stretching the skin below along with it. And before you could even release a tensed breath, your husband had already moved to latch his lips on your cunt, an open mouthed kiss that left a loud, indecent smack.

  He ignored your surprised yelp and continued to prod with the tip of his tongue, again and again, stoking the fire in your belly. He kissed the slick bundle of nerves as if it were your own mouth, tongue brushing sloppily, sweeping across and drawing out moans from you. The soft, gentle pursing of his lips betrayed by the way he grabbed your ass, blunt nails digging into both cheeks until it hurt, restraining your bucking hips and bringing you into his mouth like you could not be any nearer, when you could already feel his nose flattened against your cunt, cutting himself off from air just to breathe you in and savor you. 

  You wanted to say something. A hasty command for him to stop. Everything was happening too fast for comfort and you were going to lose your head anytime soon if you didn't cease grinding into his mouth.

  "Wai-" you moaned, shivering when he brought up a finger to tease your hole, dripping thickly as he stroked languidly. "St-stop."

  He slipped a digit inside, then two, still devouring you, all lips and tongue and just the barest hint of teeth. And this madness had to be put to a halt. You couldn’t muster to register anything beyond his hands all over you, his mouth, his low groans, him. You didn’t think.

  You yanked him by his hair.

  Thunderclouds in your fist, dark gray and angry, the gravity of what you are doing falls upon you and makes you buckle in his hold. 

  You are taking part in this act. 

  You are no longer the abducted bride who remains voiceless as an act of retaliation during a coupling. No god can punish you, you finally accept, not here, and there is no longer any need for you to stifle the urge to cry for fear of another beating. You are not on your knees, begging. 

  In fact, it is Death who is.

  His mouth surrendered without a fight. Your thumb found its way on his lower lip, and he immediately opened to suck as you rubbed the wet flesh, his eyes telling you that in the grand pantheon of gods there is none higher and none more worthy of devotion than the one in front of him.

  This great, incomparable, and immovable creature— an enigma to both the impermanent and the eternal, has thrown himself at your feet. There's a part of you that is waiting for the curtain to lift. Soon, laughter will ensue at your expense because only a fool could ever manage to conjure the thought. Let alone consider its possibility.

  But it is there. 

  It is true. 

  Death is yours to do with what you will. 

  Always has been. 

  “Stick out your tongue,” you whispered.

  And he did.

  With unsteady limbs, you inched closer and rubbed your throbbing clit on his stiff, waiting tongue, back and forth, back and forth, keeping a sluggish rhythm that has the spit pooling in his mouth. 

  You released a thick, dissipated curse, the one that you often hear among mortals in the shadows during revelries. “Fuck,” you moaned, half expecting the stinging bite of your mother’s belt. It did not come. You could only laugh.

  Filthy. Filthy. You are filthy.

  “Don’t move,” you hissed at him.

  And he did not.

  “Don't touch me,” you huffed as you rolled your hips, slinging your leg over his shoulder. You swore you heard him whimper as you grabbed his head with both hands. 

  You could tell that he was itching for it, the feel of your waist, your ass. He wanted to reach up and grab your tits. Oh, he looked pitiful. How he'd give anything just to touch you and make you feel good. 

  “Are you mine?” you asked, stripping your husband with your foot, tactless, his robe caught between your toes. "Do you promise?"

  Kita nodded without hesitation and you smiled. 

  "Go on then," you told him, guiding his hands to your breasts, your fingers hastily intertwined with his. You whimpered as he started fondling and pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

  You're so close. 

  You cried out when he flicked his tongue hurriedly against your sopping clit, drool spilling down his jaw as you swivel your cunt harder. He picked up his pace, his tongue moving faster and faster the more desperately breathless and shameless you screamed his name.

  That familiar sensation that he introduced to you approached like a storm. The anticipation for that flash of hot light that seizes your entire body is exquisite now. Not numbed by indignity or by the fact that he'd taken you without your consent.

  This time you welcome it, letting the tides crash and drag you along with it.

  But because he's Kita and he's your husband, he immediately grabbed your thigh, mooring you to him, his other hand supporting your back in order to keep you from falling once you were finally reduced into spasms. 

  He caught you.

  He carried you and kept you safe back on his lap after you came and your limbs had gone boneless. You stayed there in his embrace, eyes closed and feeling his chest rise and fall like he’d been running for miles.

  So human.

  So unlike him.

  “We can always make another one, you know,” he suddenly spoke. 

  You looked at him, at that pallid face now beaming with sweat and a spark in his piercing gaze, a certain recklessness in them. 

  In this light, mussed hair and all, you could almost believe that he was only some farm boy who’d promised himself to the neighbor’s daughter, flowers in hand with a kiss and a song to give despite her mother’s objections, naively courageous in a way that only the youth can be. 

  It made your heart ache. 

  His hand brushed against your stomach and you became aware of the fact that something hard had been poking your wet quim. 

  He eased you into his cock with a gentle glide of his hips, the meaty girth just barely entering as he tells you, “You apologize for far too many things.”

  “We have all eternity to make amends,” he said and you shook terribly when the tip brushed under your sensitive clit. “And to make another child.” 

  At this, he entered you with a grunt, laying your back on the ruined futon while you’re twitching and squeezing down on his cock. He wrapped your legs around his waist and raised your ass with his hands, keeping his seed from leaking out of your cunt as he thrusted.

  Kita was a vision above you. 

  Death the God, your husband, eyes closed and brows knitted together as he fucked you, cheeks as red as the painted spider lilies framing his beautiful face.

  (You were a daughter once. A wife now. A mother soon.)

  (You will never be your own.)

  You were on the verge of passing out, pleasure tingling your nerves in a low simmer, and you can hear it.

  Hear them.

  The sound of feet thumping against the earth in a merry dance, the joy of drunkenness, lovers giggling among themselves.

  You threw your arms around your husband's neck, his body sweating and panting. Enclosing him in your weak embrace, you grinned to yourself, weary but enraptured, as they sang the song of sweet, sweet spring coming home.

The funeral bells are a divine order as much as they are a ritual. 

  When tolled, it means that respect must immediately be paid to the dead, and mourners and strangers alike have to set aside their grief in their little snot rags, no matter how keenly they feel it, and march to say their farewells to the one who used to walk among them. 

  The funeral bells did not ring for this one mortal, Kita observed, because no one mourns those who defied the Lady Harvest. 

  What’s left of her home had already gone up in smoke. 

  Her remains were among the ashes that covered the small plot of land. 

  A seamstress. Orphaned too early. Clever, as she had managed to survive all twenty and four years of her life with only hard work and an eye for colors.

  Clever.

  Clever did not suffice.

  She ought to have been wise, and capable of knowing her place. The youngest princess had already been betrothed to a pious maiden, one that was favored by the Lady Harvest, no less. That wasn’t much of a problem. Not really. Not to gods. Many a lowly mortal has fallen for someone above their station. 

  A seamstress who deemed herself worthy for the princess's love was no different from a boy who believed that his wings were all that he needed to get himself close to the sun. The boy's wings were made of wax. The heart of a poor seamstress was no match against the goddess of harvest. 

  This story has been told countless times before. The beginnings change, and so do the names, but ultimately they all end the same.

  Kita remained among the tall brambles, out of reach from what the fire had devastated, as he watched you, back towards him and bare feet on ruins. You hadn’t stirred for quite a while, so it was with curiosity that he stayed to see why you’d suddenly bent on one knee.

  In the blink of an eye, spider lilies sprouted out of the soil. Kita has no other way to describe it, only that with the flick of your wrist the world became new. 

  Like dusting the earth clean. No more ashes and grief and the sharp regrets of those left behind. Only the bright, vibrant hue of red, red, red. 

  Kita looked down at the flowers brushing against his cloak, pointing to where you stood, and followed. He stayed behind you but did not call to your attention.

  “She doused herself in oil,” you said. “Burned everything.”

  He knew that. He let you continue anyway. 

  “Where will she go?” 

  You looked back at him.

  “Where did she go, my Lord?”

  You’d been talking to him. 

  “You know me,” he replied, a little late and a little shaken.

  “How could I not?” You shrugged weakly. “I’m always there when they come into this world, it seems only right that I’m also there when they leave. And you are," you chuckled, “punctual, to say the least.”

  You’d been watching him.

  “I see you, you know. All the time.”

  The breeze was cool as it danced with his hair and Kita had the odd urge to cry. 

  "I like it when you talk to them. You don't have to, don't you? But you still do. You are very good, my Lord." 

  He should say that it was necessary. It had nothing to do with being good. He wasn’t. He does it everyday because that is just what it is. It matters not that he is perceived as good. It matters not that someone else regards it for the valuable work that it is. It matters not that, for once, someone understands. 

  “You still haven’t answered me,” you told him. “Where did she go?”

  You are every bit the Spring that they make songs about. He felt the need to cower at the sight of you, but like a child urged to play outside by the field of flowers and balmy weather, Kita stepped closer. 

  “It depends,” he said. 

  You rolled your eyes and threw your hands up, as if surrendering begrudgingly.

  “I’ve had enough of riddles! I’m sick of bending over backwards, my Lord! Why can’t you just say what you mean!?”

  You are infuriated. Of course you are. This death has upset you. They care for you deeply because you care for them just as much. And to know them is to know him. And to love them is to—

  Tears had sprung from your eyes. Kita wanted to wipe them.

  “Oh, my Lord, forgive me! I didn’t mean-” 

  He hadn’t even moved yet. Moreover, what he was planning to do certainly didn’t warrant raised arms, face covered, as if you were protecting yourself from him. Kita was not going to hurt you. But it seems that someone already had.

  Bruises marred your skin. Some fresh gashes on your elbows. Too small and too precise to have been caused by a slip up while doing chores. There were a number of them that they cannot be attributed to a clumsy nature either. 

  “Who did this to you?” 

  In truth, Kita needed not ask. He’d once almost crossed paths with that infamous wrath of the Lady Harvest. He is familiar with her proclivity for lessons that must be imparted with an iron fist. The difference between you and him is that he’s Death. You are simply her daughter. A lesser entity to one pillar that held the universe together. And so you are the one who’d ended up like this: afraid and beaten. 

  He should’ve been watching hard enough.

  “Who did this to you, Spring?”

  You had to say it with your own mouth. “N-no one,” you mumbled. He wondered then why you’d gotten them. Spring has not faltered, not once. You are obedient to the whims of the Lady. Does it have something to do with caring for a harlot? What about mourning for a foolishly mutinous woman with a field of red spider lilies? 

  “I have to go my Lord,” you panted, scampering to remove yourself from his presence.

  If he lets you, will you come back with another welt on your leg? 

  Worse. Kita knew that nothing would be left of you, when all is said and done. Unless, Kita thought, he had you all to himself. 

  None of them would protect you. None of them will take you from him. 

  None of them can.

  Kita was upon you before you knew it.

  You fought as he held you down. And he could’ve reasoned with you had you not tried to kick and scratch his face, that all of this is simply a natural turn of events, the same way one weeps in birth and in death. Your paths have always been locked to one another, he felt it in his very being as you bled and howled for mercy. Perhaps he’d been blind to it then, but just as he was meant to do this, you’ll learn soon enough that this, too, is your lot in life.

[youreyeslookliketheocean]

Watch Me

art by @chewwypepsicola (viewable on twitter with the link above)

ao3 link

In the mad scramble to get away from Dream, Tommy had lost his bandana.

It’d been through a lot. It was tattered and torn, frayed at the corners, and there was a stain of something—maybe milk?—on the back. Over the years the forest green fabric had lost its rigid newness and gone soft, sliding fuzzy and tender beneath Tommy’s scarred fingertips. At some point during Pogtopia, when he was learning to sew, he’d stitched Tubbo’s name into one corner with blue thread. It was the color of l’manberg uniforms; the only color he’d had.

The stitching was awkward and haphazardly done. When he’d finished, Tubbo’s name looked more like “TVBDO”—a weird combination of jagged letters. But it was a little piece of Before—before the wars, before the fighting—and to Tommy it was like a piece of home. It felt like safety tucked under scarred and war-torn hands. A security blanket he’d somehow managed to bring with him through all his trials and tribulations. He didn’t know how it’d survived.

Then again, he’d survived. Somehow.

“Oh Tommyyyyy!”

Tommy struggled frantically with the knot on the back of the bandana. Dream kept using it to tug him backwards, like a dog on a leash. Tommy was not a dog. No matter what Dream said this time, he would not heel.

“Please!” he cried out, stumbling over a rock that jutted from the prairie’s earth. “Leave me alone!”

He needed to get out of here. This area was too flat, too open.

Spotting a tiny cliff and the distant shimmer of snow to his left, Tommy switched directions. His feet slammed against grass as he ran, his heart pounding faster and louder than he could ever remember it doing before. Actually, scratch that. He could remember it pounding louder only once—the time he’d trapped himself on top of a dirt block tower, seven hundred fifty feet in the air. He’d been scared, then. Terrified. Because as much as death had sounded like the better option then, some part of him still hadn’t wanted to die. He supposed it was the stubborn bit. The bit that clutched the bandana around his neck and thought back to Before.

Tommy heard the “vwoop!” of an Ender Pearl behind him, and instinctively leapt left, dodging Dream’s teleport just in time.

“Stop it!” he screamed, voice hoarse. “You’ve done enough to me, Dream! You’ve done enough! Please!”

“Oh Tommyyyy!” Dream repeated, louder. “Come here, Tommy! You’re going to pay for putting me in that prison! You’re all alone out here! It’s just like exile! Except, this time, you’re not getting out!”

Something grazed the back of Tommy’s bandana again, and he shrieked, yanking himself away. Dream cackled behind him.

“Come onnnn, Tommy! I thought we were friends!”

The tiny ledge up ahead was closer. He was almost there, almost to the snow. Just past it, a white-capped mountain crested the sky. Hidden behind it, Tommy knew, was Technoblade and Philza’s cabin.

He knew they wouldn’t want him there. They might not even protect him. But where else was he supposed to go? He couldn’t keep running much longer. Past the ledge was another snowy hill he could probably jump to. Then, if he scrambled over the side fast enough, he could potentially lose Dream just long enough for him to make it to Techno’s gate.

“We were never friends!” Tommy spat, picking up speed as he prepared to jump. “You wanted me to die! You were just waiting for it, like the sick, sadistic bastard you fuckin’ are! All you came to do was watch me!”

Watch me scramble for your appreciation. Watch me wake up drowning. Watch my hands, cracked and broken, bleed while mining ore. Watch me sob into your shoulder. Watch me eat rotted flesh. Watch me tower up. Watch me jump down.

He’d only come to watch.

Watch me jump now, bitch, Tommy thought to himself. He took a running bound forward, pressed the ball of his foot flat into the ground, sprung upward, and—

Something tugged on his neck, abruptly snagging him backwards for half a second before the pressure disappeared. Tommy, unprepared for the jolt, startled and missed his jump. He tumbled to the ground below, hands and knees sinking into snowy ground as he tried to catch himself. When he stood back up, because he always stood back up, the wind prickled at the back of his neck. Something was missing.

He whirled around. Dream stood on the ledge above him, Tommy’s green bandana clutched between his hands. Dream held it up, letting it wave in the arctic wind like a pitiful, milk-stained flag.

“You missed that jump,” he said.

For a second, neither of them moved. Tommy stared as the last piece of himself wavered in the wind, threatening to fly away.

He couldn’t keep running forever. He couldn’t keep living in fear like this forever. One day, he was going to have to do something about it, and his options were severely limited. But was the answer really one hundred and fifty seven blocks high? Tommy didn’t think so.

“Fuck you,” Tommy whispered, shaking his head slowly as tears bubbled in his vision. “Fuck you. You won’t kill me. Not this time.”

A smile, slow and crooked, spread across Dream’s face.

“Watch me.”

[agwitow]

Alpha Wolves

content warning: swearing, mild violence

Marcus yawned, his jaw cracking, and shook out his pants. It had been a long night, helping two pups with their first change. They were already packed into their parents’ SUVs, fast asleep, and on the way to their homes. In a few months they would be good to join a pack. It wasn’t always as simple with new shifters, but those two each had a parent who was one as well. Even at eight and ten, they knew a fair amount of what it meant to be a lycanthrope.

Dressed in sweats and a light cotton long-sleeved shirt, he ran a hand over his jaw and sighed. Full moon changes always made his hair grow. Even though he’d been clean-shaven before the change, he had what felt like two-days of growth now. Shaggy hair didn’t bother him nearly as much as a beard did, though by the end of the three days he’d need to get that trimmed as well.

He padded barefoot into the little cabin that served as his base of operations while helping new shifters and started a pot of coffee brewing. He hated the stuff, but it would be at least a couple hours before he could head home to sleep, so he needed something to keep him awake.

While it percolated, he checked his phone. Three emails from work, two from the pack, and some spam. He’d just opened the first email when the phone rang.

“Porter Consulting.”

“Mr. Porter, it’s Deputy Palerma from the EKSD,” a male with a pleasant tenor said.

East Keddol was a small town several miles from Hapburgh, the city Marcus lived and worked in. It was in the interesting position of being almost perfectly between Hapburgh pack territory and Redview pack territory. Surprisingly few places fell into the odd in-between spaces between packs, and, as far as he knew, no one had developed any specific protocols for dealing with them.

“How can I help you today, Deputy?”

“We have a shifter—twenty-three-year-old male—who attacked his friends when he shifted for the first time. Miss Davidson recommended I call you.”

Kaelyn Davidson did for the Redview pack what Marcus did for the Hapburgh one. She was, if he remembered correctly, also a month or two out from giving birth. Handling an adult shifter who’d already hurt people was probably not high on her list of ways to spend her time.

“I see. Is your new shifter awake?”

“No. We had to hit him with a tranq to be able to bring him in. He’s changed back, but hasn’t woken up yet.”

Marcus snorted. Safety Departments were, mostly, better than the old police system, but sometimes they were still a little too trigger happy. At least it was a tranquilizer dart instead of a clip of bullets. “I’ll send someone to pick him up. He’s going to wake up before they get there, and he’s going to be cranky and hungry.”

“I’ve taken the class on shifters, Mr. Porter,” Deputy Palerma said, sounding offended. “There is a post-shift recovery kit in the fridge.”

He stifled a sighed. “If that’s all you have, that’s fine, but it would be better if the new shifter could get freshly made food. Eggs, nuts, oats, cottage cheese or Greek yogurt, and pumpkin seeds are best. Avoid meat, if possible, especially red meat.”

“I thought shifters need protein the morning after?”

“We do, and the foods I listed are all high protein items. New shifters can find meats to be… an issue at first. As I’m not able to speak with your young man at present, it’s better to be cautious.”

There was a moment of silence on the line before Palerma said, “Alright. Who will be coming, and when should we expect them?”

“It’ll depend on who is free.”

“Can’t you just tell someone to do it? You’re the alpha, aren’t you?”

Marcus had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning. That damn study from the 40s. “That’s not quite how things work. All pack members have proper ID.”

“Fine,” he said, the word ending with an annoyed click of his tongue.

“Thank you. Someone will be there between 10:30 and noon.”

Once they’d said their farewells, Marcus sent out a quick message through the pack’s group chat.

New shifter, East Keddol holding, possible alpha complex. Any takers?

He set the phone down and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding enough cream and sugar to make it mostly palatable, before settling on a stool at the tiny kitchen’s bar-height table. He’d drunk half the cup before a chime indicated he’d gotten a response. Two more chimes rang out before he’d picked the phone back up.

Eddie: I’m free but never handled an alpha complex b4 wdin2k?

Ksenia: lol take a muzzle

Julianne: y can’t the Reds take em?

Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighed, and replied: Kaelyn’s 8 mo. Pregnant. Take the green SUV, put him in the back, and keep the divider up.

Eddie: is it that dangerous?

Thomas: alpha-complexers are just assholes

Julianne: TOM! There are CHILDREN in this chat

Thomas: no regrets!

Marcus temporarily turned notifications off for the group chat, replied to the most important of the work emails, set up reminders for the other two, then headed for the cabin’s futon. By the time he’d make it to his apartment in the city, he’d barely have any time to sleep before he’d need to head back out to meet the new shifter. So he’d nap on the futon and feel stiff for most of the afternoon.

#

A little after 2pm, the rumbling and crunch of a vehicle coming up the gravel drive to the cabin announced the arrival of Eddie and the new shifter. Marcus set aside his laptop and headed out to the porch to greet them. He was still barefoot and wearing sweats and the long-sleeved shirt, but he’d run a trimmer through the beard so he felt less like a back-woods mountain man.

The car had barely come to a complete stop before the back door opened and a young man stepped out with a glower. He was around average height, with enough muscle mass to indicate he worked out at least somewhat regularly. Dark blond hair hung to his shoulders and a thick beard wrapped his jaw—though whether that was a stylistic choice or the moon driven change accelerating his hair growth even more than it did for Marcus was unclear.

“You Marcus?” the young man demanded.

He raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and leaned against one of the porch supports. “I am. And you are?”

“Joseph.”

He nodded and shifted his gaze to Eddie, who’d stepped around to the front of the SUV. “How was the drive?”

Eddie shrugged, his gaze darting to Joseph and then away. “S’okay. Wouldn’t want to do it again, though.”

“Don’t blame you. Thanks for doing it, though. See you next week for a run, okay?”

His shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “Of course. Later, Marcus.”

Joseph scoffed. “Like he would be any good.”

Marcus shook his head and stepped down off the porch. He was a little shorter than the new shifter, though broader in the shoulders and with more muscle mass. “You will respect each and every member of our pack, or you’ll be sent to Palstead Institution. It is not a pleasant introduction to being a shifter.”

“Whatever, man. Just give me whatever stupid speech you’ve got so I can challenge you.”

“There will be no ‘challenging’ here.”

“Fuck that. I ain’t no submissive bitch.”

“What you do or don’t do in the bedroom has no relevance to this situation.”

Red flooded Joseph’s face a moment before he took a swing at Marcus. He’d obviously had a little bit of training, but the movement was still too big to be truly effective.

Marcus side-stepped and twisted a little so that he had more leverage as he placed a palm against Joseph’s arm and pushed. It wasn’t a big push, but the kid had overextended himself and it knocked him off balance enough to make him stumble. He took a step back and waited for the next attack he knew would be coming.

Joseph didn’t disappoint. He came up swinging wildly, rushing toward him as if he couldn’t decide whether to beat his face in or tackle him to the ground.

Marcus calmly deflected each blow, leading Joseph in a circle as he side-stepped and backed away from the attacks. Less than a minute later, Jospeh was panting and struggling to even come close to landing any blows.

“Have you finished with your temper tantrum, yet?” Marcus asked.

Joseph glared at him but stopped, bending over with hands on knees as he panted.

“You seem to be under the misunderstanding that pack members fight each other. Different packs rarely even fight each other.”

“How…how do you know who’s alpha, then?”

“There is no ‘alpha.’ Not the way you’re thinking, anyway.”

“What?”

Marcus sighed and took a seat on the ground. The grass was soft and, thanks to a sunny morning, contained no hint of dampness. After a moment’s hesitation, Joseph slumped down as well. “Pack is family. Would you pick a fight with your dad to try and take over the family?”

“No…”

He shrugged. “Picking a fight with a pack member makes about as much sense. We each have a role to play, and that role is based on our skills and personality and knowledge. Not on who we’re able to beat up.”

“Aren’t we wolves? At least partly?”

“Yes. And that’s how wolves behave.”

Joseph stared at him blankly.

He sighed again. “Come inside. I’ll make you a tuna sandwich and you can read one of the brochures.”

Joseph followed him inside, silent, but with a simmering edge of anger beneath his exhaustion. Once the full moon was over and the forced changes weren’t sapping his energy, he would be a real pain in the ass if Marcus couldn’t nip the problem in the bud.

“Here,” he said, picking up a glossy tri-fold and handing it over. “Have a seat. Read. I’ll make the sandwiches.”

He settled onto a stool, shoulders hunched and brows drawn. “Why Alpha-Dog Theory is BS,” he read. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” Marcus replied. “Some of the pack wanted to title it It’s Not Your Inner Wolf, You’re Just an Asshole, but that seemed a bit confrontational.”

“… Oh.”

“Mhm.”

(Moon-Bound - part 2)

If you enjoyed this, you might be interested in my published work, which can be found at: Prairie Owl Publishing ♦ Amazon♦ Kobo♦ Chapters/Indigo♦ Barnes & Noble ♦ Thriftbooks

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You can also support me by ‘buying me a coffee’

[clansocreations]

4 & 15 💜

4: Which sections of a bookstore do you browse?

I usually go through to the shelf with the English language books immediately and on my way out I look at the Krimis in the front. Tbh though I'm not in the bookstore all that much because the library is like. One street over.

15: Recommend a book.

i will literally never shut up about this one

This is where my story begins. It tells how I came into possession of The Bloody Book and acquired the Orm. It’s not a story for people with thin skins and weak nerves, whom I would advise to replace this book on the pile at once and slink off to the children’s section. Shoo! Begone, you cry-babies and quaffers of camomile tea, you wimps and softies! This book tells of a place where reading is still a genuine adventure, and by adventure I mean the old-fashioned definition of the word that appears in the Zamonian Dictionary: ‘A daring enterprise undertaken in a spirit of curiosity or temerity, it is potentially life-threatening, harbours unforeseeable dangers and sometimes proves fatal.’

  Yes, I speak of a place where reading can drive people insane. Where books may injure and poison them - indeed, even kill them. Only those who are thoroughly prepared to take such risks in order to read this book - only those willing to hazard their lives in so doing - should accompany me to the next paragraph. The remainder I congratulate on their wise but yellow-bellied decision to stay behind. Farewell, you cowards! I wish you a long and boring life, and, on that note, bid you goodbye!

So . . . Having probably reduced my readers to a tiny band of reckless souls at the very outset, I should like to bid the rest of you a hearty welcome. Greetings, my intrepid friends, you’re cut from the cloth of which true adventurers are made! Let us waste no more time and set out at once on our journey. For it is a journey on which we’re embarking, a journey to Bookholm, the City of Dreaming Books. Tie your shoelaces good and tight, because our route will take us first across a vast expanse of rugged, stony terrain, then across a monotonous stretch of prairie where the grass is dense, waist-high and razor-sharp, and finally - along gloomy, labyrinthine, perilous passages - deep into the bowels of the earth. I cannot predict how many of us will return. I can only urge you never to lose heart whatever befalls us.

  And don’t say I didn’t warn you!

This is how my favorite book begins. The first time I read these two paragraphs I was like "you can't scare me off, bitch" and I have never regretted my decision even once.

As you can see, it's originally in German but it's translated amazingly well and doesn't lose much in humor or flavor at all.

This is where my story begins is an important sentence in "The City of Dreaming Books".

I will quote one sentence from this text, namely, the one with which it ended. It was also the sentence which finally dissolved the writer’s block that had inhibited the author from starting work. I have since used it whenever I myself have been gripped by fear of the blank sheet in front of me. It is infallible, and its effect is always the same: the knot unravels and a stream of words gushes out on to the virgin paper. It acts like a magic spell and I sometimes fancy it really is one. But, even if it isn’t the work of a sorcerer, it is certainly the most brilliant sentence any writer has ever devised. It runs: ‘This is where my story begins.’

It's therefore quite a meaningful echo that this is the same sentence that starts his own writing debut after he has survived his "daring enterprise that sometimes proves fatal".

He wanted to find the person who had written that story, the best story he'd ever read, nay, the best story in total. In the end he ended up under Bookholm, nearly died a couple times and...well. That would be spoilers, wouldn't it?

As the name suggests this book is is a book about books, a story about stories and that shows in every aspect, from the worldbuilding to the plot.

Instead of going into the worldbuilding in detail, let me give you the general gist and show you a few of my favorite illustrations.

What's Zamonia?

Zamonia is an additional continent on Earth. After humans and fantasy species had a falling out (literally, a politician was shoved out of a window) those species all collectively moved to that one continent and gave humans the proverbial finger. That explains why fantasy creatures from every part of the world live there now. (With a twist though!)

Apart from City and it's sequel, a few other Zamonia novels have been translated into English

• The 13½ Lives of Captain Bluebear

•Rumo and his miraculous adventures

• The Alchemasters' Apprentice

What's Bookholm?

Bookholm is a city that is proficient in every part of the book industry from writing to printing to selling to reading to writing bad reviews. It smells like a very large secondhand bookshop. By the time of the sequel, most of the city's buildings are built of fossilized stone books. (They don't burn as easily and they're a cheap resource because there's so many of them)

Below the city are the so-called Catacombs where you can find both the rarest books and the most unspeakable dangers.

At the very bottom of that Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (that's the sequel btw) there is said to be the most terrifying horror of them all. They call him the Shadow king. Everyone knows him. Nobody knows anything about him....

Have I piqued your interest yet? Good! Because this book is absolutely and woefully underrated and I want to talk to someone about it without being afraid of spoiling the story for them! 😁

[applsauss]

Jump | War-tober #2

Description: A Training Jump. (Preview of my Joe Toye/Reader chapter fic titled ‘Lightning Bugs in July’)  

Fandom: Band of Brothers


Pairing: 
Joseph Toye/Reader

Word Count: 
1.1k+

Warning(s):  None.

The chop of the propellers vibrates through the thin hull of the plane and straight to your teeth. There is a bit of a ruckus as the guys tool around, trading fibs and jokes and scathing remarks. 

You roll your eyes at Penkala and Malarkey shouting over the sound of the engines, more interested in the hysterical way they try to get their points across than having actual conversation. Hubs is next to you, gnawing on a cardboard bread roll he snuck into his pocket right before you left. Joe Toye is at the other end of the plane blowing smoke. You wonder faintly if Flash Gordon would like the taste of Lucky Strikes the same way.

You are strapped down with all your machine gun; the stand, the gun, and enough ammo to tear through a jeep twice. It is like the weight of the Earth bearing down on you. You've jumped twice without the gear, and this is your first time buckled down with it, fixing to jump out of, as everyone back home puts it, 'a perfectly good aeroplane.'

The few of you that are loaded to the teeth with heavy equipment look absolutely ridiculous, and are pathetic trying to get around on their own. Malarkey had been bitching in your ear about how much the mortar unit weighed when you'd both watched Christenson, also loaded with his machine gun, take a step, list sideways, then collapse into a heap on the tarmac over by First Platoon. 

His arms were free and flailing around, but the rest of him was glued to the concrete, and it took three men to get him standing again. You'd laughed until it took three guys to load you into the plane, and Malarkey four, alongside a split lip after he tripped going up the stairs and caught himself with his face.

The light by the door turns red. Second Lieutenant Nixon's at the front of the plane. He stands, clips himself to the line, then gestures with both hands for the rest of you to stand as well. Liebgott and Rogers, who are sitting across from you, hoist you up to stand with them, and file into line with you. 

Nixon shouts something, but you can't hear him. He pats down the front of his harness, and you immediately begin checking Liebgott's equipment in front of you while Rogers jostles you around, checking yours. 

Nixon cups his ears and shouts once more. You stand, waiting for the tap on your shoulder, and are surprised regardless when Rogers shouts in your ear, "six okay!"

"Five okay!" you shout reflexively, smacking Liebgott's shoulder. 

The light turns green. 

Then you are out of the plane.

The force of the wind makes your eyes water, then dry. You squeeze them shut and hold onto your webbing tightly. 

One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand -- 

You scramble for the release on your chute, then pull it as hard as you can away from your body. The pilot chute flies out, you feel the tug, then the rest of your chute is dragged from its bag. Your entire body is yanked from free-fall. It knocks the wind out of you. You grunt loudly, grinding your teeth, then grasp the risers and for the first time, take in your surroundings.

It is an indescribable sight, hundreds of parachutes at the mercy of the east wind, floating to the ground like dandelion seeds stirred up by the breeze. You cannot tear your eyes away. It is like nothing else. 

You hit the ground harder than you had the last time you jumped and crumple straight away under the weight of your extra gear. Your parachute flares, and is pulled like a windsock in the direction of the wind, but thankfully it can barely muster enough strength to drag you along the ground, and you find it easier to cut yourself loose than it had been before.

You stare, star-fished in the grass, as parachutes continue to float to the ground, each one carrying a paratrooper. Then you begin tearing at all the buckles and straps keeping your gear tied down. You manage to pull the machine gun stand, which weighs nearly as much as the gun itself, off, and throw your regular rifle to the ground when you hear a grunt, then a string of bitten swears. 

Joe Toye is struggling to cut himself from his parachute, swamped by tall grass and tangled in weeds. He begins tumbling through the field as his parachute catches wind once more, and without thinking, you begin to slog over in his direction, weighed down by your machine gun still. 

"Joe!" you call out, and thankfully he is being dragged straight to you. You reach out to try and catch him, but the parachute whips into your face and he bowls right over you. 

"Fuck! Fuck! I'm sorry!" he grunts as you both hit the ground hard and roll till you're trapped inside the parachute. 

"Ow!"

"Shit!"

You're scrabbling for purchase on his harness as he's dragged over you. "Joe! Just -- Let me--!"

"I can't cut it loose--"

The wind whips the chute in another direction, but you're so thoroughly tangled inside it, weighed down by your damn machine gun, that it is unable to move you. Joe is still tied tight, however, something is tangled in his harness, and you fight to tug him loose. You lost your knife in the confusion, and begin searching for it in the folds of the chute until you realize Joe is on top of you and stiller than anything. 

You jerk your head up only to find him staring down at you, his face closer than it's ever been before. The wind stops and the parachute floats down around the two of you like a billowing sheet hanging on a clothesline in some movie set in the prairie, where the farm girl twirls her braids and the boy-next-door can't work up the courage to kiss her in the daylight. 

Joe Toye's eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, he's staring at your face, and his lips are set in a thin line. He’s got Flash Gordon’s jaw. You close your gaping mouth, then swallow thickly. Your face heats up to the point that you begin to worry he might be able to feel the heat radiating off it. 

You stare at his lips, and realize faintly that you want to kiss him. Why do you want to kiss him? -- But he's staring at you and you can't help but think that he might want to kiss you, too. 

He's looking at you. He's looking right at you, and for the first time, when you search his face for some sort of hint, you realize that he's got lightning bug eyes.

He wavers, sinking his face closer to yours, almost on accident. "Gunner," your name is pulled, broken, from his chest, and the sound startles you both. He jerks back up so he's sitting on his heels, tangled completely in the silk of the parachute, and you immediately shove the growing ball of angst deep inside your chest. 

It's not important.

Masterlist | War-tober Prompts | My Schedule

[pandjseetheworld]

Badlands Day

Wind Caves Tour

In the morning we headed back to the Wind Caves National Park. Below the remnant island of intact prairie sits Wind Cave, one of the longest and most complex caves in the world. Named for barometric winds at its entrance, this maze of passages is home to boxwork, a unique formation rarely found elsewhere.

We took the Natural Entrance Tour in the morning. It was a short hike but showed us a lot about this incredible dry cave. We entered the cave through a man-made entrance and journey through the middle level of the cave. Wind Cave's famous boxwork was abundant throughout this trip (see photo 3 below). Our guide was fantastic and told us about the caves origins and how it was found. At one point, she took us back into time by having us turn off all our lights and sit in the dark to see what the first explorers saw. Then she lit a candle so we have a better understanding of how they explored. It was a very eye opening experience and an extremely cool cave. Well worth a tour if you are in the area!!

Red Shirt Table Overlook

Red Shirt Table Overlook is an unassuming pull-off with one of the most breathtaking views of the Badlands. The geologic section here is near complete, providing one of the most colorful vistas in the park. This overlook lies in the Oglala Lakota county so you had to drive onto the reservation to get there. Without a sign or warning the pull off just takes your breath away. We met some

Badlands

The Badlands is unlike any other National park I have ever been to. You drive through miles of boring plains and farm land and then BAM you hit the Badlands. The rugged beauty of the Badlands draws visitors from around the world. These striking geologic deposits contain one of the world’s richest fossil beds. Ancient horses and rhinos once roamed here. The park’s 244,000 acres protect an expanse of mixed-grass prairie where bison, bighorn sheep, prairie dogs, and black-footed ferrets live today. We drove through the park stopping along the way to check out viewpoints and see the animals. We were the bad bitches in the Badlands and we loved every second of it!

Wall Drug

We finished our day at the iconic Wall Drug center in South Dakota. It’s this HuGe shopping center in the middle of no where. We cruised through the stores just window shopping and checking out all the strange stuff they sell. It was entertaining and very hokie. We topped the day off with a homemade donut that was highly recommended. It was pretty good!

[trust-me-i-just-get-weirder]

hi! just saw your post about cottagecore, and i just wanted to respond. the major criticism that has recently been targeted at cottagecore is not because it is something that girls like, and it is not criticizing teenage girls who like baking/planting/sustainability. it is criticism about the extremely white and colonial basis of cottagecore itself-- ideas such as moving to a forest and cultivating the land there. that idea is the same colonists had when they first moved out of europe (1/?)

and this idea hurts native people. there are also natives in europe, such as the sami people of scandinavia, crimean tartars or ukraine, samoyed and komi of russia, and romani people. local farmers in argentina and peru have talked about and complained about white people moving to their villiages to raise llamas and alpacas. @/antifamoshe has a great post about how the idea of cottagecore was used as wwii propaganda by the nazis and great britian. TLDR, people aren't opening criticizing (2/?)

cottagecore because it is something that girls like, which we have seen happen with vsco girls, but because the evnets that have happened in the last month people are taking steps to be anti-racist, and acknowledging the ideology and history behind cottagecore have hurt and continue to hurt marginalized groups. there is nothing wrong with gardening/sustainability/mushrooms, but there is something wrong with romanticizing colonialism. (3/3)

also if u want more resources of native lands/indigenous cultures/being critical just lemme know!! 

Thank you for getting in touch! I appreciate that you took the time to write all this. If I really hadn’t known where the original criticisms were coming from, it would be really helpful. 

My point with that post wasn’t that people are criticizing cottagecore solely because it’s popular with teenage girls. Obviously there are valid points to be made about colonial ideology in modern times. 

However, the way that I’ve seen people talking, criticism of cottagecore has gone a bit past the original critique. I’ve seen people linking unrelated instances of people being dumb near a farm with cottagecore, like it’s a generic term. I’ve seen people insulting “c*ttagecore dykes” without any reference to indigenous peoples. Sure, there is a justification for criticizing cottagecore, but is this reaction proportionate?

What I’m saying is this looks a lot like trends I’ve seen before. Are there valid reasons to criticize Twilight back in 2012? Yes, but that wasn’t what people were talking about. They were talking about dumb fangirls. Are there valid criticisms of kpop? Definitely, but more people talked about cringey horny stans than fetishization of Asian culture. Are there valid criticisms of cottagecore? Hell yes, but how long until more people are talking about “cottagecore bitches” than colonialism?

It seems to me like the open dislike of cottagecore, especially among those who have never actually interacted with or seen cottagecore content outside of criticism, is spreading a bit too fast for comfort. I can see the discussion moving further and further away from constructive critical thought and closer to snappy catchphrases and vague insults. And it seems like too much of a coincidence that this one too, like god knows how many fandoms that have been “cancelled”, is predominantly female. 

So basically, thanks! I understand where you’re coming from, and the argument is definitely valid! It just seems worrying to me how easy it was to get people on board with unapologetically hating teenage girls who post pictures of cherry pie and fields of prairie grass. 

[witharsenicsauce]

Chosen Stories From the War #15: Love, Friendship, Family

(Content Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of domestic violence and physical/emotional abuse)

Bhandasura stared into his reflection in the mirror. His blue eyes were sunken, his neck nearly broken and bruises blooming on his cheeks. Behind him, Camazotz was standing like a barricade against Abyzou’s unceasing wrath. He could feel his lovers battling between their minds, screaming at each other without saying anything.

In a moment of frustration, Abyzou grabbed one of her trinkets-a golden necklace in the shape of a star-and hurled it at Camazotz. It whizzed past his head and cracked the mirror Bhandasura was gazing into, just like the action cracked her wrist and she dropped to the floor, screaming.

“Well, now look what you have done!” Camazotz gloated above her.

“YOU SHUT UP!” She glared at him. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT!”

“How did I do this, Abyzou? Did I make you attack Bhanda? You did that, all by yourself.”

“Curse you!” Abyzou straightened up, getting into Camazotz’s face. “Curse the very day I met you!”

“And curse the day I fell for you!” Camazotz’s anger made Bhandasura shiver. “I wish you’d crawl into a hole like the leech you are!”

“You say that, but come the hours passing, you shall be begging for my bed again!” Abyzou hissed.

“Hush.” Bhandasura closed his eyes. “Both of you.”

“Stay out of this.” Camazotz snapped at him.

“Do I not get a say anymore?” Bhandasura drew himself up and turned to them. “Forget not that I, too, have the blood of a Madron. You cannot give me orders.”

To that, Abyzou actually relented, stepping back, while Camazotz drew closer to him. “Was it not I who stopped her from killing you, Bhanda? Are you going to side with her again like you always do?”

“No…” Bhandasura placed his icy hands on Camazotz’s bony shoulders. “Are you two forgetting that this is not simply a marriage, but a partnership?”

Both Abyzou and Camazotz were silent.

Bhandasura’s body heaved. “I could not imagine a world in which I live without either of you.” He reached for Abyzou’s broken wrist, cradling it gently. “When we hurt each other...we hurt ourselves.”

.

.

The red sand of Sedona, Arizona reflected back the light of the rising sun that painted the sky purple, green, blue and red. The Avenger had settled into a large prairie at the bottom of a ravine, resting her wings under the shade of old evergreen trees.

Malinalli took a deep breath of the early morning air, running her hands through her curly hair. “Ahhh! Smell that breeze!”

“It is lovely.” Dhar-Mon yawned, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Their boots clacked against the metal floor of the Avenger dock as they stepped out onto the prairie grass. Even this early in the morning, it was clear the day was brewing to be a hot one, and Dhar-Mon suddenly understood why Malinalli had woken him up this early.

She was bright eyed and bushy tailed, beckoning him to follow her towards a more forested area. “So, where should we go to train? Do we need a wide open space?”

“No, not yet.” He assured her. “I will start you with simple techniques.” He looked around. “A place to sit would be quite ideal.”

“Maybe some rocks or a patch of leaves.” Malinalli rushed forward into the trees lining the ravine, and Dhar-Mon had to jog to keep up with her. She seemed to move effortlessly over such difficult terrain.

“Are you certain you do not see combat?!” He shouted, and she ran back and took his hand, helping him up a steep rock.

“Sorry.” She chuckled.

“Do not leave me.” He meant to sound gruff, but the softness of his voice surprised him, and even moreso did the look she gave him.

“I’d never do that.” She cleared her throat. “Um, here’s a grassy patch! Lets sit here.”

They stopped under the partial shade of some trees, the sun of the prairie still beating on them from the side, but it was much more bearable now. Malinalli scooted forward, wide eyed with expectation.

He chuckled. “So what can I teach you, little phantom, that you do not already know?”

“How to use psionics would be a start.” She chuckled.

He thought for a moment. “To use psionics is to be in harmony with one’s own mind.” He held his hands out. “You humans have more power within just one cell than you truly know. All you must do is access it.”

���So anyone can learn it?” Malinalli asked as she took his hands.

“...Yes…” He said hesitantly. “But for some, it is easier.”

“Like having perfect pitch.”

He nodded. “You are...gifted.” He added. “This power comes naturally to you. Had you ever used it before we met?”

Malinalli thought for a moment, her eyes staring at the shadows on the ground. “...Not...in any way that was meaningful.”

“Define meaningful.”

She looked up.

“Perhaps you were using your gift.” He smiled. “You simply did not know it.”

Malinalli giggled. “Okay, Professor Madron. How about you show me how to read minds?”

“Read the thoughts of those who would be hidden?” He raised a brow. “How forward of you.”

“I figure I’ll at least be able to tell if Vicky is bitching behind my back again.” She chuckled jovially.

He smirked and took both of her hands. “Let us begin, then. Tell me what I am thinking.”

She faltered. “...Um...you’d rather be asleep right now?”

“Well, I had said that as we were leaving the ship.” He chuckled. “In your early days, you will not be able to enter an unwilling mind. Later I shall teach you how, if you desire, but that...is dangerous in and of itself.”

“But I can read a willing mind?” She asked.

“With sufficient practice.” He nodded. “Close your eyes, Malinalli.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of the fresh, green air, and after a moment he followed her.

.

.

Gur-Rai sauntered down the hall, towards the Avenger’s large, now open garage. Even in the early morning, people were beginning to rise, milling about with cups of coffee in hand. Some looked half-asleep, others looked like they’d just binged on one too many cups of liquid energy and were getting the jitters.

He heard the clatter of a wrench, and turned to see just the girl he was looking for. “Lily Shen.” He called.

She turned away from the tool cabinet, looking at him somewhat in shock. “Oh. Hi Darkstrider…” She smiled at him, but looked...nervous.

“How formal.” He chuckled. “Ready to go fix up a bike?”

“Yeah, I’m just looking for all the tools we’ll need.” She turned back to the cabinet. “Dirtbikes haven’t been used in a while, so I’m a little worried we won’t have all the parts for one.”

“Well, let’s burn that bridge when we get to it~” Gur-Rai clapped, and Lily seemed to flinch.

“Oh-kay.” She handed him a toolbox. “Well I’m ready when you are....”

He followed her down the hall, away from the garage and down a ladder towards a basement area right below, so close to the ground they were practically touching it. The workspace was dusty, but some parts had been brushed off recently, where Shen had been poking around. Some wires were laying near a puddle of spilled oil, and Gur-Rai kicked them away, lest they start a fire.

Shen made her way over to a corner, where a huge sheet covered a monstrous contraption, keeping it hidden from view. “God, no one’s touched this thing since…” She trailed off. “...It’s been at least 20 years.”

“Then this is a true relic.” Gur-Rai chuckled, taking a corner of the cloth. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Lily took hold of the other corner. “One, two, three!”

They yanked, and with a shower of dust, the tarp came flying off.

Shen made a face. “Yikes…”

Gur-Rai had to agree with her, it certainly was a yikes. It was basically a frame at this point, the casing lying on the ground, with wires sticking out from those pieces that were still hanging on for dear life.

“I’d imagined it would be…” Gur-Rai trailed off.

“Functional?”

“Bigger.”

Shen looked him up and down. “...Oh. Yeah…” She put her hands in her hips. “Well, since we basically have to rebuild this thing from scratch anyway, adjusting the pedals shouldn’t be too hard.” She knelt beside the bike. “God, where do we even start?”

“From the bottom.” Gur-Rai grabbed a wrench from the tool box. “That’s what I always do when face with a challenge~”

“I really hope you aren’t talking about sex.” Shen sighed.

“Lily, you wound me. I am a man of culture.” He winked.

“Mhm, sure.” She picked up a crowbar and began to yank the loose plates away from the frame. “I’ve heard the stories, Darkstrider, I think everyone has. You got around, even when the Elders had a hold on you.”

“What can I say? Humans are just too great a temptation.” He knelt beside her, getting to work on unscrewing some of the rusted bolts.

“Well, that’s not creepy at all.” Shen grumbled.

“It was all consensual, I assure you.”

The look she gave him made it clear she doubted his words, and his smile dropped.

“I may be an asshole, but I’m no monster, Lily.” He insisted.

“No monster, huh? What about all the people you killed?”

“With the Elders screaming at me in the back of my head, I really had no choice in that matter.” He sighed. “The most you can do is become numb to the killing after a while. But the passion of holding a living person…” He shook his head. “No. That’s special. That’s not something you force.”

She looked up at him silently for a moment. “...You ever been in love, Darkstrider?”

“Oh yes.” He nodded.

“For real?”

“Of course. There have been a few special ones.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Any of them tried to get you to quit ADVENT? Run off together like in the movies?”

He took a breath. “Hm...one did. The others; I think they wanted to.”

“Did you want to?”

“Lily.” He smirked. “If I didn’t want to leave the Elders, I wouldn’t be here. I would have done ANYTHING to get away from THEM.”

The casing clattered to the floor as Shen’s crowbar finally pried it free. “You really hated them that much?”

“Yes.” He tossed the rusty, useless screws over his shoulder.

“I’m certainly not objecting to that, but...how come you, of all people?”

He paused, his body involuntarily clenching up and his breath becoming caught in his chest. He swallowed and tried to smile, but to Shen he looked more nauseous. “They were shitty parents, let's say that.”

Shen nodded. “...Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He looked away, hoping she couldn’t see the look on his face.

“Well, hey, tell me about one of your lovers.” She said. “Anyone stick out in your mind?”

“Oh, that’s a toughie. They were all so wonderful.” He chuckled. “...Oh, I know. There was one woman, about...four years ago. Her name was Donna Hall.”

“Yeah? What was she like?”

He smiled wistfully. “She was incredible. Bright red hair, little button nose, and these deep brown eyes, sharp as an eagle. She could see anything, you know. Nothing got past her.” He was now only half-focused on the bike in front of him, his screwdriver hanging loose in his hand. “She was part of a tiny resistance group in Canada. They were taken out by ADVENT, and she and her little family were rounded up and brought to a torture facility.” He smiled. “And I just happened to be there that day, browsing the specimens.”

Shen raised a brow. 

“When she caught my eye, I knew that if ADVENT took her, they’d sand her down, wear away those beautiful features and make her a clone like all the others.” He added. “You’ll never find her name in ADVENT’s database, Lily, because I took her with me before they could even think of booking her.”

“So...you ‘saved’ her?” Shen emphasized that word.

“In a sense.”

“How noble. What’d you do with her after that?” Shen said in an accusatory tone, crossing her arms.

“I brought her to my stronghold.” He smirked. “Gave her a room.”

“That’s it? Really?” Shen’s lip was curled upward slightly.

“Really, Lily. Don’t you trust me? Actually, don’t answer that.” He chuckled. “I thought of probing her for info, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt that pretty mind. So I just...kept her around. We would talk. Eventually she started talking more. Laughing more. She opened up to me, and I to her...and every day, we would go hunting.”

Shen’s face softened. “Hunting?”

“Of course. She was a game hunter, and, well.” He gestured to himself. “What’s a name for, really?”

“What’d you guys hunt?”

“The Elders’ little pets.” He chuckled. “Chile had a large population of Chryssalids that had run off into the wild. And she LOVED hunting them…” His eyes grew distant. “The hours we spent out there felt like minutes...I think that was the first time I felt truly immortal…”

Shen nodded. “She does sound fun.”

“She gave me a run for my money more than once.” He laughed. “Lost more than one bet to her...and I spent more time in her room than I did in my own.” He stopped, his face growing very sad. “I really wanted to spend forever with her.”

Shen held the silence for a moment. “...Did she...die?”

He shook his head. “No, she didn’t die. I let her go.”

“You let her go?!”

“Yep.”

Shen blinked in utter disbelief. “Weren’t the Elders mad?”

“Technically the Elders didn’t know I had her.” He smirked, but it looked painful. “I knew they would find out sooner or later though, so I...turned her loose, so to speak.”

“And she just...left?”

“She always wanted to leave.” He chuckled. “She begged me to go with her, too, but...I knew it’d only be a matter of time. I still had my collar.” He tapped the back of his head, where the chip used to be. “The Elders would find us. She’d never be safe.”

“So you...let her walk away.”

“If you love something, set it free.” He nodded. “And to be honest, Lily, I don’t regret it. Because I just know she’s still out there, fucking up ADVENT’s day, and that’s all I ever wanted~”

.

.

Up at dawn, as usual, the Shrinemaiden clasped her hands and breathed in the still morning air. The windows of the Avenger filtered in the orange light of the rising sun, casting it in a rainbow across the floor of her bedroom. She felt peaceful.

Until there was a knock on her door.

Kon-Mai opened her eyes, blinking at the sudden disturbance. Neither of her brothers had the tendency to awaken as early as she did so it was unlikely it was one of them. Perhaps Tygan? Or Bradford?

The person knocked again, and Kon-Mai rose from her lotus position, made her way to the opposite end of the room, and slid the door open. “...Betos.”

“Mordenna.” Betos nodded, her face cold. “Or should I call you Shrinemaiden?”

Kon-Mai hesitated at the coldness in her voice. “Is there something I can do for you, Captain?”

“Yes, there is. I have a patrol I’d like you to join today.”

Kon-Mai cocked her head. “Is that an order?”

“...No.” Betos hesitated. “But it is a strong recommendation.”

“Does the Commander know about this?”

“She does.” Betos crossed her arms. “I told her of my intentions last night.”

Kon-Mai grimaced warily. Something was not right here, but...she WAS trying to earn Betos’ trust, was she not? “Will it just be us?”

“No.” Betos smiled, but it was more of a scowl. “My own team will be joining us.”

“What will we be doing?”

“Patrolling the perimeter.”

“I will need time to prepare.”

Betos sighed. “Meet me outside, by the small cliff face to the west of the prairie. Do not take long, I have many people waiting for you.”

Kon-Mai nodded, and Betos turned and left, leaving Kon-Mai standing there, bewildered.

.

.

With her spindly fingers, Abyzou picked up her amulet, the golden one shaped like a star. Her wrist was still sore and stiff, but handling the necklace carefully, turning it over and over, it felt warm against her cold skin, and gave her a bit of relief.

“I am sorry.” She whispered, to no one in particular, but a presence behind her alerted her as she finished speaking.

“Do not apologize, lau Mordenna.” Reue’s soft essence behind her made her startle, and Abyzou turned to look at the smaller, weaker, younger Elder.

“...It is only you?” Abyzou seemed to sigh, and reached out her gangly hands to the younger’s face. Her red-tipped fingers grazed fragile skin, and Reue’s scratches bled purple ichor.

“I came to help you.” Despite the injury dealt, she seemed to relax in Abyzou’s presence. “Do you need me…?”

“I always need you, Reue.” Abyzou crooned. “Come, help me from my robes.”

“You want me to...undress you, lau Mordenna?”

Abyzou could feel Reue’s fear, and it made her shiver with delight. The poor girl was so utterly useless. “Yes, I do. Now help me quickly, I want to rest.”

Gently, Reue used her own bony hands to untangle Abyzou’s lithe figure from her robes, lifting the helmet from her head so her skin might be free. The wispy cloth floated to the ground like petals on the wind, and Abyzou’s grey, unworldly form was revealed.

When Elder Abyzou looked at herself in the mirror, she saw not the daughter of Shamash, who carried the blood of kings, and not a mother of six children, three of whom were dead: but the weathered body of a corpse that should have stopped moving years ago. She saw a dead woman whose time was running short.

When Reue looked at Abyzou, she saw her queen, her Mordenna, the daughter of the sun and the woman who would lead them to immortality. 

“Do you think I am beautiful?” Abyzou asked her.

Reue froze. “...Of course, lau Mordenna.”

“But do you mean it?” Abyzou looked back at her, and as she turned, Reue could see scars across Abyzou’s stomach, angry and twisted.

She looked away. “Of course I do.”

“Of course you do.” Abyzou pressed one cold hand into Reue’s cheek. “You understand...” She turned away. “...Did you ever have children, Reue?”

Reue seized up at the painful question. “...Only one…”

“Only one.” Abyzou echoed. “Well then you did your duty, Reue. You must be proud of yourself.”

“Oh...I am.”

Abyzou seemed to hum. “Of course you are. As I am, for the ones who live.” She mused. “Even if they betray me, even if they forget me, they still live by the sweetness of my hand. It is my blood that runs within their veins.” She looked back at Reue. “Who was your child?”

“A girl.” Reue said softly, painfully. “Named Oxum-Loba.”

“What a beautiful name.” Abyzou ran her hand over one, prominent scar on her chest, in the shape of a circle. “Did you foster her yourself?”

“I did. We were poor, lau Mordenna, we had no one else.”

“That is admirable.” Abyzou clenched her fists and Reue could hear her joints cracking. “I fostered my first three children as well...and gave them everything I had.” Abyzou’s tone grew dark. “I gave them everything.”

“Of course you did.”

“And yet, they all abandoned me.” She hissed. “I am the mother of six children, Reue, three who exist beyond the void, and three who have died in treachery.”

“Kon-Mai is not dead, lau Mordenna.” Reue said hopefully. “Maybe she will come back to you.”

“Oh she will.” Abyzou growled. “She cannot ignore the gifts of her mother. She cannot abandon her family.” Abyzou turned away from Reue, moving back towards the coffin that was her bed. “She knows her calling.”

.

.

Malinalli’s mind was chaotic, blinding and dancing with luminous color. it felt like gazing into a supernova. Dhar-Mon was hit with a burst of heat, then light behind his eyes. He faltered for a bit and almost let go of her hands, but held on.

“Your first lesson…” He grunted out loud. “Never remove yourself suddenly from another’s mind. It could...hurt you very much.”

“Okay…” She held tight to his hands.

Dhar-Mon braced himself against the brightness yet again, only for it to flare and cause him to nearly buckle. “Your mind is very...active.”

“I’m sorry.” Malinalli said, and Dhar-Mon felt the light dim and the heat turn cool. “I guess I was excited…”

He chuckled, the swirls of blue and green now much more bearable to look at.

“So, what am I thinking?” Malinalli giggled.

Dhar-Mon stared into the cloud of colors for a moment, watching the patterns forming and twisting. “...You are…” He raised a brow. Now that the brilliance of her excitement had died, he could see the mists of her mind forming new messages. “You are not hopeful of your abilities. You believe you are setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Malinalli gasped and tried to pull away, but he held her hands firm.

“I am sorry. Don’t fret, I am here.” He took a deep breath, and saw anxiety join her thoughts. “You think I will be disappointed.”

He heard her whimper, and squeezed her hands gently. 

“I just…” She was anxious, her mind frantically searching for words.

“You still believe your powers are weak.” He chuckled. “Even though you brought me back from the dead?”

She was silent at that, and he saw the clouds in her mind grow dark.

“I am sorry.” He rubbed his fingers over her hand. “I say so to encourage you. You are capable of so much, little phantom.” 

“How can you be sure?”

He released his mind, letting his own muscles relax, letting her into his thoughts.

“What do I think?” He asked.

He felt her tremble. “I don’t know.”

“Look into my mind.” He said gently. He tried to make his own feelings as clear as possible. “What do you see?”

She was silent for a moment, but he could feel her slip into his own consciousness. “It’s...purple. No, blue…” She sniffled again. “And green. It’s very misty. I can’t see very well.”

“Those are patterns of thought, of feeling and emotion. The mind does not need language to communicate.” He tried to summon up a happy thought, though it was hard to think of one. Finally he settled: he imagined his sister beside him, her fingers tracing his hand, bushing his hair away from his eyes as he awoke to her smile. “Now. What do you see?”

“The mist is making a pillar...kind of. No...a box? A triangle?”

“What color is it?”

“It’s...bright. Warm colors, yellow and green are the two big ones.”

“That is the shape of happiness.” He smiled, taking a breath and bringing up another memory: his father Bhandasura, appearing before him like an apparition of doom, his hand outstretched as Dhar-Mon’s mind was torn asunder that fateful day.

“Oh my-!” Malinalli gasped. “It collapsed! It’s...like a puddle? No, like a claw!”

“That is despair.” Dhar-Mon felt his own voice trembling, and cleared his throat. “Now, when I think of you, what image do you see?” He focused on the feel of her hands in his, and remembered the first time he saw her face. He remembered her singing, sitting by the river. He remembered the touch of her hand, the light in her eyes when she smiled at him, the sun reflecting off her copper skin, her smile, the desperation to reach her, the warmth of her arms as he lay dying…

“Oh…!” She cried. “It’s...so beautiful!”

“What is it?”

“It’s...a flower. Blooming from a seashell. It explodes and...now it’s a star. And the sun. And...it keeps moving, pulsating, bigger and smaller. The seashell is still attached.”

Dhar-Mon hesitated, his heart racing.

“What does it mean?” She asked.

“Well…” He fumbled for the words. “...It’s trust and...admiration. It means that...I am fully confident in you, Malinalli.” He hoped she could not feel his uncertainty. It wasn’t technically a lie.

.

.

Kon-Mai stepped into the rising sunlight, out on the grass and sand of the Arizona prairie. The trees were sparse and the grass under her feet became sand as she grew closer to the shallow cliffs. Betos was nowhere to be found.

She looked back at the Avenger, which was still in sight, in fact she could see people moving in the windows. They waved to her occasionally. She waved back.

“So you did come.”

Kon-Mai gasped, whipping around in surprise. There stood Betos, alone.

“Of course I did.” Kon-Mai grumbled. 

“Hmph.” Betos still eyed her with suspicion, but she nodded and Kon-Mai took that as a good sign. “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“I have something to show you, Shrinemaiden.” Betos said her name with vexation.

“We are getting far from the ship.” She looked back at the Avenger as they began to climb the slight incline of the sandy hills.

“Yes.” Betos said. “It’s not far.”

Kon-Mai’s hand moved to the dagger in her belt, ensuring it was still there. It was.

The prairie grass turned to rocky desert and sand, as the ground beneath their feet began to slope upward more and more. Kon-Mai looked around at the disappearing vegetation. “Where is the patrol?”

“Ahead.” Betos said.

“Where are you taking me?” Kon-Mai demanded.

Betos stopped, looking back at the Chosen woman. “I sense you don’t trust me.”

Kon-Mai stood her ground. “You act suspicious.”

“It is you who I should be suspicious of.” Betos snapped. “And yet I am about to show you something sacred, Mordenna. You should hold your tongue, until you know how to use it.”

Kon-Mai growled but fell silent, following Betos across the cliffs. The Skirmisher woman hadn’t betrayed her yet, she supposed. She had no reason to think she would...

There were footsteps before them, and voices talking. She recognized the deep, throaty tones of Etheric, but the dialect was more twangy, spoken on the tongue.

“Savitr!” Betos called. “We have arrived.”

From behind the scrawny trees, three Skirmishers appeared, a man and two women, each in their haphazard armor, each with uncertainty in their eyes as they saw Kon-Mai.

Betos turned to Kon-Mai. “They will lead us to the village.”

“...Village?” Kon-Mai looked around. “What are you speaking of?”

“Betos, are you sure this is a good idea?” The man asked.

“I am.” She replied. “If you wish to earn your title, Shrinemaiden, you must witness not just the humans’ customs, but ours as well.” She nodded to the group and moved ahead of them, descending the red cliffs into the canyon below.

Kon-Mai bowed to them, humbling herself. “I am sorry. I didn’t realize we were going to your home…”

The male Skirmisher’s golden eyes followed her as she moved, and he held her gaze for several moments before he returned her bow.

“Follow me.” He nodded. “I am Savitr Vallinor.” He gestured to the women by his side. “These are my sisters, Nitocris, and Tanith.”

“I am Kon-Mai Mordenna.” She bowed to them. “Lead, and I shall follow.”

He turned his back on her, hesitantly, and led her down into the canyon.

.

.

“And then there was Alejandro.” Gur-Rai blew a whistle. “He had an 8-pack, a very sexy accent, and boy could he eat ass.”

Shen snorted as she laughed. “That’s so gross!”

“Hey, I don’t poop, remember?” He shrugged. “No reason it’d be gross!”

“Still!” Shen covered her face. “God! Okay, I’m done. Go on.”

“He and I went back and forth for a year, at least, maybe more. He lived in the city center as an insurance salesman-”

“ADVENT had insurance?”

“Technically they did. It was a worthless product from a company that was pretty much a government front, but the office was a great hookup spot~” Gur-Rai winked. “Sometimes I’d spend whole weeks over at his apartment. He’d cook for us, we’d chill, I’d lay around being a lazy ass, it kinda felt like we were married sometimes.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well.” Gur-Rai smiled sadly. “The Elders found out about he had some psionics in him and...spirited him away.”

“Oh...right the...missing civilians.” She sighed. “Do you know where they took him?”

“Lily, they’d never tell me.” He growled. “They knew about us…it’s why they took him.”

Shen sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Lily. Besides...It’s nice to remember all of them.” He stood up. “We’ve been making progress this whole time, haven’t we?”

Shen looked over her work. “I think that one combuster is still on the verge of exploding and the seat is way too low for you.”

“What time is it?” Gur-Rai asked, tossing the oil cloth over his shoulder.

“Um…” Shen checked her watch. “Quarter to 11. Wow, time really flew.”

“It does that when you have fun.” Gur-Rai extended his hand. “Care to join me for a beer?”

“Not if it’s a date, you aren’t my type.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged. “Really, I’d just hate to leave the conversation hanging. You’re a very fun person to talk to, Doctor Shen.”

She smiled and took his grip, pulling herself to her feet. “Fine then, I’ll come along and you can tell me all about the vipers.”

“Oh, looking are we?”

“Nope, but some of the soldiers won’t shut up about them.” She chuckled as they walked off. “I assume you’ve-”

“Oh, many times.” He chuckled. “So Lily, what IS your type?”

“Electroactive polymers.” She said.

.

.

Elder Kompira’s skilled fingers danced over the forge, molding the superheated metal without even laying a finger on it. It was literal magic, and spellbinding to all who witnessed it. Even the Higher Elders would stop by to watch Kompira work.

Camazotz stood in the archway, gazing upon the younger Elder with intrigue in his eyes as he watched Kompira work. “You have incredible hands, Dessurik.”

Kompira nodded. “Thank you, lau Madron.”

“Mind if I give it a try?” Camazotz drifted forward and leaned over the workbench, blocking Kompira’s view and forcing him to set the metal aside.

“Madron I...am not sure that’s a good idea.” Kompira’s aura was always soft and meek, even moreso than Reue’s, but it was also always calm. This kind of nervous sputtering his body was emitting was unlike him.

“Of course it is a good idea! It is MY idea!” Camazotz grabbed the metal, pulling it towards him in black and purple smoke.

“Please be careful, Madron, it’s very hot! You could burn yourself!” Kompira cried, his hands shaking as he tried to reach out and protect the Elder from his own foolish decision.

“Are you patronizing me?” Camazotz demanded. “I am your superior!”

Kompira faltered. “That is true, Madron, but I have been working with metals since the birth of Andromeda. It is a delicate process-”

“Do not think you know better than I, lowly Dessurik!” Camazotz snapped.

“Madron, I do this because I care about you!”

That, finally, made Camazotz stop, contemplating his next move. He turned his eyes on Kompira, amusement apparent in his face.

“Care about me?” Camazotz chuckled. “What a scandalous thing to say, Kompira. I am wedded, you know.”

“That is not my intention, Madron…” Kompira was shaking. “I care for you like I would family or…”

Camazotz cocked his head. “Or a friend?”

“Yes…” Kompira clasped his hands. “And as your friend, I cannot allow you to take your health so frivolously! You are too dear to me, to this cause!”

Camazotz nodded, and put the melted puddle of metal back in it’s rightful place within the forge. “Yes, Kompira.” He patted his subordinate’s cheek harshly. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

Kompira relaxed noticeably. “Yes, Madron, of course we are.”

“Good.” With barely a flick of his frail wrist, Camazotz dealt a sickening blow across Kompira’s face. The slap rang out through the smithery, echoing in the metal halls and knocking Kompira to the ground., where the Ethereal lay crumpled, gasping in pain.

Camazotz laced his fingers together and leaned over Kompira’s fallen form. “A true friend would never doubt me.”

.

.

The village was large, possibly larger than what could be considered a village. In fact, it looked more like a small town. Savitr led Kon-Mai in through the front gates, where several small clusters of Skirmishers were milling about, out of armor and attending to seemingly mundane tasks. 

The bright, hot sun of Arizona beat down upon them all, and Kon-Mai saw many of them were scarcely clothed, walking around in shorts with bare chests and minimal footwear. Even most of the women had done as the men did and ditched their shirts, opting to leave their chests exposed. Kon-Mai nearly reeled back at the sight, but stopped herself. Her own reaction drew a chuckle of amusement from her lips. In the face of their release from ADVENT, these people truly had found freedom, she supposed.

When the people saw her, they stopped what they were doing and stared at her, whispering to each other, keeping their distance. Some ran inside, closing the doors of buildings and slamming shutters. Some, in contrast, ran out to stare at her, as though she were…

An alien.

“Did they know I was coming?” Kon-Mai asked Savitr.

“They had known you left ADVENT.” He said. “However, many are...still hesitant.”

She nodded. She couldn’t blame them, after all. She even recognized some of them: she’d seen them in battle before. They were scared with cuts and lashes, and she recognized those marks. For she had made them

There was a commotion to her right, and a woman yelled out in broken Etheric “Ismene! Do not tagh nukju vau!”

There was a thump against Kon-Mai’s leg, and she looked down in bewilderment.

A very small Skirmisher stood at her feet. It looked up at her with huge, innocent yellow eyes, it’s head adorned with a red bow that was wrapped around it’s skull, matching the red jumper it wore.

“What...are you?” Kon-Mai murmured in shock.

Savitr turned to her. “What do you mean?”

Kon-Mai backed up a bit, and the small Skirmisher reached out and grabbed at her pants. “My name is Ismene!” It chirped in a small voice, scratchy like the others, but high and soft. “You are pretty, what is your name?”

Kon-Mai looked to Savitr, trembling. “Why is it so small? Is it deformed?”

He laughed. “No no, Mordenna. SHE is a child.”

Kon-Mai looked down at Ismene again, who was tapping her foot expectantly.

“Your kind can have children?” Her heart was racing, but she didn’t know why as she knelt before the child. “...Hello, little one...”

“Hi.” Ismene smiled wide, revealing a few missing teeth.

“How old are you...?” Kon-Mai felt a strange warmness filling her body as she spoke. The sight of this little one filled her with a feeling old and long forgotten, but so familiar.

Ismene held up nine of her fingers. “I am almost nine years old!” She said proudly.

“Nine years old…” Kon-Mai chuckled. “I am nine years old as well.”

Ismene blinked, then giggled. “No, you’re not!”

“Yes, I am.” Kon-Mai returned her bright smile. The child’s happiness was infectious.

“No, you’re not!” Ismene giggled. “You are too tall!”

“I am tall.” Kon-Mai chuckled. “Any you are very short~”

“I am not!” Ismene stomped her foot.

“Yes you are. I can barely see you from up here.” Kon-Mai giggled at her reaction.

“Well, when I get older, then I will be tall like you!”

Kon-Mai raised a brow. “As tall as me?” She rose to her full eight-foot height. “Are you certain?”

Ismene was not deterred. “Yep!”

“Isme, come here!” A Skirmisher woman rushed forward and pulled the child away, bowing her head. “Jx ez nuwun sewu, Mordenna!”

“Please, do not worry.” Kon-Mai answered in English. “She was causing no harm. In fact, she is a joyous child. It was…” She met Ismene’s gaze, and that warmth filled her chest again “...a joy to meet her.”

The woman looked up, shock and wonder written on her face as Kon-Mai bowed to her.

“Goodbye, Mordenna!” The little girl called after her, waving excitedly as she and Savitr walked away.

Kon-Mai drew close to him, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You are the remains of ADVENT soldiers, are you not? How can you bear children?”

He looked up at her, irritation his face. “Do not invoke ADVENT’s name here, it will not help your case.”

“I am sorry. But you did not answer me.”

He sighed. “I do not know how. When we began to settle down, some of the soldiers wished for companionship. And that companionship led to the birth of many children.” He looked around. “The oldest are now entering their teenage years, and will start seeing battle soon.”

Kon-Mai cringed at the idea of little Ismene going into battle, against an enemy that could crush her with a thought. She was too young to see such conflict. They were all too young to see such conflict.

“How old are the new soldiers?”

“Not nearly old enough.” Savitr sighed. “But we must do what we can to protect ourselves. We cannot rely on defectors forever.”

Kon-Mai wanted to ask why more did not just leave. Then she remembered it literally took her death to break her from the Elders’ hold. “...They will need training.”

“They will.” Savitr raised a brow at her.

“I can teach them the ways of a blade, if you wish.” Kon-Mai said, almost eagerly.

Savitr seemed to hesitate, as though that comment had made him uneasy. But when he met her eyes, his face softened. “You would offer that to us?”

“If they will have me.” She clasped her hands.

Savitr laid a hand over his chin. “I am not sure they would accept you...but those who did...could learn so much from you…” He nodded. “I will discuss it with Betos.”

She nodded and looked around. “Is there any other way I can help this place, in the meantime?”

“Help? Are you offering, Mordenna?”

“I am.” She flashed her teeth in a grin.

Savitr returned it with unease. “Simply patrol the parameters with me and my sisters.” He said. “With luck, we will not need to use that blade of yours.”

.

.

Their conversation was not with words, but with shapes, colors and mist. All around them, mist and motion, mist and motion.

Malinalli stepped forward through the deep curtains of mist in Dhar-Mon’s mind. It was different from before, when their minds had been as one, when they had been psionically bonded. She retained her own body, her own thoughts, but if she looked around she could see the shapes of his mind. His thoughts formed patterns and stories without words.

“What is that?” She asked, pointing to a tall, blue pillar of mist.

“That is...duty.” He said slowly. “My sense of conviction.”

“Ah. And the red?” She pointed to a red swirl around the bottom.

“That…” He thought for a moment. “What does it look like to you?”

She concentrated on it for a moment. “...Dhar-Mon, there’s something there…”

“What is-” He broke off as a shot of pain caused him to scream. He almost ripped his hands away but Malinalli held him.

“I’m so sorry!” She cried, backing away from it. “I didn’t mean-”

Dhar-Mon was in his own mind yet again. There was darkness, the mist retreating like the ocean before a tsunami. Then, a brief flash of light, and an image crossed his field of vision, but only for a moment. 

A child, with dusky skin, no more than a teenager at most, sat curled in the corner of a stark white room. He was thinner than a corpse, with patches of blue across his body where his usual dark skin was flaking and peeling off, and his hair lay around him in piles on the ground. His eyes were purple, and black where they should have been white…

Malinalli pulled him into her arms, and suddenly he was awake, conscious again. She was holding onto him, her arms around his neck as she trembled.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” He pulled her close. “No. That was not you.” He took a shaky breath, then let it out. “...I believe we should stop for today.”

“Okay.” She whispered into his neck, her face buried in his shoulder. “I’m sorry…”

“No.” He put his hand on her back and pulled her closer. “You made such progress today, little phantom. I am proud of you…” 

There was more he wanted to say, especially as she pulled away and looked him in the eyes with a smile as bright as the stars.

.

.

There was no time, down where they were. Yes, the days passed, but they could not see it. They slept for days or sometimes weeks, only to be awake again for a month.

Bhandasura was having one such bout of insomnia. He lowered his frigid body down onto the slab they called a bench, and tucked his robes around him. He hated this form, it’s limitations, it’s liability, and yet again he thought of all the ones he had known before who had ascended, leaving him behind.

“Bhanda?” A soft voice behind him said.

He sighed, cringing. “Please, Abyzou.”

He felt her move, shift to lift herself from her bed, and float over to him. “Are you still angry?”

Was he angry? He didn’t really know if “angry” described it. At the moment he simply felt sick. “Please, I do not wish to fight anymore.”

Abyzou hesitated.

“Why do you cause such grief, Abyzou?” He rose and turned to look at her. “Why do you do this to me?”

She seemed to draw back within herself. “I am so sorry, Bhanda.”

“How do I know you are sorry?” He demanded, his aura as cold as stone. Her silence left room for another, and he felt Camazotz enter the room.

“Bhanda, is she bothering you?”

“You are such a demagogue, Camazotz.” Bhandasura turned on him. “Both of you only think of yourselves.”

Camazotz looked as though he was about to turn on Abyzou, but Bhandasura had homed in on him and approached swiftly, getting in the face of the other Elder.

“You bring trouble with what you say, knowing Abyzou will react.” Bhandasura growled. “And then I get hurt. Do you know what that does to me?”

“I did not know Abyzou would…” Camazotz trailed off. “I am sorry, Bhanda.”

“You say you are, but you will do it again.” He slumped back over to their bed and lay his body upon the mattress of cold, iridescent liquid, glowing blue. “I doubt you mean what you say.”

“That is not true.” Camazotz scoffed. “Right, Abyzou?”

“Of course. I am always truthful to you, Bhanda.” She insisted.

“And yet how can I believe you?” He pressed a hand to his face. “How can I truly believe you still honor the vows you took to me?”

“Please, Bhandasura.” Camazotz fell to his knees beside the bed. “I will prove it to you.”

“As will I!” Abyzou fell beside him and gripped onto Camazotz. “We...we love you! And we love each other just as much!”

“I do not believe you.” His words rang in their minds and stung deeply.

“Tell us what to do then.” Camazotz reached for Bhandasura. “Tell us how we can…” He broke off as Bhandasura began to crawl forward, slithering like the Thin Men would, on gaunt arms and barely working legs.

“Show me.” Bhandasura pressed one hand to Camazotz’s cheek, and his own forehead to Abyzou’s. With a gentle push, he felt their minds open to him like parting water.

“I love you.” He whispered, pulling them towards the bed with him. “I love you both.”

.

.

Gur-Rai pulled off the welding mask and stepped back. “Would you look at that. I think she’s done, Lily.”

Shen followed his motions, blowing a whistle through her teeth. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I didn’t think we could pull it off. But this? This looks amazing!”

The bike’s blue casing glimmered in the setting sunlight. They’d somehow managed to fit it to be twice the size as before, Gur-Rai would have no trouble mounting it now. A high powered capacitor sat snugly in the front, and a turbo engine was tucked in the back. It looked like something out of TRON.

“With XCOM’s greatest engineers on the task? Don't be silly, Lily.” He chuckled. “This was child’s play~”

“Okay, okay, don’t hurt your back bending over to suck yourself.” Shen smirked. “But I’m flattered. Thanks.”

“Of course. I can’t wait to test it out once we’re on more even terrain.”

“Mind if I take her for a spin sometime?” Shen winked. “She is my baby too.”

“Go right ahead. I can co-parent like an adult.” Gur-Rai slapped her back and Shen stumbled. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” Shen chuckled. “Hey, I think Bryni is cooking buffalo wings in the canteen tonight.”

“Didn’t you say no dates, Lily?”

“Who said anything about a date? I wanna see which one of us can finish a plate the fastest.” She grinned.

“Lily.” He smirked. “I literally do not have a stomach.”

“Well then, I guess this should be an easy win for me~”

“Oh, hold your horses, Dr. Shen.” Gur-Rai grinned, bearing his sharp teeth. “Fine. You’re on.”

“Cool! Last one there's a rotten egg!” Shen took off, with Gur-Rai close on her heels as they jogged down the hall towards the canteen, laughing and screaming like children would.

.

.

Kon-Mai sat cross legged on the roof of the little hut. Ismene and about a dozen other Skirmisher children played below her, tossing a very dangerous looking rock between them and trying to strike it with a stick. Each crack of the stick making contact with said rock sent her nerves alight with worry, and she was getting ready to dive in if someone took said rock to the face. But the way the children laughed with joy lulled her back into ease. It all felt so right…

“This is…” Kon-Mai searched for the word. “Inspiring. I am nearly jealous of your tribe.” She giggled.

“These children are the gifts of fortune.” Savitr said, gazing over her but not quite meeting her eyes. “I suppose we do have to thank the Elders for that…”

Kon-Mai growled. “I would not thank them for anything. They merely did not steal your ability to have children. They did not bless you.”

He chuckled. “I suppose that is true.” He played with the laces on his boots. “You and your brothers…”

“What of them?” She asked.

He didn’t say anything at first, and she couldn’t quite read him. His face was like hers, almost. Cold and emotionless.

“You are not like us.” He finally said. “My sisters and I were born from the same pod. We have been together all our lives.”

“What are you suggesting?” She growled.

“Did you not fight with your brothers?” Savitr asked.

She was about to snap at him, but stopped. She had fought with them, after all. For years, their conflicts had escalated, sometimes reaching all out battles. More than once she had attempted to “reign in” the other two by brandishing her weapon at them, and more than once it had ended with them fighting, literally, to the death. 

And more than once, the Elders had reiterated their oath to one another. No matter how you disagree, how your anger swells, you shall do each other no harm. You are all our children. You all have our love.

They had lied about so much, they had beaten their “beloved children,” left them to die, so why did they insist on forging this bond?

Even out of their clutches, she held it. In fact, they had cultivated it even further. Out of the Elders clutches, suddenly they were not shy to engage with each other physically and emotionally. Their drive to fight was gone, all because they were free.

Why was it not so before? What else were her masters lying about?

“I’m sorry, Mordenna.” Savitr said, and Kon-Mai realized she had been silent for some time. “I did not mean to upset you.”

She finally looked up again. “My brothers and I stand in solidarity, having faced the wrath of our former masters and survived.” She nodded. “If we had any rivalry before, it disappeared when we were taken from the Elders’ grasp. We are…” She hesitated to use the word. “We are family now.”

Savitr nodded. “I am happy you have found such peace with them. They are good soldiers.” He looked back over the playing children. “The future holds promise for you, Mordenna.”

Kon-Mai looked down just as Ismene caught the rock, holding it up in the air in childlike victory.

She smiled. “I certainly hope it does.”

.

.

On their bed of silken blankets and otherworldly light, the three Elders lay within one another, hands clasped, legs entangled, Abyzou in the middle, Camazotz with his head on her stomach, and Bhandasura’s long body encircling them all.

“The future holds such promise for us.” He whispered to them. “My dearest loves.”

“Of course it does. We stand upon a foundation of friendship and trust.” Camazotz reached out and gripped Bhandasura’s shoulder.

Abyzou sighed, her cold hands wrapping around them both. “And we shall live to see our family blossom once again.”

.

.

.

.

.

(The moral of this story is that the Elders are all horrible people, to their very core.

It was fun to explore each Elder’s individual personality, especially when contrasting it to the Chosen, but they are all absolutely shitty in their own way, and I hope I conveyed that!)

Archive: https://chosenstories.tumblr.com/

[c-atm]

Elegant Criminality

  Steven groaned as he walked into the loan office; holding his side, sporting a black eye, dishelve hair, and a bloody nose, not his blood. He looked around the office, hoping it was truly as empty as it seemed. With a painful sigh of relief, he walked to the medical cabinet, getting the first-aid before heading to the back room.

  "That could have gone better...So much for my sweet tongue..Heh-heh..ow!."

  A simple talk became...not so simple. It all started when there was suspicion of foul play in a property they own, A host bar renamed Shangri-la. A place where the clientele had fat, deep pockets, nearly as big as their bellies and deep as their secrets. There's been rumors about the runner Connie put in place being a bit more comfortable with the certain customers outside of the bar. Customers, they weren't exactly used to seeing around their city. 

  No problem as long as they opened their pockets, they basically ignored it. As for the runner, let them have fun. As long as they remember their place, no need to chase rumors. Then once too many times, the weekly total has been lower than its usual amount, it’s predicted amount. The rumors of the bar runner making moves against his team, his family; because of his new friends, started to ring true. 

  Now, while no one took this blatant act of disrespect kindly; Connie, his 'queen' was especially annoyed. Shangri-la was something Connie...Procured from its last owner. It was her pet project; this spot was something she brought in and since then it’s been a little moneymaker and info bank. Having the runner getting out of line made her look bad. She decided on visiting the runner of the establishment herself.

  His gracious lady, giving them a chance to get in line without broken pride or bones. How he admired her elegance and civility, even when dealing with these kinds of riffraff. Still he couldn't allow her to be bothered with such tripe matters.  

  No need for her to dirty her hands or give them her time. It was precious and needed with more pressing objectives. Still, a lesson had to be taught and dues had to be paid. He'd do it himself as a favor to her. She won't even have to worry..

  It was supposed to be a simple sit down, almost a parlay. 

  Supposed to be..

  *Few hours ago* 

  Steven got out of his black Lincoln continental after parking across the street from the Shangri-la, not before his ritual though. He pulled down his driver-side sun visor and smiled lovingly at a picture of his lady, in a black bikini. A candid shot he took on the family's last vacation to their island villa. She'd kill him if she'd ever found out but hell, in this life he could die anyway; might as well have something sweet on his mind if it comes to that.

  With a breath the mafioso walked into the bar.

  "Ain't this a bitch."

  His timing was either fucked up or on the money, cause his surprise visit coincided with the goddamn snake in the grass giving their money to some zoot suits wearing little shits he never saw before. 

  "Really Sam? These mother fuckers got our money."

  The nine of them turned to him standing at the doorway. The face of shock on Sam's face and fear based anger on the other eight. It would've been funny...If he hadn't seen what he saw. With a kiss of his teeth he walked calmly towards Sam and he supposed the head of the group of nobodies, fishing some black leather glove out his back pocket of his slacks.

  "Know you're blind in one eye, but you didn't see us finding out about this."

  Sam was an older mustachioed man, pencil thin; always with a suitcase brown three piece suit and a comb over. He also was an ex info broker. He got caught up selling the wrong info and was chased all through the city by a hitman. Would have been dead if he never ran into this very bar and met Connie..or if the hitman never made her drop her egg for Prairie oyster.  In the end Sam got to keep his life, Connie got a runner for her bar, and the hitman…was no longer available for services.

  So to see the man his lady saved openly betray them, well Steven was not in the mood for a parlay. Steven took the money he was handing out of the punks hand and placed it in his pocket, leaving the stunned, before turning to Sam eyebrow arched.

  "Hey..Steve.. I was just-

  "Betraying Connie..Betraying us."

  Sam took a deep breath before settling into a glare. As Steven was about to comment, a hand rested and gripped his shoulder. It was large and it belonged to an equally large man in a green zoot suit. Steven took a look around at the rainbow of zoot suits. Indigo, violet, cobalt, black, brown, gray, yellow, red and..

  "Get your jolly green giant ass off me."

  Green squeezed hard on his shoulder before talking.

  "Now now..don't yo--Kugh!"

  Steven did not care for his words and showed it by ramming his elbow into his grimy mouth, making him swallow the five front teeth, he knocked out. Green fell back hitting his head on the nearby table leaving him unconscious..or dead. It really didn't concern Steven, not like the blood green left on the elbow of his white button-up. Steven, in a quick spark of anger stomped on greens pointy nose, breaking it and eliciting a moan from the pale skin giant...

  "Oh come on..Have some class, Bastard. blood stains are hard to come o-ugh!'

  Steven stumbled back as red's skinny little fist, popped him in the eye. His nostrils flared as he touched his left eye, feeling the tenderness. He nodded as Red, Yellow Violet and Cobalt stood ready to fight. The other four were busy trying to drag green out the way and Sam was hiding behind the counter.

  Steven stood ready his fist up, held at face level.  His left leg slightly pointed, held forward bent at the knee. 

  "Fucking zoot suit skittles bastards."

  That set them off as red ran forward first, throwing a wild right hook towards Steven skull, only for him to grab the offending arm and pull red close. He grabbed red's tan face in a vice-grip before slamming his skull to the counters  metallic edge. denting it. Steven grimace as he let red crumbled upon himself.

  ' yikes...Gotta remember, this is my lady's place. She'll be pissed once she sees that.'

  As Steven was thinking to himself, Violet attempted to lay a stiletto kick to his throat. He barley ducked the attack, feeling the air from the would be blow mess up his hair.

  Steven delivered a harsh straight the guys solar plexus, making Violet double over, before ramming his knee to the afro bearer face nose. Another k.o.

  Yellow and Cobalt, nodded at each before attacking together, Yellow with a straight kick to Steven's chest and Cobalt with a left hook to his mid. Steven grabbed the foot before grimacing and coughing in pain at the punch.. losing his grip and being kicked back to the wall. 

  Steven breathed deeply as he rubbed his chest looking closely at Cobalt hands…

  'Bitch have knuckle dusters hidden in her sleeves. Ok..Her first.'

  Steven stood up straight and stepped forward, before grabbing two nearby ketchup bottles, wielding them like batons. The two laughed before attacking in unison again. Cobalt struck with an axe kick, causing steven to dodge to the left when yellow fist flew towards his skull, a knuckle duster on it.  

  Steven batted the fist downward, breaking the bottle on the back of their hand, before stabbing the palm of it with the bottle. Yellow screams of pain were silenced almost instantly by the second bottle being broken against their temple knocking them over to Cobalt in a daze before they joined red on the floor. Shards of glass ledge in their face, mixed with blood and condiment.

  Cobalt looked fearful as she looked at Steven, broken bottle in hand. She took a step back before swallowing it down, going for a desperate flurry of punches. 

  "Wild, unorganized, useless . How the hell did I let you get a hit on me?"

  Steven sighedat the thought, dancing through her assault easily, before catching both her wrists and head butting cobalt, breaking her nose. As she groaned, he twisted her arms behind her back holding them against her upper back. He kicked  the knees from under her, making cobalt buckle onto them. Before she could protest, he had the business end of the broken bottle press on her windpipe. He crept down to her ear and spoke in a cold whisper.

  "Here what's gonna happen. You are gonna to leave your friends here, cause you're a coward. Say it."

  Cobalt growled in protest before winching as Steven  gave the bottom of her chin a jagged bloody cut. He didn't say anything as he looked expectantly.

  "I'm a coward."

  "You're not gonna run with these fools anymore, cause you're a coward.."

  "I'm a coward." She teared up as she held her head down, defeat washed over her.

  "You're going to give me the location of your hideout and your brass knuckles. You're then going to walk out of here and out of this lifestyle. Cause…

  "I am a coward." Cobalt cried, heartbroken.

  "And cowards don't belong in the world of mafia. Take your life and blend among the other normal civilians…Coward."

  He let the girl wrist go, before holding out his hand to her. Cobalt almost took it when he spoke.

  "Knuckle dusters and info"

  She sneered as she took off the weapons  and handed them to him. He placed them on his gloved hands trying them out with a few swings, whistling in satisfaction, he turned to the girl on the floor.

  "Info."

  "East ridge Blvd. The old cookie cat factory near the pier...can't miss it."

  He nodded before he did help her to her feet.  He nodded his head towards the door looking at her.

  "Go."

  Cobalt nodded as she walked out, wiping the tears from her crystal blue eyes. She stopped when he heard him clear his throat. She turned to see him looking back at her.

  "Not gonna thank me. For letting you live, unlike these fools."

  Cobalt eyes widened, breath caught in her throat  as the tears ran anew. In her eyes he was a monster...a gentle looking monster.  She grinded her teeth and grabbed the bottom of her coat as she looked down, shame and fear destroying her heart.

  "Thank you, for my life sir!"

  "Hehe. You're welcome..Go.."

  Cobalt walked out of the bar sobbing hatred for the mafia world and herself evident.

  With her gone Steven turned  his attention to Sam, who was quick to grab a pistol as Steven walked around the counter and stalked toward him,  Fist tight, knuckle dusters on and bottle still in hand.

  Sam shakingly held the gun in his hand, scared as hell. "Steven..Come on man...Don't  make me shoot you." 

  Steven didn't say anything as he twirled the broken bottle in his hand, still walking forward, smirking as he did. 

  Sam took a chance and pulled the trigger.

  *click* *click* *click*

  "Forgot to get bullets, deadeye?"

  Sam nearly crumbled in fear as he looked directly into the mafioso eyes. they gleamed like cold artic ice in the sun. He didn't get to plead as the first blow collided with his jaw, blood flying towards the liquor as he stumbled to the left, falling on to the floor. He gazed up and saw Steven looking down rage in his eyes. He spoke to him despite the looseness of his jaw, the filling of blood and the burning sensation in his mouth.

  "Can I asthk refore you do whatsever, shouts shonna do to sme...let me spexplain?." Sam spat our some blood to the side, wiping his mouth.

  Steven smirked, then snorted,  then laughed...The rage in his eyes rising.

  "Really Deadeye?..You openly betray us, betray Connie..and you think you can talk your way out..ok."  Steven crouched over Sam, elbows on his knees, hands still closed into fist. Clicking the top of his mouth with his tongue,Steven stared at the mustachioed man.

  "Speak. Honestly."

  Sam nearly pissed himself at the  cool command, looking at the younger mafia with pure fear, knowing that his life was on the line..or at least his livelihood.

  "Zhose guys..Zhey're new..parz of shome riszing kamily, frim the Motor Zity."

  "You're boring me.." Steven clenched his fist clucking his teeth a few times in annoyance. "Get to the point."

  Sam growled the best he could before speaking.

  "Yous guys kave so manies propkerties in the cifie and so munz influeznce.. brouns to zring aivalies and seing oppozitionz."

  "And you didn't want to get caught in the middle of anything. So what? Were you paying your way to safety?"

  Sam, despite his position laughed; darkly and coolly. "heh..Zou woulz think that, with hos we mezs and all, putz no. I kuts vanted zo pe ooseful...oose ny ztill  as a inro proker. Zomezing, Connie, kuzt Igmored. ..No..She ooses ne as mozhing nore zhan a bamn...BAR MANAGER! Zits enzulting!.”

  “So you betrayed us because of hurt pride, is that what you saying?” Steven threw a quick jab stopping just in time to give his nose a glancing blow. “We gave you a job. .A new lease on your life, and this is what you do!?” 

  "I didn't dezrayed zanione! I zwear! I swas zrying to jet ya'll zome info on them."

  "The money? Why were you giving it to them?"

Sam lips pursed into a thin line as well as they could, swollen as they were. He knew steven well enough...He swallowed some spit and Iron before speaking.

  "Zrugs.  zuns...I swas trying some from zhem.. zee what they got..didn't get much. Zhose suits, just surveillance, small time pushers and muscle. shirst time xoming, but zeen them Around."

  Steven let out a sigh as he rubbed the back of his head...So Sam was playing nice to gather info...Fair enough, not a traitor..hlHe did step out of bounds though. 

  'Broken jaw and strange talking is punishment enough.'

  That being said, he didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. 

  They already were aware of the Motor city family for a while thanks to the host and hostesses. They were the information system here; could charm the dirtiest and most protected secret out of the most stoned face. Just had to liquor them up a bit.

   Though, he didn't expect the Zoot suits, never mentioned in the reports. Probably, a nobody gang they hired to ensure a presence, before sending a real force. Steven stood up with a little pain in his side from the hit earlier. 

  "Gonna call a clean up crew for these four. You get the bar ready for tonight, and get yourself  proper. Wear a mask or something. "

  Sams' eye widened as Steven started to walk away. He was gonna live another and keep his job. He wasn't even gonna tell Connie. The man got to his feet looking as Steven walked past Red, relief  in his damn

  "Zhan yous." 

  Steven growled and turned back towards Sam, a cold glare present. "Do the damn job you're assigned to. Run this bar.  Nothing more, nothing less."

Sam nodded in fear as he lifted up his hands in surrender.

  Steven scoffed as he turned and head out of the bar. As soon as he walked out  and got into his car, a few SUV's pulled up to 'Shangri-la'. 

  A small army of black vest and white shirt (the same as his) walked into the bar and quickly loaded the knocked out zoot suits before pulling off. One of them gave Steven, a nod before heading off, the army leader; Amethyst.

  "Well she knows..Don't know why I would think differently." Steven kissed his teeth and sighed thinking about going back to the office. 

  * Present*

  Steven grimaced as he looked at the blackish and purple bruise to his left side through the mirror, the knuckle duster really digged in. Still he had worse.

  "That's a nasty one, Biscuit."

  Sucking in his breath hurt, but he couldn't  help it. Her voice came out of nowhere. He turned around and saw Connie already getting some comfrey cream and  bandage wrap from the first-aid, a neutral look on her face. She signaled him to raise his arms so she could dress his damage.

  He shivered at the touch of Connie's meticulously callous yet very soft hands  as she rubbed the cream on the bruise.. Being ever so careful to cover every inch. He nearly purred at the heat of her hand. She started wrapping him with care and tenderness she hardly shows. Making sure it wasn't too tight or uncomfortable. When she was done securing that it would stay, she offered him a kind smile and a stroke of his cheek with her right hand; one he allowed himself to nuzzle into, kissing her palm as he did.

  "My Bisky." 

  The velvety tone of voice made him gulp In a bad way...He knew that tone..She killed people using that tone.

  "M-My rein-Ahhgh!!" 

  He groaned in pain as he felt her vice like grip on his bruise. He looked at her face the same smile was there but her eyes were burning in rage.

  "Who the hell told you to damage 'Shangri-la'. Does my bar look like a fight club!? Do I have an arena or a ring somewhere that I don't know about?"

  Steven grimaced as he clenched his fist to withstand the pain.  "Ugh I'm sorry! Sorry please let go-ho-ho!"

  Connie sighed as she released her hold on him feeling a bit bad about what she did. She rubbed the back of her head as she got his shirt, vest and tie. She stood behind him as she placed the shirt over his lightly tan body,having him slip his arms through the sleeves, tapping his shoulder to have him face her so she could button him up.

  “So you went and talked to Sam yourself, huh?” Connie teased.as she buttoned him from the bottom up.

  “As if you weren’t aware, were you watching the whole time?”

  “I alway have an eye on what’s mine.” Connie gave a small smirk as she looked him in the eye, black meeting brown. She buttoned the second to last button before flipping up his collar and getting the tie, earning a disapproving groan from Steven. 

  ”Shut it...So? What'd you think?”  Connie threw the tie over his shoulders before bringing it to against the collar, starting to Windsor tie it. 

  Steven shrugged exhaling In annoyance “Think I should have hit Sam one more time…As for our visitors."Steven smirked darkly as he slipped his hands into his ladies back pockets, giving her a squeeze. "Maybe we should give them a welcoming party...We got their location after all...The old Cookie cat factory near the pier."

  "Isn't that sweet?" Connie chuckled before pulling him closer to her by his tie, the same smirk on her face. "Can't wait til I finish?"

  "Hey, you grabbed me first, on my side..my bruised side."  He gripped her bit harder, kneading her bottom, making her shiver a bit." Just returning the favor… Eye for an eye and all that jazz."

  "You messed up my bar, Big baby."

  "Your baby."

  She rolled her eyes as they shared a kiss. Her eyelids dropped shut as she allowed him to melt her, hands stroking his cheeks and pulling him even closer as tongues twisted around each other. Breaking the kiss only to reunite as she made him guide her to the table in the center of the room.  Letting out a little giggle as he sat her on the table and stood between her legs palms on her thighs, rubbing them and evoking snarl from the woman.

  "YoHo..I know that sound."  Steven teased as his kisses moves trailed from her lips to her neck becoming nibbles along the way, making his her moan as he unbuttoned  the first two buttons of her shirt to sink his teeth into her collarbone sucking and licking into her brown skin.

  "So I'd this part of ...ah…. Damn...Of your apology for..Hmm UUMMMM.." Connie couldn't  finish, losing herself to the his mouth stroking of his thumb on her inner thighs. Which was why she was thankful when the phone rang..Bringing her back k to a more clear mind. Reluctantly, she moved from him to check the phone.. It was Sam..

  "No..Not yet." She scoffed as let the phone ring out. With a sigh she fixed her shirt., smiling as Steven held her from behind..and feeling his...Charisma...on her ass. She nearly was put to trance again  when he started with the kisses again.

  "Hey.. Later ok..At your place." She turned giving him a tender kiss and little suck upon his bottom lip. "For now...We got to get a team ready."

  Steven smired at the tone of voice and sneer  on her face. Dark and elegant. Civil and criminal. What he expected from his queen. He nodded  as she got his vest and placed it on him. Gripping it by the sides she pulled him in for one more kiss, catching him pleasantly off guard with a  sweet "Chu", she broke the kiss, sniggering at his love struck stare.

  "That was for doing a good job. Now go fix your hair, while I gather some others for the welcoming..and farewell party." With a sinister yet sweet smile,  Connie took out her cell and dialed the first person on her list, walking out as she did.

  He watched her go, paying attention to the sway of her hips until the door closed. He smirked as he turned his attention to his hair. Fishing a comb out of his back of his pocket and running through his hair, back and fro until it returned to its normally slick do.

"Alright. Spinel, Lars, Amethyst and Garnet are on their way there." Connie announced as she walked in wearing the coat of her three-piece suit, completing her outfit.

  Steven whistled before shaking his head, with a smile.  "Called the extermination squad, huh? Well, that's what they get for trying to make moves in secret."

  "No..If they just try to be snakes we would've  just rough them up, but they try to pull shit in bar; even worse they bruised your side and blacked your eye." Determination and slight sadism in her voice as she slipped on some black mid-finger gloves. "Now, now we gotta make an example out of them...You about ready?"  

  Steven nodded before following behind the shorter woman, who was just about withering  in pleasure a few moments ago; now wore a devil's smile on her beautiful features and a grave glint in her eyes. While Steven didn't mind it, he did prefer  her to be a bit brighter.

  "Hold on, Mi Reina."

  Connie stopped for a moment turning back to him only to have him steal one last tender kiss from her. She squeezed his hand to keep from moaning.  He broke it, taking a look at her now gentler smile and now burning eyes. 

  "nāṉ uṉṉai kātalikkiṟēṉ...Damn punk." 

  "Love you too, Reina."

  The two shared a small smile before stepping out into the world they are accustomed to. Ready to once again do whatever needed to obtain wealth power, and prestige. To do whatever  needed to protect what was theirs. A world of criminals, violence, civility, elegance, and family. A world of Mafia.