#SPRING SUN IS GIVING ME HUBRIS BUT LISTEN

[nerice]

not to sound hopeful but i think i can be fixed

[usiel21]

Enid: A werewolf in pining.

(TW: The taking of one's own life is mentioned but does not happen)

Enid, alone in their dorm, Wednesday has neglected their relationship again, in her single minded pursuit of the Stalker, Enid has been left to dither and wallow, her heart reaching out, pining for the one she would call Mate. The one who she would give up everything for, if she but asked, she would gladly give.

Enid, lies on her bed listening to Chances by Athlete on repeat, her silent tears begging the Universe for Wednesday to choose her.

Enid, hopelessly in love with the girl, that shines like the sun in an Eclipse, the girl that Enid looks to for strength, the girl who holds her soul in black polished fingernails.

Enid begs the Universe and the Universe, that of which is usually uncaring, decides to give her that chance.

Wednesday comes stumbling through the door to their dorm, hand pressed to her side, where blood gushes out.

Enid springs to her feet, Wednesday remarks that getting stabbed the second time around wasn't as fun as she hoped, just as the first time wasn't. Enid rushes to get the first air kit, and helps Wednesday clean, stich and bandage the wound, hands both gentle and caring, soft in touch but firm in purpose. Wednesday watches her, eyes wide, like she is truly seeing Enid for the first time.

"Goddamn it, Wednesday" Enid mutters as she wraps the bandage round her waist. "From now on, no more running off on your own, no more of this one girl crusade" Enid says, eyes fierce. "You take me with you or you don't go at all" She says, securing the bandage to her side, keeping it tight.

"No" Wednesday mutters, her eyes flicker down.

"Then i won't let you go" Enid says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"I have to find the stalker and i am but one step closer to solving this mystery" Wednesday says raising her head to meet her gaze

Enid fights the urge to scream, this conversation going the same way as it did last Semester.

"Then i'm not letting you go alone!" Enid growls out.

"No" Wednesday replies, her voice firmer, her eyes glittering dangerously.

Enid scoffs and laughs bitterly "Sure but you'll let Xavier help you! Tall, dark and broody just can't wait to..." She trails off, unable to say the words, she swallows, shoving down the explosion of emotion that threatens to erupt from Mt. Enid. she turns away, unable to look at the cold burn of Wednesday's eyes.

Wednesday narrows her eyes.

"I let him help me because i don't care about what happens to him, his well-being means nothing to me"

Enid pauses. A hopeful tug at her heart.

"Do you think i care for you so little that i would put you in harm's way again? do you think i would put the most precious of all gems out in the open just to be snatched away? No, i found that out the hard way last semester, and i refuse to let it happen again, i refuse to let it happen to you"

Enid feels her heart stop, before exploding thunderously with elation, set alight. she turns to see Wednesday looking at her softly and her eyes glistening, through sheer force of will, Wednesday would not let the tears fall unbidden.

"If he dies, then he dies" Wednesday said, her callousness would shock other people, but not Enid, not in this moment. "But you? if you died at the alter of my bloody hubris, i would throw myself off the top of our dorm balcony, if only to be with you again, i would not hesitate"

Enid stops breathing, such a declaration is something she can only have dreamt about it makes her heart soar, her skin tingle, and her body shiver.

"Wends..." Enid begins, her voice quivers, Mt. Enid struggles to keep the bubbling viscosity of her love for Wednesday, bubbling below the surface. But Wednesday hold's up her hand, clearly not finished.

"This stalker, threatens me on a daily basis and evidently backs up those threats" Wednesday says, gesturing to her bandaged wound. "by extension he threatens you by mere association and i cannot allow that to be, i cannot allow that bastard to roam free with his limbs intact, i will find him, and i will rip him to pieces, if only to keep you, my most precious gem, safe."

Enid's eyes are wide, full of love, her body aflame with affection.

"And that is why you must stay here, so you cannot see the darkest pieces of I, Lest I tarnish you with my love of the horrific, of the macabre, of the Sadist, because i will enjoy their pain."

And Enid, hears none of it, she made peace with the fact that she would love Wednesday forever, no matter how much pain she inflicts, no matter if she became a murderer, no matter if she became the monster she claimed she was always destined to be.

She would love her forever. Unconditionally. She made peace with that an eternity ago.

"Wends... are you saying...." Enid gulps, putting every ounce of courage she has ever gathered up to this point forward "...that you love me?" Enid finishes, her voice quiet, small, but so very much Enid.

Wednesday doesn't even blink nor hesitate

"If my so many words didn't enlighten you than i shall use far less, then Yes, i do" Wednesday said, lowering her face slightly.

Enid thinks her heart stops because blood starts rushing to her head but she persists, she will not faint, she won't. This had become too important to screw up, she moved forwards, carefully, slowly, not wanting to startle "the wounded fawn" as Wednesday once called herself. She reached out a hand and cupped Wednesday's face, who did not shy away from it but pressed her face into Enid's palm.

"Wednesday" she says softly "Look at me..." Wednesday opens her eyes and Enid sees the love there, its subtle but its there.

"Do you think i love you so little that i would let you face this alone?" Enid said, echoing the girls words back at her. "Do you think if you died, that i love you so little, i wouldn't follow you there?" Enid says, her face "I made peace with the fact that i would love you for the rest of my life, and that i would follow you, no matter where you go" Enid says, inching closer to the Raven.

Their lips meet, a thunderous rejoicing in the heavens sounds as lightning flashes above Nevermore, lighting up their world, their first kiss under a naturally violent act of nature. Enid presses deeper, her need, her heartache evaporating as she claims Wednesday as hers, the kiss chaste but needy and so very overdue.

Wednesday places her hand on Enid's waist, and pushes deeper into the kiss, desperate to feel. desperate for touch, desperate for her to burst aflame, Enid, being the only one, who could achieve such a feat.

They slowly pull apart, lungs screaming for air. Enid rubes her nose on the shorter girl's nose, unable to stop herself.

Nothing is left that needs to be said, nothing left to be done.

Until Wednesday tugged Enid towards her bed, the two smitten teens laying down beside each other, with Wednesday being careful of her wound, and they spent the night, in each other's arms, Wednesday, letting the exhaustion of her hunt finally overtake her.

and Enid, holds the smaller teen in her arms, remarking at just how soft Wednesday was once the rough edges vanished behind the lull of sleep, she stays awake however, worshipping Wednesday with her eyes and softest touches with the pads of her fingers.

Her heart in ache before, could feel nothing now but Peace.

[hedgiwithapen]

Orpheus Triumphant

(I’m bored and wrote a thing and want interaction with people so like. hope you like it? pls to comment.)

“I have heard all the Dead that sing and story,” the Queen says from her gleaming black throne. “There is little to do here but listen. Before you go on your way, musician, would you share a song? Grant it freely or not at all. Consider only the request, and not the one who asks it.” Now there is foolishness, to not mind the request of a Queen, of a Goddess, of one whose mother could strike down everything that lived and whose husband would reap that harvest.  But something in the way she looks at him from her throne, with the crown of rubies tilted back and eyes bright, like any eager child in a market square, makes him want to obey her words. He pauses. A part of him wants to refuse, wants to deny her the way he was denied--such a small thing, a few years out of eternity-- but he finds himself nodding.  “ A song,” he repeats, speaking for the first time since he made his own request, and listened to the refusal. His fingers touch the lute strings, player’s callouses catching at them. A song to impress the king and queen of the dead, who have heard more than any mortal could dream. What can he offer to them, who have listened to everything the dead could offer, and everything the gods have known? The muses themselves have attended to them, what exactly does she expect of him? What song can fill this massive hall? What song  can make perfect use of the acoustics here--and as he wonders, it is as though every song slips from his head, unreachable. He has played for kings before, surely there must be something, but he cannot think. As he searches for a tune and words, his fingers  pull another chord from the strings to hang in the air, soft and intimate. The Queen leans forward, the jeweled pomegranate blooms catching in the light. The King remains as impassive as the earth spread over a grave. The musician finds another note, and another, beating back fear of failure (they will like it or they will not, and that is all there is) even as his heart sinks, if possible, lower. It is too late to stop now. The song that comes is not new, not fashioned here, in this place, not made for grandeur and splendidness. It will never reach, never fill up this place as great music is meant to, it can not display the talent and skill of the musician, nor impress the figures on the dais. They will have heard it before, it is an old song, worn and known, the last thing he should be offering up here, but it is all that will come. A moment later, his hands more sure, he finds the words. Even in this, he cannot  do much. It is too simple, and yet feels like a betrayal to embellish. He sings as he has always known it to be, a song from mother to child, husband to wife, lover to grave.

It is not his best performance. His voice breaks twice, and by the time the last note fades, so quickly, with hardly an echo, his throat is nearly closed by sorrow. Still, he manages,  holding the lute in one hand, warm from his own body heat, and dares to look up. He does not move to brush away the tears. He remains in his place of supplication, unmoving, and waits for some sign or signal that he might move, or speak, or breathe. This palace in the Land of the Dead, empty but for these two who never die, a few scattered spirits long dead, and one man, heart beating so hard within his chest he can no longer feel it. In this moment, the song haunts the hall, not the expressionless shades. Though the Queen’s eyes are shining, it is the King who inclines his head. “You ask for something I do not give,” he says, his voice like the chill of marble on an empty morning. “But your offering is curious. There is devotion in your words that even my Brothers and Sisters do not possess, despite their...declarations. Do you claim to understand it fully?” The musician knows the songs, the musician knows the stories, and he knows that he has closed the trap of hubris around himself, as surely as he knows this is a command for an answer. Two lay before him, one a death warrant, one a betrayal. How can he, with mortal heart and flesh, claim to know  better than the gods? But how can he say that the music from his very being is not true to the last note? “If mortals cannot understand such things,” he says, slowly,” then I will only claim the fraction that we have taken hold of, and that my heart so desperately loves that it has reached beyond even what I may know, that those with clearer sight see truth. Please, if you will not let her return with me, allow me to stay with her.” He cannot bear that empty tunnel, the sun filled sky, the flowers of spring when the Queen visits her mother, his lonesome house. Again the King inclines his head,deep in thought, and the Queen’s eyes linger as she leans in to speak to her Beloved. “Life is not a thing to be given freely,” she says. “Nothing lives without effort. But if effort is given...” she trails off, knowing the King will complete her thought.

“Your song and words show more than perhaps you are aware. We will see if you do know the whole of what you offer, or if it is merely a veneer. Do you accept this, Musician?”

There is only one answer his heart will let him give. “Yes, my lord.” “Then we shall test your devotion. If your devotion is as strong as your song claims, if you are as faithful, if you truly trust that your love exceeds any failing, your request shall be granted. If not, you will return to the mortal world until your time, and she will remain. I am King of the Dead, not of Death. Your life is not yet mine, as hers was. Accept these terms, or forfeit now.” Carefully, still kneeling, the musician puts away his lyre. He has come too far to turn back now, and even if he had not, he could not bear too. “I accept your test, though I do not know what it will entail.”  He bites his tongue against what might be judged impudence, to slight a god, but the words slip out all the same. “Very well,” the King says, but he turns to his wife rather than pronounce the conditions himself. She stands, her skirts sweeping the glossy floor, descending the dais until she stands before him. “You may rise, Musician,” she says, and he obeys. “You know the pathway out of this world. My uncle escorted you to its doorway, did he not?” She does not wait for an answer, impatient as a child ready for spring’s first blooms. “He has always escorted me, though I know it well by now. It is not an easy path, but such is any worthy journey.” The musician finds himself nodding, without leave, but the Queen does not seem to notice, as she extends a hand, and two of the many doors lining the hall open. Through one, the musician can see the cavern by which he came to this kingdom, stretching upwards into the dark. Somehow, the entrance has bypassed the guard dog, the river, the judgment place. He supposes this is the power of the gods, and cannot spare another thought for that door as the other emits a grey figure he knows too well. He longs to run for her, to pull her up into his arms and hold tight, like the moss clings to worn trees.  He strains to remain where he is, and he can feel her doing the same, even from so many feet away. Even here, as a shadow of her living self, wisp-like and faint, his soulmate is beautiful in his eyes, and he knows that he will follow whatever instructions he must to prove that truth. So he simply holds on hand out, as if he can feel her hand within it. Across the room, her own hand holds to empty air. “You will ascend the pathway first, Musician,” the Queen says, as her husband nods his assent to the rules she lays out.  “As this is your test. I am not heartless, and I know the loneliness of that tunnel. I will not insist you go alone. This is a matter of your trust in love, not in our word.” As she speaks, the King nods again, rising  from his own throne to stand beside her.  He is the one to continue. “You will return to the mortal world, and we shall not interfere. Your steps, and then hers. And here is where you prove your words. You must trust in only your devotion. What you claim is beyond mortal understanding, so it is that you will trust, and not your mortal senses. You will travel without conversation. Should you turn back to her once your journey starts, she returns to her place in my kingdom, and you to your own.” The musician thinks about the tunnel, the dark chill of it, and turns the words over in his mind. He knows the songs. He knows the stories, Pandora and Psyche. He looks to his bride, and shade or not, her eyes are still as bright and alive as the birds that lit in the tree above their marriage-grove. This is not a test a mortal can pass, he knows, and she knows it as well. She offers him a smile, the same from their courting days, and in the air, her hand squeezes. He can almost feel it on his own skin. The musician understands, as clear as the summer sky. Like finding just the right note to the ending of a piece, the final word in a poem, he realizes what the answer has to be. “If you both understand what we require of you, there is no reason to delay.” the King says, though he stays by his Queen’s side, watching, rather than returning to his gold and gem encrusted seat. The musician is careful as he bows, and from where his eyes still watch his lover’s figure, he sees her shade bow as well. Her eyes are fixed upon him, and she does not look away. With great care, he makes his way to the entrance of the passage, standing before the grand doorway, and waits. His fingers itch, his eyes water. But he does not move as he drinks in the sight he has traveled so far to see: his love, his bride, his heart, stepping so lightly across the tiles, grey but for the green in her eyes, the flush touching her cheeks. She stands just before him, only just beyond his reach, and smiles so wide he can feel the expression on his own face. He does not take his eyes off her as he steps backwards through the doorway. He does not take his eyes off her as she steps forward after him, one ghostly step and then another. He does not take his eyes off her as he slowly feels behind himself with his foot, hoping it will find stable ground. To look back, one must look away to begin with. She reaches out her hands, the grave-clothes hanging from her elbows and shoulders like draping wings. When his foot slides backwards to a place she can see will crumble, she draws back a hand, shaking her head, and he inclines his head in understanding. They take another step, together into the dark. Slowly the color spreads, the dark of her curls, the cedar-wood of her skin and he knows if he reached out, his hands would touch them. He does not need to touch her skin to feel her with him. Following her gestures, he takes the winding path, leading the way as she guides his steps. Each time the musician pauses, he waits for her to nod her head, or tilt her hand, and show him where to go, trusting her to bring them both back to the sunlight.

[orthogonals]

Hey, I saw that you are taking prompts. I very much enjoyed your Achilles/Patroclus story so I'd be thrilled if you wrote more in that universe. Maybe a take on their relationship from another person's POV (eg Briseis, Thetis, Chiron...) Or a crossover with Merthur? :)

Thanks for the ask! Achilles/Patroclus always sends me in an emotional spiral. I wrote this for “their relationship from another POV,” hope you enjoy!

~A note on prompts: I won’t have much time to answer the in the coming months, but still feel free to send them in, and I’ll get to them when/if I can!~

through their eyes

rating: T

words: 1509

summary: Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.

“That is what a son should be.”

–

Five times Achilles and Patroclus were the subject of observation during their lives, + one time they weren’t.

read on ao3!

i.

The games beat a broken path through Opus, a thousand calloused feet rubbing the dry dirt raw. Menoitides directed the affair with customary severity, ordering servants out to break rock and clear track until even the seething sun had taken rest. He held a hard nub of determination that his games would hail as the best of the generation, would bear glory upon his shoulders. Glory to rival the glow of Apollo himself; glory enough to erase the festering blight of his weak son, his simple wife.

The youngest boys formed their line, eyes glinting with excitement and the thrill of victory. Peleus’ son stood half a head shorter amongst them, impossible to miss. He reflected light like a piece of glass in the sand. Beside him, Patroclus fiddled dumbly with the wreath. Menoitides clenched his teeth until his jaw clicked.

Aristos Achaion, they called him. Plucked from the spilled blood between Thetis’ thighs and granted a prophecy by the Gods. He flashed past the other boys, quick as an intake of breath, and Peleus’ face shone. Menotides turned to Patroclus.“That is what a son should be.”

And when Menotides exiled Patroclus to Phthia, shame and anger warping inside him, he spared the stupid boy only one parting wish— that he might learn something from Achilles’ shadow.

ii.

The fire cast Peleus’ chambers in a mute glow. Dim crackling filled the spaces between his words, a second voice mingling to tell the tale.Peleus sat deep in his chair, arms dangling like grapevines. Day by day, age seeped further under his skin, to his bones. He hardly felt like the man who had served Heracles and rode with Jason.

Achilles shuffled in the shadows, his eyes a glint of green from the dark. Peleus traced Achilles gaze to Patroclus, who had tilted his mouth in a sweet grin. Achilles’ teeth flashed white in return, and the smile was almost unnatural to see on his son.He remembered youth, of quick heartbeats and rushing hot blood. Of furtive glances at the sweat-coated curve of muscle that stretched across the back of his general. But Achilles, great as he might become, was not yet a man, had not experience nor understanding.

A hand shot out and circled around Patroclus’ ankle. Achilles’ snicker, half-covered, rolled into the air from his corner. Peleus did not miss the light brush of Achilles’ thumb against Patroclus’ heel, the softening of Patroclus’ face.

He called for an end to the night, carefully slipping mention of a servant girl who wished to bed Achilles. The sudden shutter of Achilles’ face confirmed all that remained unspoken.

iii.

The wind stirred the trees and sent air unfurling, crisp and clean, through the leaves. Chiron shifted his tail at the breeze, nosing the scent in the atmosphere. Rain was due by nightfall. He inclined his head towards the boys, a lecture on weather-reading in mind.Achilles and Patroclus were crouched in the grass beyond him, huddled so close that their hair brushed. Chiron heard their soft murmurs of conversation as they probed the ground for herbs. Their fingers touched and lingered among the green blades.

It was unusual for a hero to have remained so long in the crags and caves of Mount Pelion, more unusual still to have done so with a companion. Chiron never asked his heroes to go, yet the day always came when they donned armor and rode to battle.Young Achilles was birthed with greatness sighed above him, sticking on lips like honey. He would take whatever measures necessary to make the words true. Chiron knew Achilles, saw his unerring limbs and swift feet. Saw his blank eyes, the mark of all heroes.

Blank for all but Patroclus, who melted Achilles like brown sugar over fire, shifted his balance from half-god to half-human. Such a thing was as rare as juniper in spring, and Chiron could do little but to protect Achilles’ link to humanity.

Chiron called for them, amused as they leaped back from each other with pink cheeks.

iv.

Briseis lingered by the tent, the flap of the entrance thick and coarse beneath her fingers. The flat bottom of the plate pressed, heavy and cool, on her hand. She glanced at the berries rolling about on its surface, ripe and fat with juice. Their thick skins, washed clean, gleamed in the fading light like pearls. Her pulse thrummed in her neck. She would ask Patroclus today. The berries bumped off each other as she reached to open the tent.

A soft moan stopped her hand in midair, the ties still loose in her palm. She redid the ties with practiced ease, hissing quietly, and quickly backed away. Another sound joined the first, followed by an unmistakable sigh: “Achilles.”

Briseis stopped, eyes wide as the emerging moon, filled with a horrendous wonder.

A response. “Patroclus,” each syllable drawn out and rounded, the word infused with sweetness.  More moans carried away by the evening air, stretched sighs that faded even as they reached Briseis’ ears. She willed her legs to move and carry her away, but they were frozen, stuck to the ground.

Finally, after the sun had slipped from the sky, came the sounds that peaked and tapered away slowly, leaving only breath behind.

“Patroclus.” Achilles’ clear voice, somehow warmed. “Therapon, philtatos.”

“Dikos mou,” Patroclus replied, the words sounding muffled by skin. She listened to his gentle kisses, her Greek proficient enough to understand what he had said.

Dikos mou. Mine.

Briseis left, haunted by the sounds of Patroclus’ love.

v.

The ground hummed as Patroclus spoke, the throat of a melody. Thetis felt his pain course through the earth, making the grass shiver. He spoke of her son with words soft like cotton, as yielding as a freshly plowed field.

Humans were weak, rarely logical and far too easy victim to their emotions. Thetis expected Patroclus to rage of his anger, speak seething of the gods. To lament Achilles and curse his hubris. To give bitter insult to Neoptolemus, his refusal to give Patroclus proper rest.

Instead, all she felt from him was love, strong and coursing.

Below, Achilles’ sorrow speared through her in waves. Hades did not welcome those of Olympus, and her son ached like a limb, a part of her own body. Patroclus’ words washed over the grief that laced her skin, hers and Achilles’ together, soothing as a balm of yarrow.

As always, the salty spray of the sea sang to her, crowded the edge of her senses. But for the first time, she closed her mind to the waters and let herself listen. The hill vibrated beneath her feet.

She scooped away the stone like jam, carving the name with one dark fingernail. PATROCLUS. Together, with her son. In writing as in life, as forever in Elysium.

She smiled as she told him.

~vi.~

Agamemnon whirled towards Diomedes, face white and contorted.

“They have no sense of propriety.” He spit out the words through gnashing teeth, fury tightening his lips.

Achilles and Patroclus giggled at Agamemnon from behind an oak tree, fingers laced together. Patroclus gave him a hard eye roll, and Achilles blew a raspberry before quickly ducking back behind the trunk. Their laughter carried over, tinkling like windchimes.

Agamemnon clenched his fists until his veins popped. “This needs to stop. I will go to Hades himself if I must.”

Diomedes gnawed eagerly at his leg of lamb, letting out a chorus of appreciative moans.

“DIOMEDES!” Agamemnon stamped his feet. “Useless slob!”

Diomedes finally extracted his mouth from the half-eaten roast, lips slippery with oil and bits of herb plastered around his face.

“Give it a rest, Mem.”

“I will not—”

“Just because you got in a spat with your old lady—”

“DO NOT MENTION CLYTEMNESTRA!” Agamemnon toppled dangerously at the intensity of his yell, face coloring from white to purple.

“Look.” Diomedes sighed dramatically and placed a greasy hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder. Agamemnon immediately ducked away, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“You’ve been on about this for, like, three thousand years of their time.” He pointed a finger upwards with emphasis. “When you first started ranting, we were still pissing in holes. In Elysium. Now, we have state-of-the-art toilets with bidets. Bidets, man.”

Agamemnon blanched, eying Diomedes like a particularly stubborn piece of mud on his shoe. “You talk about toilets. While eating.

“Just. Why don’t you go bother Odysseus and Penelope for now? They’re also looking pretty sickeningly happy.”

Odysseus and Penelope waved at them from the distance, and Agamemnon threw up his middle finger.

“Or, go to the sauna or something. You’re always less stressed after a spa trip.”

“Ugh.” Agamemnon grumbled, throwing another stink eye at Achilles and Patroclus, who were now sitting on the ground and giving each other butterfly kisses. “Fine. But I will get them. Mark my words.” He backed away slowly, keeping a menacing stare trained at Achilles. A rock caught his heel, and he stumbled over himself, tripping and falling with a thump.

Elysium echoed with laughter.

[vesperlionheart]

Imbolc

Arranged Marriage SakuraUchiha gift for @beyondthemoor because she’s amazing and deserves this. Hope you enjoy friend! Sorry for the rush edits and typos I’m sure I missed along the way. 

She broke the night with the clashing of metal on metal. The fire was hot and glowing an angry red behind her as she brought the hammer back down to the anvil with another ring. Again and again she fashioned the form out of something formless until the end result was a blade hungry for moonlight and war.

“She who is adored by the poets, she who heals, and she who smiths bid me so that I may know what face do you wear for me tonight?”

Sakura looked up from her blade, now cold to the touch, and frowned at the figure just beyond the reach of her forge’s protective ring. The imp crouched low but threw its voice to appear elsewhere. It should have known better than to provoke her when she worked.

Returning her sword to the working table she trekked out to the edge of her  forge and undid the ties around her sleeves, letting them fall free over her hands where her magic might be concealed. The imp shivered but did not retreat, not his first mistake but likely his last.

“Return to your shadows and take the fruits from your markets elsewhere. I do no welcome you to my lands. “

The imp chittered to itself in stressed glee. “Dear oh dear oh dear, oh dear, she bids me fleeeeee.”

Sakura lifted her hand and an older blade, larger and longer than any man’s arm might dare to wield hung suspended in air just beyond her fingertips. She twitched her pinky and the blade leveled horizontally, edges shining in moonlight.

The imp’s chittering cut off on a strangled gurgle of fear.

When she spoke her words were darker and calmer than well water. “Return, worm.”

It sprung from the shadows and stretched itself out on the ground, prostrate. “Exalted one! All respects to the goddess of the forge, the spring, and the healing, all respect to the triple goddess, all respect be brought to thee. We seek to humbly beg a seat at your wedding table for our master.”

Sakura’s ire wavered and then returned full force. Her fingers flexed and the blade impaled the imp through his body, cutting him neatly in half before he could regret the folly of his words. Her sword swung under the moonlight, dripping with black ichor she blew off before returning her sword to the world she kept it for.

“The nerve of some of these parasites.”

She returned to the table where her new moon sword waited for her. She sat with it and listened to the metal singing in the moonlight before etching the spell work into its blade with her enchanted etch.  

It was comforting work she was thankful for. It helped distract her from the unavoidable end of her independence. That was the price she owed for her own part in her brother’s loss with the war between invaders and gods.

The sun crested over the hill and Sakura opened her eyes, but the forge was gone. She had no more need for it as her nature was new once more. She breathed deep and the forest breathed with her. She stepped down the grass field and flowers bloomed where her feet touched the ground all the way to the river bed where the foliage positively sang for her.

“You had a hard night?” the fae from the other side of the water asked.

“An unwelcome guest stained the threshold of my door. I detest the stink of hubris.”

Ino grinned with all the sickening charm of a Good Neighbor and laughed. “And yet you will be bound to not one but three such monsters in one more night’s time.”

Sakura set her mouth into a hard line and the world around her stilled, vegetation seemed to hold its breath around her. No new flowers bloomed when she walked along the river’s edge. “Have you come to ask for seat at my table, mind walker?”

“Don’t be so cold to your oldest friend,” Ino laughed.

Sakura didn’t join her. There was a reason she wore a silver bell around her belt.

“I am not bound by the old magics to give or deny you anything. Ask plainly and do not be deceitful, as is your nature.” Sakura steeped out onto the surface of the water cut between them. When she spoke again her voice was softer. “Speak your desire to me, Ino.”

At the sound of her name the fae queen stilled and seemed to settle. She watched Sakura plainly with eyes that had seen the beginning of the world as well as the end of it. After a moment she took a step to the edge, toes curling over the lip as came as close as she dared.

“Seat me at your table, old friend. Let me share in your day. I will not ask again.”

“It’s not in your nature to ask for anything, so I won’t deny you, even though it pains me,” Sakura sighed, relaxing. It seemed Ino wasn’t in the mood to make mischief. “You will have your seat at my table. Bring your horned king. It will be a feast for the ages.”

Ino’s shoulders relaxed and she reached out to touch the side of Sakura’s face. They were creatures of opposite natures, but in spite of that Ino and Sakura were alike enough to be friends. “Tell me of your heart, dear friend. What do you fear?”

“I fear nothing. I do what must be done.” Sakura rested her hand atop Ino’s and leaned into the touch of it. “The three faces of my nature might not be easily understood. I do not know how they will meet me.”

“They offered you three princes from their table. Might you think this shows their respect for your nature?”

“Perhaps.”

The pair lapsed into silence and followed the river to its splitting point. By the end of the day Sakura was another aspect of herself, healing the sickness from the creatures that managed to bring themselves to her sacred glade.

Before the next new morning could dawn she felt the chill of a trespassing onto the last of her temples. Any other time she might not have cared, but all her shrines had been desecrated and all her tables laid to ruin save one. It was the oldest and strongest of her temples, but it was still a crude and weathered thing hiding in the fog around an island peaking up out of a lake.

Sakura caught up the ends of her dress, the fabric wrinkling under her fingers as she turned and traversed a dozen leagues in a single step. She walked until she was at the edge of the lake where she could see a collection of boats moored on the sides. Off between the trees a couple of men in the Conqueror’s odd armor sat, eating breakfast. No one turned to see her through the veil of her magic, so she stepped out onto the waters and crossed them to her island.

A single boat big enough for four was left moored on her rocks. Foot prints in the stones and grass led away from it up to her temple.

Her last temple.

She would give up her godhood, her title, her lands, and bend her head to offer her power to these new people, but the last of her temples was a place she would end herself for. The old kings, sleeping and waiting for the end days, were hers to watch over and she was willing to pay their price with her blood.

She drew the bog’s fog up around her and the air turned thick and gray as she passed through the stones, carved and etched with her sacred words. It wasn’t enough that they stole her people from her. Must they also defile the last of her secret places?

There were three of them, one taller and older than the others with long wild hair, woven back into a thick braid down to his waist. The one behind him was slight and fair with the same dark hair, though his was tame as silk, unbraided and free over his shoulders. The last had his hair cut neatly short, though curled over the edges of a golden circlet. He was thicker in frame than the second man, but not the first. All had the eyes of the conquerors, black pools that bled red like fire with wicked magic.

‘They can kill a god and it is not for us to die, so we will make peace with them and wait until their mortal lives expire.’

Sakura drew the fog around her tighter and pressed up against a pillar, keen to hide herself when she knew their eyes could see through her magic if they were clever enough to use it at the right time.

“This is it?” the curly haired one asked, skipping ahead to the front and then peering back over his shoulder. “It’s not a lot to look at.”

“The fog obscures vision,” the tallest and broadest of them said.

“Still not a lot to look at, I mean I know they said we left this temple untouched, but are you sure. Itachi, is this place supposed to look so barren?”

The one with hair like silk climbed the stone steps up alongside his companion and hummed thoughtfully as he watched the last wisps of fog drift past the center of the temple. “It is the relic site. This is the oldest of her temples and likely the one in the most disrepair. Only her most devout knew about this location.”

“Until us,” the curly one chuckled.

He was smacked upside the head by their leader. “Hush, Shisui and show some respect. Or have your forgotten the reason we came here today?”

Itachi stopped and looked back, frowning at Shisui. “Madara is right, we are not here to disrespect the good lady any more than she’s already been. We came with gifts for that reason.”

The comment made Sakura relax slightly, more curious than agitated. It sounded like they didn’t know the true importance of her last shrine, or even how to get to it. The stone work above ground was only for show. Of course it looked shabby.

Shisui pouted and pulled out a bundle of brown paper that crinkled. “Where do we even leave this stuff, though?”

“Look for the icons,” said Madara.

Madara pressed on and then waved back over his shoulder as she started to take the steps down into the sunken circle at the far end were three stones with the same face carved into them. At the base of each was a small alter laid bare save for one unmoving object. One the first alter a sword, on the second a flowering tree branch, and on the last a serpent woven around a wand.

Madara was first to slide up to her alter with the sword. He knelt before it and began to remove his own offerings. Behind him Shisui walked up to the alter with the flowering branch, kneeling to unbind the brown paper. Itachi approached the last alter, more hesitantly than the other two, but he knelt and started to bring out his own offerings.

Sakura felt warm in her chest when the first small candle was lit to burn instance for her. A small dagger decorated with mother of pearl rested next to the bag of spices, candles, and bread. Madara also cut free some salted meat to leave on the bread and pair it with a simple flagon of his favorite wine.

Shisui had his own clustering of colorful flowers, bound together in pretty ribbon the same color as the candle. He laid out a letter as well, sealed with wax. His letter was already known to her the moment it touched her alter, but she would wait until later to dissect his poetry for her.

Itachi was the last to set out his offerings. He lit scented candles as well, but prepared for her a collection of spices and filled a goblet with wine. A handful of mallow blossoms cushioned the candles, and in a silk bag were a number of candies made from the blossom mothers would use to sooth the throats of their crying sons and daughters.

Sakura realized at once who these three men were without a doubt.

The said a small prayer she could hear in her heart even if her ears didn’t. Then they left one by one. Madara finished first and gathered his extra items, carrying them off. Shisui followed soon after, but was quick to catch up with Madara and begin talking in his ear. Itachi stood last but paused to stare up at her stone face, watching it like it was made to move. The fog separated Shisui and Madara from Itachi they were so far away, but Itachi stayed a moment long before dragging his feet across the circle and them up the stairs.

Sakura emerged from behind the stones and stepped into the circle, walking until the shrines were behind her. The stones circled around a center piece she stopped on.

The fog drifted low, but when Itachi turned to look back from the top of the stairs she was sure he could see her. His eyes went wide and his mouth hung open only a fraction. It was a pretty mouth and she might have taken it for herself if he were closer.

Further back Shisui’s chattering carried. “What do you think it’ll be like, all married to the same person? Is she one body or does she have three of those? Will I have to sleep with you, Uncle?”

“Shut up before I crush your face. Kagami could still take your place.”

“Not a chance, I earned this!”

Their voices drifted, muffled and lost on the other side of the fog but Itachi stayed rooted to the top of the stairs, eyes fixed on her. She picked up a marshmallow candy and held it between her fingers. Slowly, knowing he watched her every move, she slipped the candy between her lips into her mouth and swallowed, licking the powder off her fingers without breaking eye contact with the young prince.

Itachi staggered and she pulled up the fog between them. A moment later he stumbled back down into the sunken circle, waving away the fog only to find nothing. She wore her veil of invisibility well and would never be seen if he didn’t turn around, but she couldn’t help herself. Sakura stepped up behind him and kissed the base of his neck, then melted into the fog with just enough time to miss getting caught by his spinning red eyes.

-

Madara sat at the head of his table and watched the banquet with his red eyes spinning, picking out the celestial gods and men alike who mingled over good ale and better wine. They intermingled so easily it was hard to imagine that only months earlier they had been at war. The Uchiha had suffered heavy losses, but men could be replaced, gods could not.

He heard the sound of a muted bell and turned suddenly, hoping to see her, but Sakura hadn’t approached his table yet. She was somewhere in the hall, but there were three husbands with three different tables she needed to visit at her leisure.

They had warned him she might show favor to only one of them if her dominate feature didn’t change throughout the night. He was still getting used to what that meant and wasn’t sure he exactly understood it, but he was willing to wait until it was his turn.

“She’s with Itachi. Poor sap is practically disgraced at the table,” Izuna teased at his brother’s side.

Madara growled but let his brother speak. Izuna was the only one who could get away with saying such things and keep his head on his shoulders. Madara wouldn’t tolerate anyone else speaking so casually with him.

“He is her husband as much as I am. That’s to be expected,” he forced himself to say. “And don’t taunt me just because you’re still sore Itachi won your bid.”

Izuna frowned and leaned back away from his brother. “That’s beside the point, aren’t you grumpy big brother? Want to play a game to pass the time?”

“Not at all.”

Izuna chuckled into his wine. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m patient.”

Izuna drank and then pushed around some food on his plate before brushing it aside to lean across the table. “Tell me, brother, what was she like when you exchanged your vows? What did you see?”

“You know what she looks like.”

“She keeps herself mostly veiled to us onlookers. I know she’s stunning beautiful, but that’s to be expected of a goddess, isn’t it?”

Madara had seen multiple gods and goddesses and all had perfect, flawless bodies, but they weren’t fae, they weren’t covered in a glamor that made them impossibly beautiful. They still had human features and characteristics. Sakura was-Sakura had-

Madara reached for his wine and drank deep.

The memory of their union haunted him. Sakura was even more perfect than in any of his dreams from boyhood on. Or maybe it was just another nightmare, mocking him with its haunting details.

The night wore on and Izuna left to mingle at the other tables but Madara waited in his seat at the head of the table. It was where he was supposed to stay until she greeted him. 

There was plenty of entertainment. As the goddesses adored by poets, there was an unending stream of composers, bards, and entertainers that wished to share some of their achievements at her wedding. Some sang beautifully enough to even move Madara, but it did little to put his heart at ease as the first night of feasting drew to a close.

“It’s alright. Three husbands, three nights, that’s just how it’s going to go. Did you expect her to come to you on the first night?” Izuna asked him later as they retreated to bed.

Madara said nothing but was thankful enough that his brother didn’t say anything else about how Itachi had retired much earlier to his chambers. He didn’t want to think about things that would only turn his heart in envy. They all knew they would have to share the goddess between them, and he was ready for that, but that didn’t mean some things wouldn’t annoy him.  Maybe it would be better once he was visited on his own.

He took his time getting ready for bed, reading through supply reports and field updates for his troop movements into the lands unruled by clans. They waged war against the gods first, but past the civilized lands were the wilds where savage clans still needed conquering. It was fickle work the gods didn’t care for one way or the other.

He poured more drink for himself, upset by how awake he was and went to the window.

Silver in the night caught his eye. The moon was mostly swollen and nearly full, so the figure practicing in the field below was outlined in silver. Her blade was magnificent and long. When she swung her whole body moved, minimizing the window an opponent might seize for an opening.

His hand stilled, wine halfway to his lips, when he realized who practiced in the fields.

He didn’t stop to take a robe, only his own sword. Less than a minute later he was on the ground level, stalking out towards the field where his wife practiced alone among the grass and weeds.

“You do not look exhausted,” he called to her.

Sakura finished her stance, swinging the sword out wide, switching from two hands to one before locking into a new stance that faced him, expression firm and ready. She lifted a single brow and fixed her eyes on his form. His shirt was open, collar to navel, and tucked into his most comfortable riding trousers. She lifted her eyes to his face at last and Madara warmed in appreciate when he read her approval.

“Nor do you,” she finally said. Sakura swung her blade around and then let it rest at her side. “Were you terribly bothered with the feast’s lavish delights?”

“Absolutely overwhelmed.” Madara grinned and held up his own sword. “Would you mind the company?”

“To spar or dance?”

Practicing the steps alongside one could be considered a dance, but Madara’s blood was finally racing. “Let us cross blades and dance with our teeth,” he chuckled, unsheathing his blade and fixing his body into a ready stance.

She inclined her chin and grinned. “I’m not nearly your equal with the blade, please go easy on me,” she cooed.

“Not a chance, my lady.”

She laughed and then lunged.

Sparring with a goddess was exhilarating. Her domains were not war related, in fact she was a goddess more closely associated with the home and hearth, but as one of her aspects was the goddess of forge work and the craft of weapon smithing, she knew the balance of her blade well.  

Still, Madara was an Uchiha for a reason, and with his red eyes cutting through her magic, he stood found himself gaining ground on her. She was fast and strong, and most importantly she didn’t tire, but Madara was a desperate animal in comparison, and Sakura likely didn’t know what it meant to want something so bad it eclipsed the desire to live.

Their swords sang and with his strength he sent her blade swinging out of her hands, arching overhead to cut across the moon and impale itself in the grass behind her. He pushed on and managed to pin her to the grasses, blade at her pale neck.

“You didn’t make it easy for me,” he panted on a laugh.

Sakura lowered the lids of her eyes and tilted her head back, exposing more neck. “You have me at your mercy my lord. I apparently did not make it too easy for you.”

Madara removed the blade, but settled his hands on either side of her face and loomed over her. His hair was wild and free of its usual braid, making a curtain around them as he moved directly over her.

“You didn’t visit my table tonight.”

“I didn’t.”

He touched the side of her face, smearing a trace of soil there. It did nothing to diminish her beauty in his eyes. He felt himself at a loss in spite of his status as the obvious winner.

“I wanted you,” he breathed, face close enough that his nose touched hers. “Did you know?”

“I knew.”

He made a sound with his lips, closing his eyes and nudging his face under her jaw. He hissed her neck where his sword had been only moment earlier and delighted when he felt her stiffen beneath him.

“You know I want you now, don’t you?”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond but slanted his lips over hers and kissed her deeply, nearly falling on top of her as he felt her hands come up behind his neck to pull him down to her. Madara tasted his favorite wine on her and couldn’t help but remember his offering at her shrine.

Sakura moved under him, rising up her body to brush his and he felt the thinness of her night dress.  He pulled away to trail kisses down the side of her face, neck, to her chest and he hear her moan his name.

His hand found her thigh and pushed up the fabric to her hip and held the curve of her there. “You are my wife, are you not?” he asked, sane enough to hesitate for her.

“And you are my husband, are you not?” she countered.

Madara swallowed and fought down his urges for a handful of words. “And... do you want me now?”

He met her eyes and nearly lost himself at how clear and beautiful they were in the moonlight. She didn’t say anything more, but in response she reached up again and pulled him back down to kiss him thoroughly.

-

Shisui found her on the third day in the halls, choking the life out of something not quite human. The creature was human shaped and had fingers ending in points still dripping with her blood. Sakura turned to look back over her shoulder, completely unconcerned with the pale green-white ichor spilling from her side. It was already starting to seal up and turn back into flesh.

“And here I thought I had fallen in love with the most docile of your three aspects,” Shisui joked, grinning like mad at the lifeless form held aloft.

Sakura released her hold on its throat and it crumpled to the floor and burst into dust. When she turned the train of her gown fluttered through the smoke, blooming with new flowers.

“What do you think the spring blooms feed on, my love?” she called back, knowing better than anyone else that Shisui was joking with her.

He knew exactly what sort of nature her spring aspect was. He had left her letters at her shrine, so of course she wrote him back.  

“You are terrifying,” he chuckled, color high on his cheeks.

“And you love it, so don’t pretend otherwise,” she said, as she stepped over the dust to stand before him. “What are you doing here? You should be at your table, should you not?”

Shisui’s eyes were dark in the dimly lit hallway, but they were starting to bleed with a brighter color. “Yes, I should, but I am terrible about being conventional and following rules, as you already know. It’s the third day and both my sincere but sickly cousin and even my gruff old uncle have been graced with your presence. It’s the last day and I’m jealous.”

“You should have learned how to share,” she chastised him. So close to him he realized how he was a head and a half taller than her. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

“I’m…” Shisui had to swallow before saying anything more. “I’m terribly dull and not very good when it comes to learning new things. Do you think perhaps you could, teach me?”

“I am better as a muse than a teacher,” she answered, rocking back on her heels and holding her elbows after crossing her arms.

Shisui stiffened when it looked like she wouldn’t advance any more. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and laughed over a cough. “Ah, well maybe I could use a muse.”

“Maybe you could,” she chuckled, leaning back again.

She didn’t advance and made no move to take any aggressive stance with him, in spite of how he found her only moments ago. She was a terrifying woman he was excited for and yet she didn’t seem interested in him.

“Do you enjoy torturing all your lovers, or just the ones you know will suffer the most?” he sighed, smile turning sloppy.

“You seem to have a fair grasp on my nature, why don’t you tell me, husband?” she said, tilting her head to the side and smiling out of the corner of her mouth.

Her hair was partly braided, but huge curls slipped over her bare shoulders and brushed the front of her emerald green dress. It was soft and shimmered in velvet waves, caught up in a silver triangle just under her breasts.

“I am no expert on your nature, as any poet could laughingly tell you, my goddess.” He chuckled as his tone turned self depreciating. “Now I only wish to ask you honestly, if you find my union to your nature less than pleasing? If there is something I lack, please let me fix it.”  

“Do you think you are lacking?”

Shisui liked to think himself confident, but he knew he wasn’t. He knew he was a pretty lie. Out of the three of them, he had only just barely won his bid and knew that if he hadn’t thrown his hat in, Kagami or Izuna would have filled in just fine and probably done a better job of being a good husband. They at least had a purer linage to fall back on, they at least had conquests of their own to boast of. He wasn’t even sure why he had been chosen or won the bid in the first place, he was just so glad he didn’t want to question it.

“You expect much from me?” he asked, expression matching his hopeful tone.

Her lips parted then turned down in a frown as she moved close enough to reach his face and hold it with one hand. “I expect much from all my husbands, and first and foremost I expect their confidence. You are my consort, you stand at my side and will warm my bed in the night. Can you think yourself unworthy of that?”  

“Of course not,” he lied.

She applied more pressure, not enough to be painful, but enough to show him he was caught good and sure. Her free hand grabbed at his wrist and he felt himself pushed back against the stone wall of the corridor. Weeds in between the cracks began to grow, wrapping around his fingers first and then his hands and arms.

“Tell me why you doubt,” she said in a voice that left no room for argument.

“Tell me why I was chosen,” he countered, unafraid of her bindings.

She put her lips under his ear and whispered, breath hot on his skin enough to make him shiver. “Ooh to find the pale shadow of a woman, the black Delilah, the eternal mother, the willow, and ash tree’s maker. Call her ancient queen and weep. She digs your graves with her silver spoon and buries your thankful heart.”

She bit the side of his neck and he caught his cry between his teeth, swallowing the sound as she sucked on his skin, making her mark. She pulled away enough to kiss her love bite and Shisui tried not to shiver.

“You think I could ignore the writer of such words?”

“You think that’s enough?��� he breathed.

She grabbed at his throat and her fingers tilted his face down. “Don’t look down on the words of men, for they will move mountains with their pens while the sword of lesser brutes break upon the rocks. You are a knave and a fool and a little bit of a broken soul, but I married you so have some more confidence, Shisui.”

“That’s a fairly accurate summary of a bard,” he laughed, still excited and dizzy for her. “Not exactly what the Uchiha were proud to count in their ranks.”

“What you lack is not what I care for. Your family is a community of conquerors, and you have forgotten to value the arts, but that does not mean you can be ashamed of them. Your stories, your songs, your poetry…all of these things are what I adore.”

When she looked up into his eyes she saw his true nature and all the shame he hid under witty smiles and silver tongued words. Sakura dropped her hand and backed away. The weeds holding him in place went slack.

“I won’t touch you again until you fix that way of thinking.”

Shisui surged, reaching for her. “I won’t have to.”  

And because he kissed her with the fullness of his confidence she let him.

-

The dawn was a mess of colors, some as soft as her hair, others as brilliant as the eyes of her husbands. Sakura watched the sunrise from her window. Behind her on the bed Madara and Shisui slept far apart from each other on opposite sides. Beside Shisui Itachi slept on, taking his turn on the edge apart from her.

Each one slept off his mortal exhaustion while Sakura was left to ponder the nature of her predicament. Her belly was noticeably swollen now, and their other children were on the far side of the castle, asleep between their dogs and various guardian animals.

Sakura hummed to herself, warming her face with the new light while stroking the swell of her belly. When the curtain of invisibility dropped over the room, separating her and her guest from her sleeping husbands she didn’t react.

“You’re far too content,” the new voice said.

“You were the one who agreed I should be the sacrifice. You married me off for this very reason.”

“We didn’t expect so many children. You’re seeding the earth.”

Sakura laughed, eyes bright with mirth as she turned to face the god of skies and thunder. “I am the goddess of spring, among other things. Between three husbands four or five children shouldn’t be unusual.”

“You have no plans to stop at four or five.”

Sakura hummed, a pretty blush turning her cheeks pink. “They spoil me terribly when I’m pregnant and I do love having children of my own. You could never do that for me, after all.”

Kakashi sucked in a breath and it was a moment more before he spoke. “Even though we were not compatible, I didn’t think that mattered. These mortals will expire before the century ends. Please don’t…continue with your wild seeding. The other gods are nervous.”

“Why would they be nervous?” she laughed with a knowing look to her eyes. “Just because my children can kill you doesn’t mean they will. I could kill you. You could kill me. Ability doesn’t imply motive.”

“They possess mortal hearts. They will not think as we do. Sakura, please. They’re willing to take you back. We can drive out the invaders now. Our numbers are more-”

“No.”

Kakashi went very still. “No?”

“They’re not invaders, they’re my family and I love them.” Sakura smiled down at her belly and stroked it lovingly. “I’ll protect them and hide them away on my island of Avalon to live forever. When the world ends they’ll rise up along all our kings and I’ll be there.” She turned to look up at Kakashi through her lashes. “But you won’t be. Remember how you feel in this moment, Kakashi, for the next time you offer up your lover for an easy peace. I am the goddess of many things. Your death may very well be one of them.”

Kakashi was gone faster than lightning and the curtain of his invisibility shattered with a soundless breath. Still, somehow, Itachi stirred. He was always the most sensitive to her magic.

She watched him wake, blinking blearily up at the colored sky through the window before noticing her there on the sill. His smile was still shy after so many years, but it didn’t stop him from creeping out of bed and making a beeline for her.

“How is my goddess this morning?” he asked in a whisper.

Itachi knelt in front of her and pushed up her night dress enough so that he might kiss her belly without obstruction. Sakura bit her lip, delighted at the tickle of his kiss.

“She’s delighted, of course. And her little girl is happy too now that her father is awake.”

Itachi’s smile stretched wide across his face. “Not as happy as her father is, I’m sure. We could use a girl after so many boys.”

He kissed her belly again and whispered ‘good morning little one’ into her skin. Sakura felt a kick and looked up to see Itachi’s delighted expression. It warmed her heart more than anything else ever had in all the years of her long life.

“Itachi,” she whispered his name.

When he looked up he frowned at the tears on her face. “Why do you cry, my love?”

“I’m so happy I’m with you,” she laughed through her whisper. She reached for him and kissed his hair, tears falling anew. “Thank you for saving me.”

He chuckled and kissed her back. “I’m not sure what I saved you from, but I’m happy to bring you joy.”

“Forever and ever?” she sighed.

“Forever and ever,” he promised.  

[cobblepot-comfort]

Some drama and trouble for our devoted pair:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14157339/chapters/43808419#workskin

Not Just a Walk in the Park

For the first time in a long time, Oswald woke up alone.

He was holed up in a tiny cell 6 ft by 4 ft.

It was dark, and it took his eyes a while to adjust and make out his surroundings.

He had been placed on a shallow mattress on the floor. He had one thin blanket to cover himself with.

The floor was hard, and his leg was killing him, as he had been lying awkwardly on a shallow mattress on top of a cold, hard surface.

He struggled to his feet, groaning and wincing, and looked around him.  He really needed his stick but of course, that had been taken from him in the attack.

His head was also fuzzy and aching, they must have stuck him with some kind of drug to keep him unconscious.  However, what really concerned him was not his physical pain, but the fact he was alone and he remembered Jim shouting something, recalled hearing a shot before he was knocked out -  just after the bag was thrown over his head.

His heart lurched -  he felt sick. What happened to Jim?  Where was he, what did they do to him?  Was he shot?

He shivered not just from the cold but also the fear that something awful could have befallen Jim.

He limped slowly and painfully over to the metal cell door, yelled and commenced banging on it.  He hit the door so hard that it bruised then lacerated his knuckles. They cracked and bled, but still he beat his fist over and over.  

“Show yourself!  Show yourself!” he cried, over and over again, until he was hoarse, until he had almost no breath or voice left.

He stood there gasping, regaining his breath, readying himself to launch another tirade at the silent, unhearing door.

“You cowardly bastards!”  he cried. “Where are you?  Who are you? What do you want with me? What have you done with Jim?!”

He sobbed with anger and fear - but at this point, he allowed anger to be the dominant emotion.  Anger was an energy. It would stop him from going under, from surrendering, giving in to whatever mental torment - and in all likelihood, physical torture -  they seemed hell bent on putting him through. Whoever ‘they’ were. Why didn’t the cowards make an appearance, show their faces to him?

Then after what seemed like an eternity of screaming abuse at a blank door and getting nil  response, he finally collapsed in exhausted tears. He hobbled back to the makeshift bed he woke up in, pulled the thin blankets they had provided around himself, trying to keep warm, and cried himself bitterly into a fitful sleep.

He slept and woke in fits and starts, thinking he heard noises periodically, but then finding it was all in his head. The effects of the drug had  not completely worn off and he so he was still feeling physically tired even though psychologically, his nerves were jangling.

In his waking moments, he remembered walking with Jim in the park, so carefree and in love.  It had been a beautiful spring day, he remembered. He had no idea what the weather was like now, as there were no windows to look out of.

He also had no idea what the time was as ‘they’ had taken all his jewellery including his watch - but the worst thing of all was the engagement ring, finding that now his finger was bare.  They took that too!

His angry, heartbroken tears fell afresh.  “I’m so sorry Jim,” he whispered, as if Jim was there to hear his confession.  He couldn’t help holding himself accountable for the loss of the precious treasure given to him with such love and devotion all that time ago.

He recalls Jim’s smile, his gentle hand on the small of his back, and the warm late spring sunshine on his face as they walked along together.  That moment was one of the happiest of his life and this day should have been so perfect….

Their wedding was now just two months away.  They had been full of excitement, full of hope for the future.

Why hadn’t he listened to Jim?  They should have brought those two goons along for protection.  Oswald had always nurtured a certain amount of healthy paranoia, it had helped him to stay alive - but being with Jim had made him feel invincible somehow, safe, protected, and he had begun to feel more calm and relaxed about everything in general.  Love would conquer all - he had come to believe that now more than ever.

Now he was paying the price for his complacency, holed up in this disgusting damp, dark jail cell, God knows where, all alone and isolated.

But despite all this, he would feel much happier if he knew Jim was ok.    As long as Jim hadn’t paid the price for his carelessness….

Where were his captors, and when would they come to him and tell him what the hell was going on?

He didn’t care what they did to him, as long as Jim was safe.

Oswald hadn’t noticed the small surveillance camera positioned high up at the far corner of the room.

Enzo stood there watching the footage on the monitor, smiling to himself.

Yeah, let him cry himself to sleep, the stupid fag.    As if he could have got the better of me, he thought. Him and his hubris!  Him and his fag cop boyfriend. He would so enjoy torturing the little bastard.

He wasn’t keen to identify himself - in fact the hostage negotiations were all being conducted through a third party.  Contracted out, as it were. That would confuse the GCPD, put them off the scent.

He just had to decide if he would, ultimately, let this scumbag live or enjoy eventually putting him out of his misery with a bullet in his brain.  Because that’s what he would be begging for in the end.

Earlier that day:

“Let’s go for a walk in the park!”

Oswald smiled at Jim across the breakfast table, stirring the sugar into his bitter black coffee as he spoke.

Jim bit ravenously into his second slice of toast, thickly spread with butter and preserves.

They sure had worked up an appetite last night!

“Yeah, why not?  It’s a nice day for it.”

The sun was indeed shining, brighter than it had done in a while.

It was a shame to waste it.

“I have a feeling this is going to be a great weekend!” he grinned. Ozzy smiled back, dazzling him with his bright blue eyes, put down his coffee spoon  and teased the soft spikes of his ravishing raven mane with his elegant fingers.

“Me too.”  Oswald smiled with affirmation, winking his pretty blue eye.   He reached for the preserves.

“I’ll just call up Stan and Lee, they’ll want to come with us I suppose,” Jim said, beginning to punch in their numbers on his cell.

These were Oswald’s two new bodyguards, who seemed to be taking their job very seriously.  Almost too seriously, Jim thought, although he was still grateful that they were around to protect Oswald.

And they had come highly recommended by the employment agency.  Gabe had made sure of that - he wanted reliable men to take care of his boss while he and Zsasz were busy making the wedding arrangements - or as he put it to Oswald, sorting out a big problem in the Narrows.

“No, Jim - I really don’t want those two hanging around us today.  I want to be alone with you.”

“I know sweetheart, I want to be alone with you too.  But - well, after the trial..you know, after what Enzo said….”

“He doesn’t scare me!”  Oswald scoffed, then he took a big bite out of his toast.  “Besides, they wouldn’t dare do anything when we’re out in broad daylight in full view of the public,” he continued indignantly, brandishing his toast crust.  “That wouldn’t do their case any good! And besides, Detective Gordon - I feel safe with you.” He gave Jim an extra wide feline smile.

Jim’s heart fluttered, as it always did when Oswald looked that way at him.   He took a breath and collected himself.

“Oswald - please, seriously, I want to be sure you’re safe - we need this backup, at least until we can get enough evidence to put Enzo behind bars,”  Jim frowned anxiously.

Oswald cocked his head and smiled softly at Jim.  “Ahhhh Jim,” he sighed. “I’m so touched that you care for me so deeply.  I do love you for that. But really, Jim - honey - I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.”

Oswald had been a very high profile witness for the case.

He hadn’t held back  - especially as the person on trial,  Gasparo Carrara, was the right hand man of Enzo Leccese.

He had provided enough evidence to send him down for a long time.

And when Commissioner Loab had asked what he wanted in return, all he said, as deadpan as you like, was, “To help the GCPD, sir, is all I want.”  

What he wanted most was to make Jim proud and to get back at that homophobic bastard Leccese, but he didn’t say either of those things  out loud. These were personal things that meant something only to him and his beautiful fiance.

Back at the GCPD, everyone had expressed their gratitude  - the guy was a cop killer who had put away four of their colleagues in that bank raid - and even Barnes made a point of thanking him.

“There is no honour amongst thieves, Captain Barnes - you should know that!” Oswald had joked, deliberately playing down his role in the outcome.  

“No comment!  Just glad you could help,” had been the good humoured reply as Barnes had offered his hand.

The look on Jim’s face had been a picture as he had approached the two of them and seen Barnes smile and shake Oswald’s hand.  Wonders really would never cease!

And as he had reached them, Barnes had turned, still smiling, and said, “Hey, Jim.”  He had coughed awkwardly. “Erm - by the way, you two - now you’re both here - I believe  congratulations are in order. I’m sorry, guys, that it took me this long. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Later,  Jim told Oswald that his wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of amazement had been priceless….and so, so pretty….

But  now, after the glory was done, after all the back slapping and celebrating and bonding was over,  there was that fear that somehow, there would be repercussions. Serious ones.

If Oswald felt that he certainly wasn’t showing it, thought Jim.  He was so brave, resilient and tough! But he was very worried about him.  

He wanted to protect him.   He loved him so much it hurt.

And he had nearly lost him once before, which was once too often.  That still stung him - he would never forget it.

He would kiss the scar on Oswald’s chest often, to show him he would never forget his heroism.

And now, he had risked his safety again.  They had a new threat hanging over them, that black cloud in the form of Enzo Leccese.