#Silence of the Wolves kindle free

[kraymerman]

Spread all across Michigan, there are large stretches of thick, shadowing forests, stretching from Lakes Michigan to Huron, and more than half of the UP is taken up by the waves of wooden, green-topped goliaths. The trees are so thick, offering shelter to all kinds of life, that it's not uncommon to find neighborhoods where the deer are so close that they might as well be neighbors, peeking out of their homes among the trees when there's nobody around, or when the sun has set and the moon rises, or to hear owls calling their inquisitive calls into the brisk northern night.

But deer and owls aren't the only woods-beasts that wander the forested plains of greater Michigan. Some folk speak of dogmen, muscular, canines that walk on two legs, heck there's a whole song about it. The song goes "the best advice you can get is never go out at night". This is gosh durn good advice, because the Dogman isn't the only creature that wanders those woods. There is a beast that blends into the trees, its skin like coarse, dark tree bark, standing at 7 feet tall, its arms and legs long enough to reach the tops of the trees and thin enough to slip through the tightest fits between branches. Around its shoulders it wears a pelt made of thousands of small twigs, that rattle and sing in the hollow wind, like a rattlesnake, or a wooden wind chime. Protruding from its crown, two twisted, gnarled roots burst, twisting up towards the sky, like antlers. It stalks in the night the endless, unknowable forests of Greater Michigan, raking its sharp claws along stones, leaving deep, too deep, gashes, or letting out deep, bone-chilling cries that almost resemble the sound of old wood, creaking and cracking under the weight of the chilling north winds. And its eyes almost glow in the night, like those of wolves, a true predator. This is the beast known as the Barkman.

The Barkman prowls just beyond the tree lines, far enough in that you won't see it, but not far enough that it won't see you. It's a carnivore, too, and with strong, sharp claws and jagged, splinter teeth, it is well equipped to hunt, kill, and devour its prey.

Luckily for us, though, the Barkman don't show up much. It keeps to itself, and we do the same. We get the clearings, the Barkman gets the woods, and its content satisfying its hunger with birds, rabbits, and the occasional deer. But, when night falls, and the moon rises into the air, the Barkman may become more bold. Like the deer it shares the woods with, it breaches the boundary and ventures out into our settlements, wandering the headlamp-lit streets, hunting for fresh prey. Or, if a human dares to cross that boundary themself, and enter its territory, they best turn around and leave, fast, 'cause you've left the land of man, and as far as the Barkman is concerned, you're free game. Ask any Michigander about the woods, and they'll tell you how, if you linger away from home too long, lost among the trees, a sudden silence will fall upon the lands, no wind, no rustling of leaves, no tweeting of forest life. When you hear that, run, 'cause that silence means the Barkman is watchin', and it's givin' you a warning or, if it's in a hunting mood, a head start.

So listen to the Dogman song. There's something out there that wanders those woods, a hunting beast made of bark and woodchips, of rich, free trees and dry, crackling kindling. Beware the Barkman, and don't go out at night, or you might become no more than blood and crackling flesh, feeding the maw of the wooden man of the eternal Michigan forests.

[xxashes-rebornxx]

@sviker

_____________________________________

How long had it been? How long since her Mother had left her out here for the Wolves to find and devour? Freya didn’t know anymore. All she really knew was that she was hopelessly lost. At times she wondered if she had not already passed away from exposure and that she was simply a wandering Spirit, cursed to roam these ancient woods for eternity for some Sin she didn’t even know she commited. Even if by some stroke of luck she did somehow find her way back to civilization, who was to say humanity would not cast her away once more? After all; what sane person would ever accept a woman capable of changing into a beast at a moments notice under the threat of having their home burnt to a crisp for no reason other than “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!”

Freya would push those thoughts to the side upon hearing the familiar sound of water splashing around her lure fashioned from Pinecones and grass knots that held tightly to the squirming bait she’d found that morning. With a quick backwards swing of her arms the lure pulled free from the bubbling brook, a thrashing Trout - laden with eggs for the spawning season - at the end of her homemade hook. A quick strike with a sharpened rock to the gills was all it took for the creature to lay lifeless upon the morning dew.

Gathering up her breakfast; the redhead calmly returned to the little rock outcropping she called home. Soft tunes occasionally left her lips, old melodies that mankind likely no longer remembered. It was really the only thing keeping her sane nowadays, the sound of a voice even if it had to be her own. If she sang loud enough, the echo of her sorrowful melody would bounce of the trees and glaciers, offering Freya with what sounded like a distant accompanist.

The tiny cavern Freya called her home was littered with black soot marks along the floor and walls. When Freya had first found this puny shelter as a girl her powers were at their most volatile. Freya still occasionally struggled with her flames... but at least she wasn’t constantly in danger of starting a Forest Fire anymore. For now the redhead simply gathered a bit of kindling and firewood, narrowly avoiding burning the tips of her fingers as a ball of crimson flame hovered over her palm and filled the cave with the smell of cooking fish. “Perhaps I’ll turn these eggs into more bait...” She’d softly speak, the pile of orange spheres laying beside the tiny bones she would rather not have to pick out from between her teeth.

Interrupting her from her meal; what Freya perceived as a few rocks being disturbed caught her ear as well as a faint glimmer of... light? That wasn’t possible - this cave only had one entrance! One hand would reach for her stone dagger while the other held up a flame both as a potential weapon as well as a source of light. “Is someone there?” Freya called out, only to be met with further silence as she approached. Stalking by the damn near blinding light Freya found herself in an entirely new cave that she’d never seen before... with no way back. 

[what-the--curtains]

There Are No Wolves in the Desert

Part 4- A Story in the Sand

(Oberyn Martell x f!reader)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: A crime scene leads to Arianne’s captors, freeing her however is an entirely new problem.

Authors Note: hello all you lovely people! Sorry for the wait but motivation still evades me! Thank you for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy this part!! Ill be moving this week so ill be MIA for a bit hope yall r staying heathy and safe💕💕💕

TW: mentions and allusions to sex (nothing depicted), blood, nudity, swearing

Word count: 6.4k

Tagged: @evyiione, @xsadderdazeforeverx , @agingerindenial, @ayamenimthiriel

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The red hues of the rising sun paint the outside of the wooden stables that you walk towards. The smell of straw and manure fills your nostrils as you enter through its immaculate doors, the shade of the structure cooling you off as you take note of Oberyn. He had for-gone his typical golden hued robes for armour not too dissimilar from yours. A single horse standing in the cross ties.

“Can you ride or will we ride together?” he questions, hand smoothing the colourful fabric over the creature's back.

“I can ride, my prince,” you say, smirking slightly as he turns to face you.

“I think I'll be the judge of that,” he quips.

‘”I meant a horse,” you retorted flatly, spreading a map and Arianne’s journal down on a nearby table.

“Did you? are you sure,” he whispers in your ear, before looking down at the map from over your shoulder.

“Your daughter handed me this yesterday,” you say, ignoring the sudden heat rushing over your body and looking down at the map.

“What is that?” he asks

“Ariannes journal,” you reply.

“They must have broken into her chambers to get it,” he murmurs

“Broken in?” you question head turning back to him, causing him to return to his full height.

“She was under strict watch until, well now. What do the pages say?” Oberyn probes.

“ She’d been planning on leaving for some time, though she doesn't go into detail. I assume it's due to being locked up like a common prisoner. She convinced those that brought her food and guarded her to help her escape,” you say “My brother feared she would be murdered after our sisters death, so he kept her under close watch, ” Oberyn admits

“He made her a prisoner, in her own home,” you spit

“I did not say he’s reasons were valid,” he remarks, watching you eye him. “By the looks of it she was planning on heading to Norvos,” you state, making a mark on the large map. “which means if she's as smart as her entries would have me believe, they would have taken the longer cut through the desert, to avoid any bandit groups, or watchguards,” you continue, tracing the route down on the map, “do you know the surrounding terrain well?”

“Yes it’s flat sand mainly, a few rock forests, some dunes. The heat is the main concern, or perhaps the lack of water, and the scorpions of course,” he lists, unfazed.

“It's about a day's journey, so we will have to make camp at night, though I am more than capable of going alone, if you are needed here,” you say, turning to face him, giving him an out, assuming he preferred the comforts of the palace.

“I am needed to find my niece,” he assures you dutiful to his role as ever.

“Then we should depart as soon as we can” you say, as the stable boy reappears with another horse for you. It nudges its long nose into your back, pushing you forward slightly Oberyn's hand stopping you from hitting into his body. You turn, a smile spreading across your face as you chuckle in disbelief.

“rytsas uēpa raqiros” *Hello old friend* you whisper, resting your head against its snout.

“Seems you know one another, ” Oberyn says.

“I sold this horse three years ago to one of your palace guards,” you chuckle as it nudges into your face “or did you know that already?” you ask, looking back to him.

“I may be good, but I'm not that good,” he admits “ it seems destiny has brought you here after all.”

“Destiny or fate?” you question

“Does it make a difference?”

“All the difference in the world,” you say stroking the creature's long nose, its large eyes blinking at you, ears relaxed.

“She reminds me of you,” Oberyn states.

“Is it the hair,” you remark and he laughs, caught off guard by your making jokes.

“Perhaps, do you need a saddle?”

“I can make do without one,” you say, hoisting yourself up onto the back of your horse before following Oberyn out the gates into the Dornish wilderness.

“I wasn't aware they spoke High Valyrian in the north, nor that the schools taught it,” Oberyn states, turning around on his horse to face you. His eyes sparkled in the sun, the hint of playfulness dancing on his face as he began to engage you in conversation.

“gaomis daor” *they do not* you say smiling at the look on Oberyn's face as he tries to parse out the language from the multitude of others he had learnt as a child. Perhaps he should have paid closer attention to his studies.

“You don't speak it?” You ask, surprised considering his accolades. “Not as well as I should and not since my school days,” he admits, immediately regretting his decision when a wicked grin crosses your face.. “kostilus lo ēdā pikībagon tolī pār ēdā ēdas qogror ao'd gīmigon skoros vestran” *perhaps if you had read more, then you'd know what I was saying* you laugh, causing Oberyn to grumble before turning back ahead. You kick into a canter, pulling up beside him to continue your provocation. “kostilus nyke kessa ánghowa ao isse Valyrīha pār” *perhaps I will insult you in Valyrian then*

“I do know a few words, sīr urnēbagon aōha ēngos,” *so watch your tongue* he shoots back clumsily causing you to chuckle slightly watching his jaw clench eyes looking to you, almost annoyed. Seeing the look on his face you break off into a canter and he follows suite.

The two of you ride in relative silence until the sky sinks into a deep indigo, the black of night creeping up threatening to expose the stars.

“Shall we make camp here?” he questions and you halt your horse, hopping down to assess the area. You push on the few standing trees, sturdy enough to tie the horses too for the night. The area was open, exposed, but so was everywhere in the desert. You roll a dead log over and a scorpion scurries out. You stab it with your knife.

“Should do for the night, though we should keep watch just in case,” you say gazing up to him as he dismounts. Opening the side satchel and retrieving your provisions for the next day and a half. You break off a portion of the deadwood pairing it with the desert grass as kindling, blowing on the ember until it turns to flame. While Dorne remained hot throughout the year, its winter months were marked by cold nights, the desert retaining little heat and temperatures becoming frigid.

You shuffle through the bag you had packed pulling out a long rope wrapping it around the camp area.

“Afraid of snakes my lady?” Oberyn queries, a laugh dancing on his lips.

“Only the venomous ones,” you retort as you lay the rope flat, ends overlapping. “What about vipers?” he asks, prodding the fire causing the flames to flicker, the sparks beginning to burn bright as night falls.

“Gentler then I initially thought, still deadly however, always lying in wait. If pushed their prey doesn't stand a chance. I do hope I have no reason to fear a viper attack,” you respond as you drag the remaining driftwood into the circle huffing as you let it drop, slightly displeased that Oberyn had taken the optimal resting spot beneath the two trees. You drop to the sand propping yourself up, chest heaving. You shoot him a glare for not helping you as he throws you half a loaf of bread and some cured meats the palace chefs had prepared.

“You have no reason to fear me, though that glare has me fearing for myself,” he chuckles, tearing off a piece of the dried meat with his teeth. Your glare softens, something about the Prince often managing to lessen your frustration.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be able to sleep outside your usual comforts,” you say, chewing on the salted meat, eyes looking just above his head.

“I attended a brothel before I left. Such pleasures make trips such as these much more… bearable,” he admits, tearing off a corner of the bread and popping it in his mouth.

“Especially when the return promises a warm bed and warm hole to bury yourself in,” you state, causing Oberyn to choke on a piece of bread coughing it up before breaking into a deep laugh.

“Did you parents ever teach you proper manners, or is it true the northerners are as brutish as the rumours claim,” he ponders gleefully, wiping his lower lip slowly with his thumb, eyes still on you.

“My apologies, must be easier for you to have a man or woman to bury yourself into at the end of such a displeasing trip with such unsatisfying company my prince,” you offer, smiling sarcastically at him.

“Perhaps I'll have to do something about that tongue of yours discipline you, seeing as no one else had bothered,” he remarks, eyes darker, slightly more dangerous than before. You squeeze your thighs together shifting your weight slightly, his words sending a sensation through you.

“Or you could save time and have me hung,” you offer, trying to direct your attention away from the heat pooling at your core.

“That would save me hours, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun,” he confesses, beginning to grow bolder as he watches your positive reactions to his words.

“This is all very improper,” you say stoically, “you are a prince after all, you should know better than to speak to your subjects in such an adulterous manner,” you prod,

“Princes are well known for disciplining those who speak out of turn,” he says

“All princes or just those who sleep with half of Westeros?” you chide

“You say that as if it is an insult, your puritanical Westeros beliefs would lead you to see me as a walking sin,” he states, head thrown back in a building laughter.

“Aren’t you though?”

“I see something I want and if they want me I take them, there is nothing wrong there,”

“Your daughter seems to think, you only invited me back to the safety of your home based on my appearance” you state, keen to find out if he merely saw you as another pretty thing to have.

“And what if that was true,” he queries

“then you're not the man I believed you to be. To show kindness to someone solely because of there face,” you scoff, shaking your head

“Perhaps you have mistaken me then, though I would have allowed anyone to stay safely in the walls if needed, besides I find beauty in all the sun shines down on,” he says, confused as to what he had said to upset you, you were beautiful he’d be foolish not to pursue you.

“I'll take the first watch,” you say, tiring of the conversation at hand.

“I…” Oberyn begins, but you cut him off.

“I insist, you are a prince after all and I am but a humble subject, my duty is to watch out for you,” you state, he raises eyebrows before leaning back against the tree crossing his arms over his chest and falling asleep.

The moon was bright tonight and it's cool tones paired with the fire’s warm hues illuminated the prince in a magnificent way. You study his handsome features as you try to unpack the feelings that had been clawing their way out of the cage you had built around your heart. You pull Robbs knife out holding it up hoping for some kind of divine sign you suppose, but nothing comes. You loved Robb, you thought of him every day and every day you hoped that he’d return, or that you’d wake up and he would be next to you, all of this nothing more than a bad dream. But you knew such thoughts were foolish, Robb was dead, he wasn’t coming back to you, at least not in this life. Your eyes rise once again to Oberyn. You watch his chest rise and fall, longing to feel his arms wrap around you, but this thought was equally as foolish. His flirtatious nature towards you was obvious, but it was the same with everyone. As he said, he finds beauty in all the sun shine down on and those he finds beautiful he brings to his chambers. You weren’t willing to abandon your husband for a brief moment of fleeting passion. Besides you were sure he’d be bored of you when the morning came. Your future held no such luxury of finding peace with another, no any hopes of that died long ago. You lean back against the log waiting for the sun to rise, problems always seemingly less heavy in the warm glow of the morning. The sun begins to creep over the horizon, the fire only embers now. You throw sand over it snuffing it out before lightly kicking Oberyn's boot. He opens one eye first, displeased as the being awoken as such much preferring waking in the arms of two or three, or four lovers, though he would have happily settled for a single individual had they asked. He looks up to see you illuminated by the sun, a golden aura radiating around you.

“Why didn't you wake me sooner” he asks, both eyes now open and alert to the fact you had let him sleep through the night. “Wasn't tired, besides you're much more agreeable when you're asleep,” you joke, smirking down at him. “You’re more agreeable when I'm asleep as well,” he retorts, causing you to chuckle

“Not far now my prince,” you say reaching your hand out and pulling him up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun radiates off the desert sand, a stark contrast from the cold of the night. You’re sweating heavily when you bring your horse to a halt, Oberyn mimicking your behaviour watching as you dismounted into what appeared to be yet another expanse of the desert. You kneel down on the sand wincing at the pull of an old injury. The surface is hot to touch. You run your fingers through the first few layers, it's cool beneath. Noticing a small dip in the ground you crawl ahead a few inches. You scoop up the sand bringing it to your nose, the smell of copper fills your nostrils, you dig a little deeper. The sand has clumped together. Liquid had been spilt here, but there had been no rain for at least a fortnight. This, this was blood. You stand up scanning for other dips in the ground, potential burials, any weapons, a trail of blood, but there's nothing but the small indentation where you stood.

“How old is Arianne?” you ask

“10 and 6” Oberyn responds, still mounted on his horse staring down at you doubtfully.

“Is she a slight girl?” you continue to question.

“Average sized,”

“Less than a large foot soldier though?” you ask, beginning to get frustrated with his refusal to directly answer your question.

‘Yes,” Oberyn answers, brow creased as the sun hits his eyes. Too much blood for a girl her age. Something glinting in the sun catches the corner of your eye and you bend down retrieving the reflective arrow tip. Only then do you notice the trails, likely left by footprints, evidence of hand to hand combat.

“There was a fight, it began here, but it's not where it ended, how many men were with her?” you ask

“Three,” he says, watching you staring in the distance towards a large dune “what do you see?” he queries, increasingly interested in the inner workings of your mind.

“Carrion,” you say walking back towards him.

“Vultures?”

“Could be a dead animal, could be human,” you say swinging yourself back up onto your horse and trotting towards the birds which scatter upon your arrival. The dune covered a deep windswept valley, large rock formations created by high speed winds decorating the basin.

The maze stretches a few hundred miles, as you begin to descend your foot kicks something heavy, causing you to curse the gods loudly as Oberyn arrives by your side. Before he can ask if you’re injured your on your knees digging at the area, pulling out a metal shoulder piece

“One of yours?” you ask

“ Yes that our sigil” he says, watching your nose scrunch in disgust.

“Do you smell that?” you ask.

“No,” he admits

“Death,” you say, his face hardens as you continue down the dune, following your nose through the rock formations. Oberyn follows you curiously through the naturally formed maze. He sees you standing, and his eyes follow your line of sight up until he sees what has stopped you. Three bodies slowly decomposing in the heat, skin pecked at by scavengers, a large pile of ash beneath them.

“Must have been her carriage,” you say crouching down, most of the pile had blown away only the heavier fragments left, a few large pieces of wood and metal, you brush it away, revealing a locket among the ash. You pick it up dusting it off before offering the locket to Oberyn. You watch his knuckles turn white clutching at the chain. He’d given this to Arianne for her birthday.

“Is she,” Oberyn hisses, an anger radiating through his body.

“No. There's no sign of a burnt body, ” you reassure and he exhales,

“These men they did not deserve this death even if they plotted against the crown princes wishes,”

“I can lead a party out, another day make sure they are returned to their families and buried properly.” “Thank you,” Oberyn says..

“ This was an ambush,” You assure, it was carefully planned out, but how could they have known that she was planning on leaving? “but it…” you continue, shaking your head letting your thoughts trail off.

“What?” he asks staring down at you in wonderment

“It didn’t occur here,” your forehead scrunched a look of perplexity and complete concentration etched on your face “why did they move the bodies here, and the carriage just to burn it, that’s a lot of effort.”

“To hide the evidence, they knew we’d come looking for her,” Oberyn offers as an explanation.

“ If they had burnt it where it occurred then buried it, we'd never find them. This” you say painting to the bodies “this was a warning, posting them up like this they knew we would find them here. Why here, why not where the fight occurred.” “To discredit them in death” he offers again, watching your head suddenly look up, eyes scanning.

“How many men,”

“Three,” he repeats “All trained in combat?”

“They would have been at least able to hold a spear, to guard the princess,” before he can finish, you turn on your heel and rush back to the horses, remounting and heading back to the skirmish site.

By the time Oberyn reaches you, your elbow is deep in the sand. Oberyn was right, these were good men, ones who deserved a burial. A similar thought would have likely crossed the minds of the ambushers. Returning to wherever they came from with even one dead body would be too much of a task, they would have had to abandon their fallen. But they wouldn't have abandoned their religion, a burial at an unmarked grave is better than none after all, and one skilled dornish fighter would have taken down at least one opponent. Your nails fill with sand, the heat scorching your skin and you dig towards your answers. He watches as an arm appears and he crouches down next to you about to help unbury the rest but place your hand on his chest. Gripping the dead man's hand you lift up his hand, a ring, a golden lion forged into existence, eyes looking up to him.

“Lannister” he spits

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two of you stroll through the trees dressing the mountain, the cover of shade paired with the sun going down offering a cold more resemblant of your home especially as you climb higher towards the peak. Despite your initial uneasiness about being led far into the mountain alone with one of the deadliest men in the seven kingdoms, he had assured you he merely wanted to speak freely away from the court. As the trees part you come upon the mountain top where snow was beginning to fall. Your eyes then go to a series of ancient ruins, a hearth burning in the middle, tapestries draped along the pillars and a bed made up, with furs. Your heart skips as you turn to look up at Oberny who for once looks nervous.

“You said you missed the cold, this is as cold as it gets here, a small thank you for finding the evidence needed. I do not think anyone else would have figured it out,” he says as a feeling you hadn’t felt in years coming over you.

“Thank you” you whisper, kissing him on the check, warming him through, “but I'm sure any good tracker would have found the same,” you state, pushing back off him and turning to face the outlook, attempting to hide your sudden embarrassment.

“There are guards a mile down shout if you need them, thought I doubt they would be able to protect you better than you could protect yourself , i'll collect you tomorrow, if you’d like,” he says

“I’d like that very much,” you admit, and he smiles before heading back towards the woods.

“Prince Oberyn,” you call, and he stops turning back “Thank you,” he nods and walks off

You remove your clothes and stand in the breeze allowing the chill to ripple over your body until goosebumps form. You smile and let out a slow breath a cloud forming in front of you, as snow falls lightly around you. It was a reminder of home and you close your eyes, a tear falling as you exhale. You walk towards the ruins and settle under the sheets, the crackling of the fire lulling you to sleep until you hear footsteps approaching, multiple men.

You grab your dagger and throw it. It hits one in the jugular, blood spurting out as you roll out of the bed and duck behind the ruins near the body. You’re preparing to fight when a spear pierces the air impaling one of the approaching figures causing the other to turn towards the woods. He doesn't make it far. A strong arm stops him and slits his throat. You relax when you see Oberyn appear from the shadows.

“Lady Stark, I heard of an attempt, I apologize for...” His words are cut short and his jaw drops when he sees you walk out from behind the ruins to your tunic pulling it over your naked skin.

“Careful, my prince you'll catch flies,” you chuckle, before dragging one of the bodies over the cliff.

“I can see why he screwed over an entire kingdom to marry you,” he says, doing the same with the assassin closest to him.

“You couldn't see that before you saw me naked? Help me with this,” you say, grabbing the final man's feet as Oberyn grabs his arms.

“Even more so now. You have more scars than I had thought, do you have a favorite?” He asks as you both throw the body down the mountain side.

“I do, care to hazard a guess,” you say, wiping your hands clean.

“I'd need a longer look,” he offers, raising his eyebrows.

“Of that i'm sure, I must thank you again for tonight, seems as though my life is owed to you twice over,”

“Perhaps I can ask another favour then, As for now it's late and a long walk back, so I will be on my way,” he bows his head before turning on his heels.

“Why don’t you stay, as it's such a long way down,” you ask, eyes down, suddenly feeling overly exposed, more so than when you stood naked before him.

“Only if you wish,” he says, surprised you’d allow him to stay in the same bed as you.

“Only if you think you can brave the cold for the night” you say returning to the bed after reclaiming your knife. He joins you shortly after, removing the top half of his attire, despite preferring to sleep completely bare, he wasn't about to make you feel uncomfortable. He shivers in the cold, while this chill was likely nothing to you, Oberyn had rarely spent time in anything below comfortably warm. His shiver continues even beneath the furs and you feel it.

“I'd like to see you In the north, you wouldn't last a month,” you murmur, turning to your side facing his direction.

“Are you saying I'm soft?” he asks, remaining on his back, head turning to you, a slightly disgruntled look on his face.

“No, but you're not weathered,” you state, sitting up removing one of the furs covering you and placing it over Oberyn who looks up, the warmth of your breath clouding in the air, as snow falls lightly around you, not a goosebump on your body.

“Not like you late husband” he questions pulling the blanket up to himself and you ignore him, laying back down. “Do you think he would truly wish you to be alone? To live the rest of your life without pleasure?” Oberyn, queries, upset at the notion of you alone.

“No…but,” you begin,

“but what, you do not do him a disservice by allowing another to give you love.” Oberyn stresses, begging to warm.

“Is that what you offer?” you ask, a look of suspicion on your face.

“Yes,” he offers earnestly, shifting up onto his arm so the blankets fall slightly.

“As you do all you find appealing,” you state, eyes locked on his bare chest.

“yes, and no,” he says, hand going down lifting your eyes to meet his “I enjoy divulging in all of life's pleasures, my body belongs to all those that catch my eye, but my heart I do reserve that primarily for one” he says softly, your heart now beating faster than it ever had.

“Reserved” you correct, quietly.

“Ellaria was my greatest love, I would have kept her with me until the end, had the Lannisters not taken her from me,” his hand now dancing over the wound above your shoulder, eyes still boring into yours, leaving you nowhere to hide.

“Then you know how I feel,” you whisper breathlessly.

“No, my heart is willing to accept love again because I knew that is what she would want. I fear you are unable to see that it is what your husband would have wanted as well,”

“Part of me died that day on the docks, part of my heart will always be with him, but today I thought...maybe” you stutter, a tear falling from your eye rolling down your cheek, you go to brush it away embarrassed, but Oberyn beats you to it. Gently wiping it before running his thumb softly along your cheekbone.

“It is not a betrayal of your love for him, I do not presume you to abandon him, I wish merely to bring you some semblance of joy.”

With that you roll over so you straddling him and he sits up hand reaching to the back of your head pulling you down to meet his lips. A fire builds inside you upon contact and your hands move to your tunic, only parting from his lips to rip it from your body. You look down hesitantly, unsure it was what he would have expected, or what he wanted, not as pretty and smooth as those of the brothel. Oberyn no longer shivering even with the blankets fallen to the side, eyes drinking in every ounce of your being.

“Are you sure?” Oberyn asks, hands running up and down your sides.

“Yes,” you say firmly, before leaning down kissing him again.

He'd kept you close to him in the night even after you’d tried to pull away to the other side of the bed. You had been right, one appeal of the cold was being trapped beneath the naked body of one you loved. He wakes first, trailing his fingers lightly across your body until he sees your eyes bat open.

“Now I really understand why he risked his reign for you,” Oberyn whispers, kissing your scrunched up forehead. You yawn, detaching from him and maneuvering onto your back as His hand trails over the wound above your shoulder “ this is your favourite” he states and you look up to him, “I guessed correctly” he laughs at the way your mouth hangs open.

“How?”

“You can track lands, I can track bodies” he says, placing a kiss over it trailing up to your lips.

“Can you now?”

“I thought you knew that, based on your loud approval last night,” he remarks and you shake your head chuckling slightly “If you don’t remember, perhaps I can remind you this morning” he says nipping at your jaw and dipping below the sheets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You return together the next morning only to see the crown prince pacing frantically

“Brother, come now a council has been called,” he gestures for you to follow and you do

“Who is this?” he asks, pointing at you.

“Someone who has a stake in the game”

“ Arianne is in king's landing, confirmed today by this letter penned by Cersei herself,” Doran confesses as the advisors close the doors to the marbled room.

‘What?” he spits, tearing the piece of paper from between Dorans hands.

“They have taken her, stating she was plotting to murder the Lannister princess,” Doran says

“Was she?” you whisper to Tyene who shrugs her shoulders.

“She awaits a trial, a trial by combat” Doran continues

“Bastards,” Oberyn exclaimed, hands slamming down on the stone table. “ Send me brother, I will fight for her, I will get you daughter. I have done it once, I shall do so again.”

“If you go they kill you in the streets,” Tyene pipes up, causing her father to turn to her.

“I’d like to see them try, ” Obery spits, more fire than you’d ever seen radiating around him, as the room breaks out into pointless bickering.

“Let me go,” you interject all those in the room turning to face you.

“And, why would I allow one of my brothers whores to go and retrieve my daughter?” Doran scoffs.

“because, I would very much like to gain some kind of revenge on those who butchered my husband and all the events that occurred the night of the red wedding.” You say pulling down your hood, exposing your identity to the room full of strangers.

“Lady Stark, but you’re supposed to be dead,” the grand maester whispers.

“Medical marvel,” you assure

“And you would fight for us,” Doran queries Tyene and the rest of the scattered sand snakes staring at you.

“I would,if any of your family ventures to Kings Landing they will be killed on sight. I on the other hand am the last person they would expect to show up. Though, I must admit my business there may extend over to a few other debts the Lannisters owe me”

“This activity?” another council member begins to probe

“Would only occur after Arianne is safely back on a ship,” you see Oberyn fidget “with proper antivenoms, anti poisons, everything and a skilled healer on board, just in case”

“You would remain there for how long after?”

“Only for a few extra hours perhaps a day, you would have no role to play in my removal, I am more than capable of finding my own way out,” you promise

“Who fights for the Lannisters?” Nymeria asks,

“They say a man carved from stone, reanimated from the dead, the size of two men” The grand maester begins, “It's rumoured the queens sorcerer managed to salvage the Mountain after Oberyn's victory.”

“But those are just rumours sprouted from venomous tongues, as such my offer still stands,” you assure.

“No,'' Oberyn interjected, eyes narrowed at you, shooting daggers. Your head turns on a swivel, furious.

“Why not? I am capable” you explain.

“Did you not hear them, the mountain fights for the Lannister”

“I've taken down worse,” you snap, all semblance of properness lost

“He’ll kill,” you he states calmly , his eyes stormy

“He didn’t kill you,” you retort

“No but I killed him and yet he is still alive, whatever that man is, is long gone,” The two of you locked in a glare, you failing to find a response that wouldn’t paint you as childish.

“Then we're in agreement, we find someone else,” he punctuates making you feel like a scolded child. The tension hangs heavy on the room, unsettling a few of the council members as your eyes bear into his before leaning back against the wall. As the meeting ends Oberyn waits by the door, but you refuse to move, you shoot him a glare and he raises his eyebrows shaking his head before exiting the room.

“Prince Doran, a word if I may,” you ask, as he passes by you. He hesitates but nods to his two advisors to carry on and turns to you.

“I will go, I will defeat the Mountain, or at least secure Arianne a contingency plan if all else fails.”

“My lady, I am afraid my brother will not have it...” he states.

“Your brother doesn't control me, and as you said I am just another of his whores. I am free to make whatever decision I see fit,” he sighs, scanning you up and down assessing whether you could be successful.

“You are sure you can retrieve her,” Doran asks, looking up into your eyes searching for the answer.

“I am sure I have a better chance at it than any of your family, ”

“We will have a ship on standby for you the following day,”

“No need, I do not expect to return from this,” you mutter and his eyes narrow, “I am no fool, the odds are not in my favour I fear, but I must try...” you pause nodding your head “I must try and make things right.”

“Oberyn?”

“Will know nothing of this, nothing of this meeting, or of this plan, hold a ship for me if you wish but do not hold out hope.”

“Arianne returns alive” he demands.

“I promise you that” you affirm before he calls for an advisor to escort him out the room.

As you exit the council room you begin towards Oberyn chambers. If you were to be gone tomorrow you knew where you wanted to be tonight. As you open the door you chuckle at the sight before you, Oberyn entangled with two of his lovers, both resting against his chest, sweaty and panting slightly. He leans over to kiss the man on his left before addressing you.

“I did not expect to see you here tonight,” he says as the woman bites at his jawline. “Why's that?” you question. “I thought you were going to rip my head off in that meeting,” he chuckles, pulling the woman's hair back to kiss her.

“I don’t enjoy my ability to choose being removed,” you scorn.

“Is that all you came to say?” he questions.

“I suppose, goodnight Prince Oberyn…” you begin, turning to exit, hoping to call him on his bluff.

“Vorian, take Fryenne to my guest chamber, show her a good time,” he says, slapping the man's ass as he exits the sheets. “Will you not join my Prince, I have always wanted to try a Targaryen,” she whispers into his ear, blushing slightly.

“Not tonight my dove, we have business to discuss,”

“Perhaps another time,” she says wistfully as she approaches you, running her hand up your arm planting a soft kiss on your lips before exiting. Your mouth hangs open brows gently creased at the sensation, your eyes following her out the room.

“You like that one?” Oberyn smirks as you draw your eyes back to him “one night with me and you’re a convert to my lifestyle,” he remarks shifting out of the bed naked as the day he was born walking over to the counter and decanting wine into a goblet.

“Do you wish to have this conversation fully clothed?” “I did not come here for a conversation,” you admit.

“Then why are you still dressed? Strip,” he demands, you narrow your eyes at him. He walks towards you, eyes darker “You would disobey a prince?” He asks, walking behind you, lips ghosting along your neck. “Strip. You will listen to me tonight especially after your performance in that meeting. You should know better than to speak out of turn,” he orders leading you towards his bed.

You're awake, watching the night pass until the first light begins to creep into the room. Oberyn's arms are wrapped around you, his warm breath hitting your neck. You had tried to leave earlier but his strong grasp had trapped you in place. If this was to be one of your last nights on this earth, you were glad to have spent it in his arms. You lie there until you feel him stir, mouth peppering kisses on your neck.

“I wish to go to the brothel, will you join me?” he mumbles into your neck and you shake your head.

“I can refrain and stay here for the morning,” he starts.

“No go on I am just too tired,” you whisper, kissing him lightly.

“Then rest I will return later,” he kisses your nose, then your forehead before rising and dressing

“Oberyn,” you say sitting up in the large bed pulling the silks up to cover your chest.

“Yes?” he says watching as your mouth opens. You’re trying to find words to express your feelings, but they never come.

“Nothing,” you say, offering a small smile. Oberyn makes it to the front door of the brothel but something in his stomach feels off. A feeling that had been growing since he left you, it was something in the way you had said his name in the cold light of day, almost as if you were saying goodbye. His steps get more rushed as he approaches the palace, swinging the doors to his chambers open. He looks to the handmaid who shakes her head in confusion. He swallows his rage, you wouldn’t have disobeyed him so blatantly, you wouldn't have left him without warning, without a goodbye. He walks quickly towards the garden until he finds Doran, his hand caressing a rose.

‘Where is she?” he demands, already knowing the answer

[kittenshift-17]

66. I won't let you get hurt. Would you please write something for the 100 for King Roan and Clarke

“What the hell are you doing?” Clarke hissed when Roan yanked her behind a tree, boxing her in with his arms, his much larger body caging hers and making her feel claustrophobic. He stood so close that their pelvises touched, and she could smell the musky scent of him. After the day they’d had, the rusty stink of blood mingled with earth, gunpower, and sweat wasn’t a surprise to her; though she was surprised that the scent didn’t offend her nose so much as it appealed to her.

“I won’t let you get hurt, Wanheda,” Roan muttered, his voice by her ear as an arrow whizzed by them in the fading afternoon light. “Run that way after he fires the next arrow. Go between those two pines and around the rock. Watch the ground-trap on the middle of the deer path under the moss, next to the blackberry shrub.”

He tilted his jaw to her right before peeking around the tree without looking at her as though her proximity had no effect on him. Clarke wondered if maybe it didn’t. She hadn’t seen the appeal of a man - any man - since she’d been forced to murder Finn. When Roan first taken her prisoner so long ago in the Trading Post, she’d sensed he was attracted to her, but she’d been so into Lexa and Niylah at the time, maybe Roan had dismissed her as only preferring girls, instead of being fluid either way. It wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened to her since people learned of her and Lexa. Clarke was surprised, standing there pressed against him, to find herself attracted to a man once more.

Roan hissed, jerking back so quickly that his jaw knocked her temple before an arrow thunked into the bark of their tree.

“Go!” he growled, shoving her sideways and stepping out, his bow notched with an arrow that he let fire at their assailant. 

The wet thwack of the point into human flesh followed by a pained groan told her that Roan had hit his mark, but she didn’t turn back to look. Racing through the trees, she danced around the ground-trap he’d mentioned, accidentally knocking the edge hard enough to crumble it, but avoiding the stakes below before she kept running. Another arrow whistled past her, thunking into a tree while she weaved and Clarke skidded around the rock he’d spoken of with Roan on her heels. 

“That way,” he pointed to a trail through the forest - nothing more than a deer-track. “Until you hit the river.”

“What about you?” she asked when she’d run a few more steps and turned to find he hadn’t followed her. Instead he drew his knife and crouched behind the rock. 

Roan looked over his shoulder at her, that fierce expression on his scarred face that she grown so accustomed to since meeting him.

“Go!” he growled, eyes narrowed before their attacker rounded the rock, an arrow sticking out of his chest while he wheezed. 

Roan leaped at him immediately, fighting hard and Clarke frowned but turned and ran where he’d told her, wondering where she was supposed to go once she’d reached the river. He’d pushed her all day long as his fellow Grounders pursued them. Primfaya hadn’t been nearly as destructive to the human race as they’d been led to believe, and a number of the Grounders left outside who’d survived wanted Clarke’s head.  

They wanted Roan’s head too, thanks to his failed death at Luna’s hand. He’d survived, though how he’d done so, Clarke still didn’t know. She’d seen the wounds on his chest, stomach, and arms where Luna had cut him. How the Black Rain hadn’t melted his flesh - how the air of the Death Wave hadn’t choked his lungs, Clarke still didn’t know. She only knew that they were both alive, and Bellamy and Echo and all the others had rocketed into space while her mother and Marcus and Octavia had burrowed into the bunker, and they were left outside.

She looked back, wanting to help Roan; wanting to fight. She couldn’t, she knew. Climbing that tower to get her friends launched into space had nearly killed her and she was still blistered and probably disfigured after the Primfaya exposure. Roan wasn’t. He was only wounded from the conclave fights. She didn’t understand that either, since she had Nightblood and he didn’t. At the river, Clarke watched the fast running water race by over the rapids, and she glanced toward the skies. The sun was setting; the light failing, and soon they would be pitched into darkness where it would be that much easier for their pursuers to sneak up on them. Soon the night creatures that prowled – those that survived - would be hunting, too. 

Clarke waited impatiently, gasping and clutching her side where a stitch burned. She was weak, and she wasn’t sure how much further she could run.  Sitting down on a rock by the water, she tried to catch her breath and waited, hoping to hell Roan would win the skirmish. Honestly, she was so tired and so heartsore to have been left behind and locked outside that if Roan didn’t survive the fight, she didn’t imagine she’d be long out of her own grave.

“Wanheda,” Roan’s voice impeded as darkness fell completely while she waited and Clarke jerked around, seeing him limping out of the forest, a fresh cut on his cheek and new blood staining his hands.

“Oh, thank god,” Clarke sighed, wilting in exhaustion and relief. 

“Get up,” he said as he limped over. “It’s not much further.”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, looking up at him as she struggled to her feet.

“Home,” he murmured, his voice so soft and the chatter of the river so loud that she almost missed it. 

She frowned, wondering if that meant the Ice Nation, or somewhere else; wondering if he’d ever truly had a home. Clarke hadn’t. It was a sad realisation, but it was the truth. The Ark had been both her home and her prison, and ever since they’d landed back on Earth, she’d been running and fighting and hiding, always on the move, never stopping in one place for long. She didn’t ask him where ‘home’ was. She was too tired to bother, and honestly, as long as she’d be able to rest when they got there, that’d be fine with her. Her body was working overtime to combat the radiation in the air, and she could tell it was straining Roan, too, but he didn’t complain. 

In silence, he led her along the river’s edge for almost a mile before reaching a spot where a large tree lay across a fast flowing, deep section of the channel. 

“Over you go,” he said. “Shuffle along on your arse if you have to.”

He limped out onto the trunk carefully before hissing when he tried to taking another limping step on his wounded leg and almost lost his balance. Before he could topple, Clarke was right behind him, clutching a wayward branch, her hand on his shoulder to steady him. He looked back in surprise, his brow furrowed.

“I won’t let you get hurt either,” she murmured by way of explanation when his confusion flickered across his features. “Go. I’ll follow.”

She nodded him across the log and he limped slowly, resorting to turning sideways and practically dragging his wounded leg behind him. Clarke frowned when she saw the dark stain of blood smearing across the wood as he did so. He was badly hurt then. Shit. She didn’t say anything, but when they were both safely across, Clarke caught Roan’s wrist, guiding his arm over her shoulders and relieving some of the pressure on his leg. 

“That way,” he said after a long minute of watching her face for some hint that she meant him ill. 

They shuffled into the trees, and though it was tough going, half a mile into the woods, they came across a rocky outcrop. 

“Inside,” he murmured, his voice low and pained by her ear as he led her up a very faint trail and to a door, roughly hewn - Clarke realised with surprise - from the same tree they’d used for a bridge.

“Home?” she asked when he pushed the door open.

It was a small cave, boasting a forgotten fireplace and a bedframe crafted from stripped pine saplings and tightly woven river reeds.

“Home,” Roan told her quietly. “Home, after they banished me. No one else knows where it is. No one comes here.”

“Why?” Clarke frowned, helping him to the edge of the bed and setting him down before moving toward the small woodpile in the corner and the woven basket of kindling beside it to begin building a fire to keep away the predators.

“I killed any who tried,” Roan admitted quietly. “And the beasts have free reign out here. This is no-man’s land between Kru territories. The big cats aren’t the only creatures calling this part of the world home, and most human who might find it don’t make it across the river.”

“Will the cats come prowling?” Clarke asked, worriedly.

“Probably,” Roan nodded. “Trailing fresh blood to the door will lure a few of them. Some of them know me, after all this time. You live alone in the wilderness long enough, you develop a respect for the wildlife, but they’ve developed a respect for me too. They don’t like my fire, and they know I’ll kill them if they don’t kill me.”

Clarke nodded, crossing back to the door he must’ve spent days cutting, closing it firmly and noting the barricades tucked into an alcove behind it to hold it firmly shut.

“What’s out there?” she asked. 

“Whatever escaped the zoos and survived from before the end of the world,” Roan shrugged. “Bears. Wolves. Lions. There’s a few tigers and some of the bigger primates. There’s a herd of elephants that passes through every year around this time, and there’s a couple of hippos that made their home down around the bend in the river. This corner of the world is where all the forgotten creatures come to carve out an existence.”

Clarke glanced up at him as she arranged the fire and got it smouldering, lighting up the blackness of the cave and illuminating that once upon a time Roan must’ve made quite the home for himself here. There were drying racks for meat and bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling, furs piled on the bed, and all the tools for survival arranged around the large space, as needed. Weapons, baskets, storage containers.

“I suppose it’s been a while since you’ve been back?” she guessed.

“Not since I caught you,” he nodded. “Might still be some apples in the cache though. Over there, behind that fur. Go down the stairs.”

“Stairs?” Clarke frowned. 

“Take a knife,” he said. “Never know what might’ve found it’s way in here.”

Clarke frowned and nodded, pulling her knife from her belt and struggling across the cave and behind the hung bearskin. She was shocked to find stairs dug into the soil, compacted into hard mud and lined with stones to keep the shape. She followed them down into a cellar he must’ve dug himself, and even more items were stored therein. Piles of furs and salvaged things from blankets, tarps and ropes to what looked like an old kitchen sink; reeds, baskets of apples, sealed containers of dried meat. He was well stocked to survive in this place.

A few mice skittered away from her as she approached, but she located the apples and some jerky that looked alright before returning above. She found Roan had removed his boots and was in the process of wriggling out of his pants to get at the wound on his leg. His knife was stuck in the flames, heating, ready to cauterize whatever wound he’d endured. 

“Need a hand?” she asked, putting down the food items and shuffling closer. 

“I got it,” he said. “Eat. Rest. I know you’re tired, Wanheda.”

Clarke frowned. 

“I can help,” she said. “You got hurt protecting me.”

“I got hurt fighting,” he argued. “Don’t be a martyr.”

“You fought him for me. You specifically said you wouldn’t let me get hurt.” She frowned. 

“And I won’t,” he muttered, hissing and almost falling as he stepped out of his pants, revealing pale, hairy legs, strong and toned with hard muscle. One was sticky with blood from a gash on his upper thigh. It’d avoided the artery, but it was bleeding heavily just the same, a long, deep cut bitten into the meaty flesh. 

“Roan,” she frowned.

He ignored her, reaching for the knife he’d set in the flames and lifting it, ready to do what needed to be done. She noted that it wouldn’t be the only burn on his skin. He’d done this before, many times over. He hissed and a low groan escaped him when he pressed the red-hot blade to his skin. The sizzling of human hair and skin filled her ears, and the stink of it filled her nose, but Clarke didn’t look away. 

He sighed when the wound was cauterized, throwing down the blade and sitting heavily on the edge of the bed once more. Clarke offered him the apples and the jerky she’d brought up from below before carefully sitting down on the bed beside him. Silence reigned between them before he laughed humourlessly and bit into his apple, shaking his head. 

“What happens now?” she asked after they’d eaten. “My people are back in space, or all in a hole in the ground. From how much I’m still struggling with the radiation, even with Nightblood, they won’t be able to survive the surface for a while. How are you even surviving it?”

Clarke frowned as Roan rose from the bed, still barefoot and pantless, to feed a little more wood to the fire.

“I have no idea,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Might be the effect of that blood oath we swore. Might be my body and those of the other surviving Grounders has had longer to develop antibodies and mechanisms to better withstand radiation. We’re not all born with Nightblood, but we’ve been surviving the toxicity of the surface since clawing out way out of bunkers and other survival holes from the End. You live and breathe this shit long enough, you build up a tolerance, or you die. Skaikru didn’t have the chance up there.”

He pointed toward the ceiling and the sky beyond it before meeting her gaze across the flames. 

“We’re alive,” she said. “So what happens now? My people are gone. I don’t know how many of yours survived.”

“They all want my head,” he reminded her. “Want your head, too.”

“I noticed,” Clarke sighed. “So what are we going to do?”

Roan shrugged, looking around the cave like he couldn’t decide if he hated the place, or was happy to be back. 

“You remember when we were on our way to trying to develop a cure from Luna’s juis?” he asked. “In the car?”

“You asked what happens if we survive,” Clarke nodded. “If we just keep killing each other.”

Roan tipped his head to look at her, his blue eyes intense as they fixed upon her from across the fire. Clarke could decide if they gleamed with anger or sadness.

“Seems we do,” he said quietly. 

She sighed. “It seems so,” she agreed. “I just... I wanted so badly for everyone to just... get along. I thought if we could all survive, we’d find a way.”

“No,” Roan answered. “You said the difference between us was that I didn’t care who survived if my people didn’t win the conclave, while you only cared that people survived. Was that true?”

“Yes,” Clarke said solemnly. “I don’t know why it matters to me. Maybe it’s an effect of living on the Ark for so long; or because I was raised inside the important circles governing Skaikru aboard the Ark and their primary effort was always about the continued survival of the human race at all costs, but it’s what I hoped for. Many of my people made it into the bunker. Many of yours did too, it seems. Many from all thirteen clans, if those people back there who survived the death wave are to be believed. They all went in with the intent of surviving, even at the cost of the people outside.”

“The ones outside are angrier now,” Roan told her. “The ones outside want to kill the ones inside even more, now.”

“I know,” Clarke sighed. 

For a long time, only the sound of the fire crackling and spitting filled the air between them and Roan watched her in that way of his that always seemed to disarm her; to see right through all her bravado and all her bullshit, and Clarke looked back at him, wondering what in the hell they were supposed to do now.

“When you said that to me,” Roan said quietly, rising to his feet from where he’d crouched to feed the fire. “Something became clear to me.”

Clarke frowned, watching him round the fire and cross back to the bed. It wasn’t late enough for bed yet; not really, but he jerked him thumb to have her rise so he could pull back the furs and blankets piled on it before clambering into bed, stopping only to rip his shirt off over his head, leaving him in just underwear. 

“What?” she asked when he moved further across the large bed to make room for her so that she might climb in beside him, making no fuss about having her in his home or sharing his bed with her because there were no other options, and he was not a man who gave a damn about pretence when faced with cold hard facts.

“You were right,” Roan said quietly when Clarke shimmied out of her outer things, bloodstained and messy as they were. “I didn’t give a damn what happened to anyone else if Azgeda didn’t win. But I also realised... I didn’t really give a damn about Azgeda surviving, either. Luna’s speech was radical and complete bullshit, for the most part, but she was right that the killing had to stop; that it wouldn’t stop, as long as the clans survived.”

“You don’t think the killing would’ve stopped if only Azgeda had made it into that bunker?” she frowned at him. 

“I don’t think any two people can coexist without wanting to kill each other,” he replied. “Look at you and me. How many times have we wanted to kill each other?”

Clarke frowned, supposing he had a point. She’d never wanted to kill him, but she would be lying to say she had never conceived it and never attempted to do so.

“I hated this place, when they banished me,” he confessed quietly, rolling to his back and staring up at the ceiling of the cave. “I cursed it every night I went to sleep, and I cursed it again every time I woke up. I was obsessed with finding a way back to my people.”

Clarke listened quietly, surprised he would share so much when he’d proved, thus far, to be such a private man. 

“When I became the King of Azgeda... that first night, after they crowned me; after everything I’d done to get there; everything we’d done, to put me there.... I went to bed that night in that fucking tower, half a mile above the ground in a big feather bed with all the comforts and luxuries I could want. And all night long, I tossed and turned and wished I was here.”

Clarke reached out, putting her hand on his shoulder and offering silent comfort, unsure what to say in the face of his admission.

“Roan...” she began, though she had no idea how to continue. He cut her off before she could. 

“In Allie’s bunker, we spoke about it being a hard day... do you remember what you said?” he asked, turning his head back to look at her.

“They’re all hard,” Clarke whispered, nodding.

“They don’t have to be,” he told her. “When I was banished, living in this damn cave all alone, I thought the days were hard; made harder by my isolation and needing to do every damn thing myself just to survive. But after dealing with people; being in charge of people; being their King... I prefer this. It’s going to be a long time before your people inside that bunker can survive on the surface. Might be even longer while the remaining Krus try to figure their lives out now when all the important people are down there. But I don’t want any part of it, Clarke. I don’t want to be their king. I don’t care if they survive or how they survive or how the govern themselves. I don’t care if they fucking kill each other. I just want to live here in peace. I want to live well.”

Clarke frowned when he waited a moment, his eyes holding hers, before he rolled away, turning his back to her and revealing the scars, like wings, burned into his flesh. They glowed stark white compared to his tanned skin by the light of the fire, and Clarke was struck again by their beauty. 

“Goodnight, Wanheda,” he murmured, and Clarke sighed.

“Goodnight,” she whispered in reply, exhaustion claiming her.

She wondered if maybe he was right. Maybe their time was done. What the other survivors on the outside of the bunker did with their lives was up to them. She couldn’t deny that those days when she’d been on the run had been some of the easiest of her life; when she only had herself to please. Maybe she could have that again. Maybe this cave could be home for her, as it was home for Roan. Maybe she could just exist in peace, without worrying about everyone else for a change. 

Maybe, until that damn bunker opened again and she had to face her mother and Marcus and the others, once more... maybe until then she could learn how to live well, too. 

Read on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25334275

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

Stone Shadows | Chapter VII

Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI

Add yourself to the taglist!

As always, I appreciate any and all feedback. Comments would really help me keep going especially since my blog is pretty much dying due to the new Tumblr guidelines. I’ll be posting on Ao3 too; here’s a link to the series there.

Seven | Enezra

These corridors were the blackest among the labyrinth. So dark that the cold permeated every inch, bit at any that dared to enter. Only the frost wolves and snow cats ventured this far.. Enezra walked beside the dwarf, his wool wrapped hand holding up the low-burning lamp. Even she could not see more than three feet ahead of them.

She traced their path with her hand. Her woven gloves were as little protection as her patched cloak but she was used to the cold. She swallowed back each shiver which threatened to trickle down her spine. It was years ago that she had marked these passages; carved the symbols into stone. The first a warning, the rest directions. If any but her were foolish enough to chance them, they’d at least have a chance to make it through.

There had been another route to take until the dwarf had collapsed the roof in. It was longer but less treacherous and much less frigid. As it was, this was more direct and quicker. The sooner she was free of the dwarf, the better. She could go about her life as she had done for years. Alone. Free of his judgement. What right did he have anyway? He lived in a mountain; not so different from her caverns.

She tucked her free hand into her jacket pocket. Her fingers were growing numb and the cold had seeped through her scarf, nipping at her cheeks. She had long run out of wool to weave more cloth and her mending had done little to reinforce her fraying attire. She mourned the warmth of the spring, tempted to turn back. Perhaps upon her return she would visit it again.

“What is that?” The dwarf caught her elbow, holding her back as a low growl pierced the dark. She was shocked by his touch and he quickly released her as she flinched. She had been alone for countless decades. She hadn’t encountered another in as many, let alone felt the warmth of their hands.

“Shh,” She raised her finger, “Frost wolves. This is their territory and it is birthing season. They will be protecting their young.”

“Frost wolves?” He scoffed. “I’ve read of those in storybooks...as a child.”

She looked at him in the low lantern light. He was mocking her, she realized as she narrowed her eyes. He didn’t believe she was a greenling, he thought her a maddened halfling hiding in the caves in her delirium. She snarled and turned the corridor before, the shadow of a furried tail at the end of it. The beast was circling, trying to block their way.

Enezra unbuttoned the top her jacket, letting in the chill as she reached for her sling. She pulled a perfectly rounded rock from the pouch at her belt and set it in the leather. Thorin did not see the subtle movement, his sight and senses shrouded by the dark eating away at the lamplight. He only watched with unveiled concern as she stepped ahead of him, speaking in the ancient tongue to the animal growling menacingly at them.

“We are not here to harm you. We only seek to pass through.” She said to the wolf. Its growl grew deeper, teeth bared. “We have no ill-intent. Your young are safe from us.”

She heard the large paws edge closer, the rumbling warning still in effect. “Ez,” Thorin warned. She clutched her sling and felt the cold nose touch her finger tips, sniffing at her. “I have never harmed your kind. Let not our truce end here.”

The wolf nudge her hand and retreated, turning warily back as her growl died in the air. Ez watched her turn the next corner, returning to her young sleeping in some hidden nook. The greenling exhaled and turned back to her companion, a shadow looming behind him.

“Duck,” She hissed as the screech of a snow cat rose. Thorin did so with confusion and she swung her sling, loosing the stone into the jaw of the pouncing predator. The snow cat whimpered as it fell back and Ez took another stone, flinging it in quick succession. “Go.” She shouted, a third stone following, “Now.”

Stinging from the pelt of rocks, the snow cat retreated. Thorin straightening up as he shone the lamp in its direction. Its silver fur reflected the flame just before it faded back into the dark. 

“We should hurry,” Ez advised as she turned back to their path, “The ruckus will only bring more.”

He nodded and quietly followed, falling into step next to her. The silence which ensued was thick, filled with the words he longed to say. “What is it?” She prompted gruffly.

“What did you say to the wolf? How did it understand you?” He asked.

“Oh, did you not read of my kind in your storybooks? Of our earthly ways and natural tongues?” She taunted.

“Greenlings died out at least a century ago,” Thorin argued.

“You don’t have to believe me. I am what I am regardless of your opinion.” She shrugged. “But I know these corridors and I will get you out.”

She sensed his gaze on her. His eyes lingering as he considered her contemptuous tone. “Thank you.” He finally said. “For saving me.”

“I didn’t save you,” She countered, “I saved me. Snow cats are not so easily reasoned with.”

She led him down the next corridor, trying to hide the fierce shiver which threatened. As her adrenaline waned, the cold returned to her bones. She peeked over at the dwarf’s thick cloak, lined with fur and made of thick black hide. She envied him for just a second before peeling her attention back to their journey. The quicker they were free of these corridors, the sooner she’d be warm again.

Thorin

“In here,” Enezra stopped at yet another of her hidden chambers. “It is late. I thought we’d be further by now, but the night only brings more beasts. We best set up camp for the night.”

“You don’t come here often, do you?” He wondered as she shifted the narrow door. She slipped through but Thorin had to turn sideways to enter.

“Not in years,” She assured him, “But there is no one else down here to disturb it.” She took the lamp from him and crossed to a small chest hidden in the far corner of the chamber. She pulled forth three torches, lighting one as she lifted it and turned back to illuminate her sight. “Damn it.”

Half the ceiling had fallen to rubble and only a small space remained to them. They were so far down that the avalanche blocked any trace of the outside above. She set her torch between two stones to stand in the corner and lit another one for the opposite corner. A pit of ash remained and a spit stood over it, long-unused. Thorin watched as Enezra took a bundle from the other side of the small chest. She unwrapped the linen to reveal three thick logs and a bale of long sticks.

“It should last us the night,” She explained as she set to arranging the kindling.

He watched her hands as they shivered and she tried not to fumble the logs. She removed her gloves, tucking them away. Her fingertips had turned bright red even through the wool. He realized how thin her clothing truly was. Her cloak was threadbare and her jacket offered little protection from the chill they had been walking through all day.

Thorin glanced down at his cloak. It was a king’s cloak; thick and fur-trimmed. It was one of many he owned back in Erebor. His tunic and coat were just as luxurious and his boots had new soles; Enezra’s barely clung to her worn hide boots. Even through all this, the dwarf had felt frigid cut of the cold. The woman, in much less, didn’t even complain.

“T-tea,” She frowned as she chattered against her will. She sniffed and search through her pack. “It should warm us up while we wait for our dinner.” She took out the kettle and filled it from her canteen. She hung it on the spit as she took out her small pot, a strip of rabbit jerky, some leeks, and a single bent carrot. He wondered where she came by all this in these barren depths.

“Can I help?” He offered as he knelt beside her, pulling forth his knife and taking the carrot before she could answer. He cut it into fine slices and added to the bits of jerky she was tossing into the pot. She nodded in gratitude and they carried on in silence until they finished.

The kettle trembled and whistled and she poured the tea as she had the nights before. The rest of the water she added to the pot and hung it in place of the kettle. As she sat back atop her feet, a poorly concealed effort to warm them, Thorin handed her a cup, hoping it would turn her reddened fingertips back to their natural honey tone.

“Thanks,” She looked away abashed. She was more clever than she let on and realized what the dwarf was doing. He didn’t know himself why he was so concerned. She had lived down here long enough; survived the cold before.

Few more words passed between them as they awaited their evening meal. He recalled the harsh tones they had exchanged earlier. He shouldn’t have mocked her as he had done but she really didn’t have much of a sense of humour. He felt even guiltier knowing that she had saved him.

The stew was thin but tasty nonetheless. Thorin drank hungrily, watching the girl as she tried to hide her eager gulps. When she finished, she set aside her bowl and pulled her cloak tighter to her figure as she leaned against the wall, legs bent to her chest.

“It’ll be an early morning,” She said, “We should sleep. Put another log on the fire before you do.”

The chamber was so cramped that the fire took up most of its area; neither had enough room to lay down with the pile of rocks closing them in. Thorin stood from the other side of the pit, setting the last log into it. He turned to where Enezra sat against the wall, her eyes closed as she leaned her head back.

He unclasped his cloak as he neared her. He lowered himself beside her, spreading it over both of them as he sat. Her eyes snapped open as she looked over and pushed away his fur cloak. “I’m alright,” She insisted, “Please, it’s yours.”

“It’s big enough for the both of us,” He returned, shoving it back over her knees, “How well do you think you’ll sleep with the cold still in you?”

She sighed, staring him down as she slowly ran her fingers along the fur trim. “Are you sure?”

“As long as you don’t mind sharing,” He replied.

She nodded and let him put the cloak over her, tugging it up over her shoulders herself. “Thank you,” She said quietly. He could see her shame at accepting his courtesy. He wondered how long it was since any had offered her more than the sharp tip of their fang or blade.

“Not at all,” He assured her. He noticed as how she made sure not to lean against him; keeping three inches between them. As if she feared to touch him. She would be warmer if she let him closer but he would not argue further with the obstinate girl.

Thorin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He was tired. Another day of cold was ahead of them and he relished the night of sleep ahead. A brief reprieve from the grimness of these cave. One day closer to the Mountain.

[thissupposedcrime]

ready for death the moment you said hello

Sometimes Matt isn’t sure who gets more perverse pleasure in watching the Garrison staff crumble apart. Keith’s a contender if they wronged Shiro, but he’s otherwise rallying the troops. Not Matt’s sister. Call it the last vestiges of youth or the vengeful streak she inherited from Mom, but nothing gives her joy like ruining Iverson’s.

pieces of a WIP companion of harder to be the one who survived 

“Permission to ask a question, Commander?” A man with the name tag Richardson requests. There’s an odd gleam in his eye, one Matt’s seen reflected in his and Katie’s, and he wishes, fervently, that it makes Iverson do the aborted full body twitch the cadets used to covet.

Debriefs about the calamity hurtling towards Earth can be entertaining if you just try hard enough. 

“Granted,” Iverson says without sparing Richardson a glance. He’s fixated on Keith in a stare-down that won’t end well. Matt doesn’t fault his focus, though. Keith is a far cagier and clever creature than the man who exploded out of the Garrison, Iverson’s blood dripping from his fist.

The last time Matt spoke with Keith, he was screaming his name over a communication system, begging him not to kamikaze himself, only for Matt to be muted and ignored. Present Keith is older, more terrifyingly competent and cool headed. Alien moms, wolves, and locating the presumed lost love of your life in the abyss of a space lion apparently foster rapid growth.

Matt is so distracted composing the dramatic screenplay of their lives that he almost misses the wonderful combination of words that slip out of Richardson.

“Why did you abscond with a cow?” Richardson asks.

It halts everything.

“What?” Lance finally offers, blinking slowly. His lips quiver.

“We didn’t?” Hunk adds. Allura’s eyes slant towards Hunk, likely frustrated his comment came out questioningly.

In fairness, he’s handling the situation with more poise than anyone in Matt’s family. Katie’s no longer slouched in her seat, now almost vibrating with energy. Lance follows her lead down to hell.

“She was a free gift for buying video games from the alien in the Area 51 store at this space mall we went to,” Katie announces with glee. Sometimes Matt isn’t sure who gets more perverse pleasure in watching the Garrison staff crumble apart. Keith’s a contender if they wronged Shiro, but he’s otherwise rallying the troops. Not Matt’s sister. Call it the last vestiges of youth or the vengeful streak she inherited from Mom, but nothing gives her joy like ruining Iverson’s.

“You got it from space?” One of Iverson’s graduate assistants shrieks across the room. Cosmo’s head picks up like he’s just heard a dog whistle. Matt hope someone else comments on that so he doesn’t have to. No one critiques the kid’s loudness, and Cosmo’s snout nudges Shiro, whose hand rubs his ears.

Let the record show Matt was not informed Shiro and Keith adopted a cool dog and is not responsible for any gifts or celebrations this prompted and he missed.

“She has a name,” Lance says, and the obviously isn’t as silent as they all would like.

“It’s Kaltenecker,” Hunk explains while Lance slides his datapad across the conference room table, selfies with the cow glowing brightly on the screen.

“She was very helpful running away from the security guard,” Katie announces, unprompted. Iverson does another twitch, and Matt watches his sister add more kindling to the fire. Mom and Dad are going to frame the transcript of this conversation. He knows it.

“What?” Allura interrupts before any Garrison staff can formulate a response. “You neglected to mention that part.” She immediately seems to regret the outburst, remembering where they are.

Matt wants to reassure her she and Coran are the closest they have to adults in the room, and then ask for her hand in marriage.

“Now Princess,” Coran starts, “it was so long ago. And we were making a strategic retreat from a Galra. Nothing to be concerned with.”

“Really Pidge?” Keith focuses on the real enemy. It’s smart.

“Why would you accept a cow?” Matt thinks Dos Santos is the one speaking, but either this conversation has aged him poorly or he’s still hungover. Possibly both. The best days are long, cruel, and rough.

“Aren’t they treasured family pets? How can you critique a rescue mission!” Coran sounds indignant, and Matt says goodbye to whatever composure he was supposed to have, touching his head upon the desk and trying desperately not to laugh.

A pained whisper of “No,” escapes Shiro. He shares a look with Keith, and both face the rest of the paladins, expressions ranging from abashed shame (Hunk) to dawning realization about the countless lies they’ve told about Earth (the other two).

“Cow’s aren’t pets,” Richardson replies, because this is where is line in the sand is, his point of no return. Matt is reminded how unprepared Earth is for a potential invasion if the only argument worth having is over a cow.

But what a way to lose the war.

Lies Hunk, Pidge, and Lance Told Their Alien Teammates That Came Back to Haunt Them

Lance is normal.

Pidge’s furry little garbage monsters are akin to religious icons back on Earth, so it is vital she be allowed to collect and house as many as possible, not just for herself but for the sake of the rest of the team.

Cows are man’s best friend and kept as pets.

Video games are located in every home and important cultural artifacts, so of course they need to dedicate their time to making them compatible to the Castle of Lions. 

Screaming at games through the night into the early morning is acceptable earthling behavior. 

Keith was born clutching a knife. In their defense, this was before both Krolia and the Blade of Marmora, events which only made the lie more plausible. 

The Galaxy Garrison anthem is a series of rhythm chants followed by two hours of silence, of which it is mandatory to attempt sleep. 

Certain humans can uninstall emotions.

Every single increasingly complex handshake. 

That time they were all exhausted from a mission but Allura wanted to run drills and they convinced Coran it was a holiday and weren’t allowed to work out. 

Of course Shiro and Keith would agree and validate their claims if they weren’t busy being hyper focused about the other accepting the role of/remaining the leader, consumed with the grief of Shiro’s disappearance, acting increasingly strange because Keith was on missions for the Blade of Marmora, or coming back from the dead. Again.

“Time,” Montgomery begins, with deserved, solemn gravity, “is meaningless.”

Richardson nods along, looking at the pictures on the desk as if they possess answers to all the world’s riddles.

No one acknowledges recent graduate and first year TA James Griffin fail to form words, despite opening his mouth repeatedly and settling for aborted stutters. The Galaxy Garrison can never claim to prioritize kindness, but no soldier willingly flays one of their own when do deeply traumatized.

Besides, James is the only one young enough to be preoccupied with Keith Kogane ‘coming back hot’ and not the potential quantum mechanics of time travel and teleportation that he embodies. No one has seen the science division in such rapture. 

Still, looking around the room and watching the ghost of their failed pasts come to haunt them once again, Mr. Harris regrets not remaining a civilian.

listen, while I’ve still got no excuse, you guys supported the last one so blame yourselves too.

frantically written before season 7 premiers and despite the spoilers we got going that already means this is jossed.

full fic coming before this new season comes to kill me

[alldrinkingaside]

"A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." - Franz Kafka

For me, an alcoholic in long-term recovery, "the frozen sea inside us" is also the Frozen Sea Between Us. One could easily define alcoholism as the "Disease of Separation." Books are, indeed, only one of the tools in my Recovery Toolbox, but it is a powerful one. Reading helped me bridge the gaps between isolation and solitude and the gaping holes between separation and belonging.

Recovery brought me to the intersection of Solitude and Belonging and books helped melt my addiction-frozen heart. From feeling shunned, isolated and alone in my addiction, years later in recovery, I found myself living in a state of gratitude, inner-peace and solitude. I could not have known the goodness possible in a clean and sober life or I might have found it years sooner.

Addiction answered all questions and (at the same time) left me clueless as it slowly evaporated me. Going from shunned, isolated and alone in my addiction to my current state of gratitude for inner peace and a quiet solitude in recovery has been a long haul. I couldn't have known that all of a sober life's goodness awaited me. It would not have been possible without finding a place of belonging in recovery first.

We humans are pack animals, like wolves. "Separated from the pack, the chances of survival diminish. Alcoholism is this disease of separation. The alcoholic needs the alcohol to the exclusion of all else. Recovery is largely about rejoining the human race. Connection with self, reconnection with self. Connecting with others, reconnecting. Overcoming alcoholism, the Great Excluder. The irony and paradox of Happy Hour can silence" almost anyone who pauses for a moment to reflect.

The loneliness of an alcoholic death. That's what many of my recollections boil down to. Reciprocity is keeping me sober. Sharing with another alcoholic. It really is that simple. I used to drown the loneliness caused by alcohol with (what else?) more alcohol. Solitude seemed an impossibility when a bottle of booze sat next to me. Alcohol lorded over me and made solitude an impossibility. Loneliness, inescapable. Solitude, unattainable. Sobriety, unimaginable...

It has taken time to still my mind instead of passing out as I used to do. To glide seamlessly from waking consciousness into a blissful night's sleep, waking up refreshed, alert and drug-free. This did not happen overnight and thankfully, I have enjoyed this slow transition. Two months of Transcendental Meditation could not have done this for me. Impetuous youth and alcohol" were a near deadly mix. From barely surviving in addiction to a thriving and blissful recovery.

Two different worlds unimaginably connected.

Books were the axe transitioning me from the frozen sea within me to connections with the human race learned and sustained in my recovery.

Connections with the human race. Everyone has a place. Your table awaits you.

*****

Passages in quotes are excerpted from All Drinking Aside. For an added treat, check out my NEW Non-Fiction, BECOMING UNBROKEN: Reflections on Addiction and Recovery on Amazon here: https://lnkd.in/dkF767RT

In the meantime, Immerse yourself in my Descent into Addiction and eventual Recovery in my Autobiographical Fiction, ALL DRINKING ASIDE: The Destruction, Deconstruction & Reconstruction of an Alcoholic Animal

Find it on Amazon. Book it here: http://amzn.to/1bX6JyO 

#alcoholism #addiction #recovery #books

All Drinking Aside bookends each of its 90 Chapters with Quotes by the Famous, Infamous & Anonymous.

This Quote by Franz Kafka closes Chapter 58 ("Alcoholism Disconnects, Recovery Connects") of All Drinking Aside.

Resolve to read it. Explore your own mind within its pages. Check out the 5 Star Reviews on the Amazon page while you're there: http://amzn.to/1bX6JyO 

Enjoy BOTH OF THESE BOOKS on ADDICTION & RECOVERY! (Print & Kindle Versions Available of Both!)

[theolddarkmachine]

Kingdom- Interlude: Once Upon A Night

Gajeel has had the dream about dying for the blue haired girl for as long as he can remember. Which is weird, since he’s never met anyone with blue hair in his life.

Levy has always loved myths and legends. So much so, in fact, that she was currently getting her master’s in mythological studies.

What neither of them realized was that they were living a legend all their own.

AKA the one with a knight, a princess, and a curse that keeps bringing them together just to pull them apart.

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

AO3

THIS WAS THE UPDATE FROM HEEEEEEELL. I literally started it like five days ago T.T Wrote almost all of the update, then decided I hated it and started over, only to have it still bend me over a table and have its way with me lol Anyway, I hope y’all like it, because even though it made me want to die, I actually really do like how it turned out. I just wish it didn’t need to be so painful to get there XD Also, har har, Once Upon A (k)Night. DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE. also fun fact: the name liam means resolute protection in case uh, you were wondering

**************************

Gajeel Redfox was always meant for greatness. It was an inevitability that was fixed in his fate, drawn out along the length of the string the mythic Greek witches had pulled for him. His father had made sure to assure him whenever he got the chance that the stars would kneel before him one day, and though he was now dead, Gajeel had never been given a reason to doubt his father.

The Iron Dragon’s own story had been one of fierce renown. Painted a hero to most and regarded a villain to others, it should have come as no surprise when he’d been slain by a crowd of enraged villagers shortly after they’d discovered their own personal bad guy was living just in the outskirts of their town. But wasn’t that the tragedy of being the hero? It was never as simple as black and white, good and evil.

That same village had been an enemy of the kingdom at one time. Where they’d seen themselves as the benevolent forces, Metalicana had regarded them as malevolent, and treated them as such. It had only been payback in kind all the years later when they’d slaughtered him in his home, led by a thief that had twisted events into his favor.

What had been an attempted robbery had been spun into a tale of unwarranted violence by a former enemy. His father had been an illustrious warrior, but even age and twenty angry townspeople could wear such a force down. By the time Gajeel had returned from the errands he’d been sent on that day, it was already too late. The pool of crimson and Metalicana’s soulless eyes haunted his dreams since.

It was the first true lesson that Gajeel learned.

Heroes were destined to be great, but never to be happy.

When his father’s friend, Makarov, came to visit days later, he’d found the then nine-year-old sharing his home with a corpse and looking almost as lifeless.

The man, who he later learned to be the king his father had once served-- even befriended-- took Gajeel in that day. Bringing him home to his kingdom, Makarov gave him all the food he could eat, water he could drink, and a plush bed to sleep. He’d even regaled Metalicana’s son with stories of their youth, words flowing freely and fondly as he spoke of his friend and times forgotten. Without any children of his own, the king treated the Iron Dragon’s son as if he were his, allowing him anything he’d asked for. It was this that led Gajeel to ask Makarov if he could begin training for the Royal Guard, knowing that the man would deny him nothing, especially the opportunity to seize the status his father had been so certain he’d obtain.

I wish to follow in my father’s footsteps, he’d said, kneeling before the king with a practiced flourish. I wish to serve by your side, just as he did.

Though the other pages had started their training two years earlier, setting him behind by circumstance, Gajeel had prospered in the training. At first, he was regarded by his comrades in arms with vague curiosity. A newcomer amongst their ranks would only mean another prospect to beat to reach the rank of a royal guard, and one that was already so far behind could hold no competition. If anything, he would offer a moment’s entertainment before he was quickly beat until he dropped out to become a stablehand.

Not much time passed before he proved to the rest of the pages that he deserved their attention, acing all their lessons and passing each test of strength.

Three years had passed since, and though Gajeel hadn’t made any friends of the other knights in training, he had made them take notice. Their mild indifference had curdled into full blown jealousy that was whispered in dark corners amongst themselves. With his head held high and chip balanced carefully on his shoulder, he’d listen to the rumors they hissed as he passed by, allowing them to feed the fire that blazed within his chest.

The king is the only reason he’s here.

He has to be cheating somehow.

I heard he’s the son of the devil.

Each statement was more kindling, fanning the flames into a roaring bonfire that lit his eyes. With its driving force, Gajeel pushed himself to work harder until no one could stand between his singleminded focus and the grandeur he hungered for.

His attention was concentrated on the single point in the distance, blinding him to all else. That tunnel vision had kept him so focused on his goal that he did not want for anyone or anything in his life. Friendships and social ties would only open him to the possibility of being let down, or worse, letting himself down. Hadn’t he learned so much from his father? He’d allowed himself to become complacent amongst others, and it ended up being his death. Gajeel wouldn’t allow others in so that he wouldn’t need to fear being stabbed in the back.

He wore that philosophy like well worn armor, pushing the other pages away from him, and those pages were all too happy to let him.

It wasn’t until one day at the stables that anyone broke through his defenses, with a solid right hook.

Gajeel had often found himself pulled towards the serene atmosphere that clung to the walls of the repository, its air still with nothing but the soft neighs disrupting the peace. Most of the other boys avoided the stable, worried they might be mistaken for something lesser than the meager position they already held, which meant it was the best place to go for an escape. He didn’t mind the near suffocating scent of horse and hay that filled the stable if it meant he could get away from the bothersome pages while he practiced.

The first thing that alerted him to trouble was the low grumbling of voices that didn’t belong in the space. Several voices tripped over themselves as the unwelcome guests fought to be heard over each other. Following the sound deep into the stables, passing the pens, Gajeel picked up one voice that stood out amongst the rest.

“Now what would a stablehand be doing practicing sparring techniques?” It was a sneering, loathsome thing, filled with all the contempt he’d grown accustomed to. The difference was that now that the arrow filled tone was aimed at someone else, it got under his skin, filling his stomach with bubbling anger that made his fingers curl into fists. His steps only quickened when he heard the snap of a body hitting the wooden slat of one of the pens and the small huff of breath that was knocked out of it.

“You aren’t in the royal guard, stablehand,” another voice hissed.

“And you won’t ever be,” said a third.

Rounding the corner at the end of the stable, Gajeel saw four boys crowded around one that was leaning into one of the pens, hand steadying himself against the wood as he glared at  those that surrounded him. The boy looked to be about his age, and was nothing but long limbs and obsidian hair. His equally dark eyes were trained on the ground, tracing imagined lines in the dirt at his feet as if he was seeing a plan play out before him. Gajeel couldn’t help but notice a strange scar that sliced through his eyebrow, puckering the skin with a crescent mark free of hair. He wondered if the other pages had given the boy that mark. None of them turned their attention to the new addition to their party, all eyes trained on the flushed stablehand, waiting for what his next move might be. The pages were wolves waiting for the rabbit to make one false move that would justify their attack.

“Last I checked, you weren’t in the royal guard either,” Gajeel replied. A satisfied roll of heat rippled through him when the tallest of the boys jumped at the sound of his voice. Four sets of eyes landed on him, filled with contempt and confusion. The tallest-- presumably the leader-- recovered first, his lips turning up into a pinched smile.

“I didn’t think you could actually speak, Gajeel,” he said, tone filled with dark humor. “We’re honored you’d grace us with your attention.” Dropping a mocking bow, his eyes flashed upwards through his bangs, watching all the while for his reaction.

“And I didn’t think you could stoop any lower,” Gajeel shrugged, ignoring the growling beast beating against the cage of his ribs. “Looks like we were both wrong.”

The air of the stables became charged as they held each others gazes, the power struggle between the two boys confined to the six foot space that separated them. Small gasps from the stablehand were the only sounds that filled the silence as everything else dropped away. It felt like the calm before a tempest, the ominous blanket settling over his skin, raising the hair on his arms. The beast rammed against its confines again, the jolt of it blinding him with a short blast of red against his eyelids.

“This doesn’t concern you,” the other boy said lowly, eyes still angled towards him. Somewhere deep within their dark pits, Gajeel could see the festering glow of hatred. Spurred by the challenge in his voice, he took a step forward, fists tightening.

“It can concern me, or it can concern the guard,” Gajeel arched a studded brow. “Make your choice.”

He watched the moment the page chose to unleash his fury on the him, the corners of his mouth turning downward as he made his decision.

“Devil’s son,” the boy spat, launching toward him like a cracking whip, all his energy focused into the single point of his outstretched fist. Smiling like the demon they accused him of being, Gajeel met the attack in the space between them, turning the sloppy mistake into an advantage as he sidestepped it easily. It wasn’t much of a fight as his fingers closed over the boy’s wrist, the speed of his punch pushing him passed Gajeel, and used the momentum to pull his arm behind his back. Wrenching his still closed fist upwards towards his shoulder blades, the page cried out as as Gajeel pushed the point of his knee up into his back and pushed him to his knees.

The boy’s companions just stood around them, mouths agape as they tried to make sense of the chain of events that had landed their leader in the dirt and hay. Bending at the waist so that he was level with the page’s ear, Gajeel spoke, his voice void of any inflection at all.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to mess with devils?” Tugging upwards on the arm for good measure, he pushed the boy away.

“If you come here again, I’ll make sure to tell the guard you do not uphold the values of a knight,” he said tersely, brows set low over his eyes as he fixed each boy with a glare as he spoke. The dismissal was clear as they scrambled to exit the stables. Anything to get away from Gajeel and the serious gleam in his crimson eyes. For just a moment, he had the very presence of the Iron Dragon.

As the boys scattered, leaving their friend to push himself off the ground, Gajeel turned his attention back to the stablehand who still leaned against the pen. His look was distant, as if he didn’t even realize what had occurred just moments before. Taking a tentative step forward, Gajeel raised a cautious hand.

“Are you alright?” He asked, fingers grazing over the scratching fabric of the boy’s tunic. Though it was as light as a butterfly’s wing, it snapped the stablehand from his reverie. Without warning, a solid fist landed its blow as it found his mouth. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth and stars danced over his vision at the sudden assault. Shock stole his senses as he ran a tongue over the new split in his lip that was oozing blood down his chin and into his mouth. Once the blinding spots cleared, he saw the look of surprise that had turned the stablehand’s face into a caricature of itself. Eyes wide and mouth frozen open with a small gasp, he looked at him with so much confusion it was almost as if he’d been the one to be hit.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, pushing back further into the wood behind him as if he could disappear into it. “I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t--”

“It’s fine,” Gajeel said, blood staining his teeth pink as he spoke. Clicking his jaw, he wiped a hand over his chin, only managing to smear the red further across his skin. Gathering blood and saliva into his mouth, he spit it on the floor beside him with a satisfying splat. “You have one hell of a right hook.”

“I’m sorry,” the other boy said again, black eyes darting to look at anything but the page in front of him. Shaking his head, Gajeel’s shoulders moved with his laughter.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he paused, waiting for the stablehand to fill in the empty space with his name.

“Liam.” The answer was so soft, he almost missed it amongst the neighing of the horses.

“Liam,” Gajeel nodded in confirmation as he offered his hand. “I’m Gajeel.”

A beat passed as if Liam didn’t know what the gesture was for, before he finally seized it and gave it a curt shake. Though he relaxed a little at the contact, his eyes were still filled with caution as he watched Gajeel carefully. It was a look he’d grown accustomed to, his wild black hair and ruby eyes standing out amongst most. Shrugging it off, he spoke again.

“I’d be happy to practice sparring with you, if you’d like.” Liam’s scarred brow shot up towards his hairline at the offer. Gajeel didn’t know why he’d made the suggestion, his own mind trying to catch up to the words that had left his mouth. He was used to his isolation, only speaking with the knights and Makarov. Anyone else was an unnecessary consequence to crossing paths with someone that mistook him as someone that enjoyed talking. Yet, looking at the stablehand, he recognized the darkness that tinged his gaze. It was the look that had distorted his own.

“Why would you help a stranger?” Liam asked, curiosity winning out over his caution. Gajeel shrugged, nonchalance shaping the bow of his shoulders as to not push the other boy away.

“I figure you can’t be any worse than those I do know. And a punch like that shouldn’t go untrained.” The truth of it all hung between them as Liam sized him up, trying to find any hint of insincerity in the words. Time stretched as he waited for an answer, watching the conflicting emotions that flit across the stablehand’s face as he considered.

“Alright,” he finally said, a small smile stretching across his face as he pushed himself away from the wall. When he wasn’t cowering against the grain of the wood, he stood a couple inches taller than Gajeel. The bonds of a friendship that would last the rest of their days settled over them as the Iron Dragon’s son nodded.

“Alright.” It was then, standing in the stables with a devil’s smile cracking his split lip further, that Gajeel learned his second lesson.

Sometimes others could give you purpose.

***

Gajeel was inducted into the Royal Guard by the time he turned 18, just a year later than his father had. It was a fact Makarov had been quick to point out with a mischievous smile. The new knight refuted it with a reminder that his father had also started training at the right age, and his own daring grin.

Over the years their relationship had evolved from that of an adopted familial bond to one of camaraderie, echoing that of the one the king had once had with Metalicana. He never said it aloud, but Makarov saw so much of his friend in Gajeel that often times he’d forget that they were not one in the same.

Those moments when he’d see the Iron Dragon stalking the halls, only to vanish in the black armor of his son, would send a sharp pain of sorrow ricocheting through his body. The king was always quick to mask the way his expression would falter as he remembered the past. They’d been a simpler time when royal politics and fate hadn’t taken away the two people he’d held dearest, leaving behind their ghosts to haunt him in the halls. After the night with the oracle, it seemed fate still did not believe it had taken enough from him.

The request for a private meeting with Gajeel had come through the guard, a formality that alerted him to the irregular nature of Makarov’s inquiry. Since becoming one of his knights, the king would skip speaking through Gajeel’s superiors, coming to him directly with orders that ranged from gathering a patrol to take around the kingdom to staying by his side as he met with diplomats from foreign lands. This strangeness of it all had him on edge as he finally entered the throne room, shoulders squared beneath the pauldrons that sat atop them.

Makarov sat on his throne, eyes shut as he rubbed his fingers against his temples. For just a moment, Gajeel noted the way age had grayed his hair and etched lines into his face. Stepping further into the room, he cleared his throat to alert the king of his presence before dropping to a knee before him.

“You wished to speak with me?” He asked, filling his voice with as much etiquette as he could. Speaking to the king as a knight and not as his adopted son was something he’d never been good at, easily slipping back into the latter whenever they’d discussed plans and orders. Makarov’s eyes opened, settling their cool blue gaze on him from where he sat. A weariness touched their corners, pinching them at the edges.

“Will you do anything for me?” The question was sharp, pointed at the edges as the words slipped from the king’s mouth without any preface. Gajeel felt his eyebrows pull together in confusion and concern as he looked up at the older man.

“As your knight, or as your kin?” He asked, letting bewilderment color his tone. A knight would follow any order from his king, having no other choice due to the oath he had taken. Kin would do so of their own accord. Gajeel would never disobey an order from Makarov, but the distinction would mean all the difference between obligation and choice.

“As you, Gajeel,” Makarov sighed, the unfamiliar veil of pleading falling over his face. “Will you protect someone for me?”

The weight of the request settled on his shoulders as he ruminated over the vague request.

“Who?” Gajeel asked. Doubt and confusion were a heated mix as they started to rush through his veins. Something was wrong, he could see it in the way the older man was hunched in his throne as if the world rest upon his shoulders and it was crushing him slowly.

“A young woman, living in the outskirts of the kingdom.” Still vague in his explanation, Makarov continued to speak. “I need you to swear that you will do whatever it takes to gain her trust and protect her.”

After a moment’s pause, his gaze boring into the king as if he could pull the answers straight from his mind, Gajeel spoke again.

“Why her?” Those two words cracked what little composure the king had clung to, its mask falling away as his features contorted with fear.

“You should not need a reason to follow my orders, Gajeel,” Makarov snapped, his voice uncharacteristically harsh as he spoke. Despair colored his tone with a muddled anger, his emotion displaced as his dark eyes bore into the knight. “I just need to know that you will do anything to keep her safe.”

Shoulders tensed and expression stormy, the king was a fearsome sight. For the first time in all the years he had known him, Gajeel was frightened by the man. He almost didn’t look human as he glared down at him. It was the look of a man that had lost nearly everything, and was ready to do whatever it took to keep what was left safe.

It was this in mind that Gajeel assented, nodding his head curtly as asking what it was that his king needed of him.

That was when Gajeel learned his third lesson.

Fear could sway even the most resilient of men.

***

The hardest thing Gajeel had ever done, was deceive the blue haired woman that opened the door of the cottage that day.

May I help you?

He had practiced the lie he would use to gain entrance into her home. Had planned how he would get the unknown woman to trust him so he could fulfill his king’s order. What Gajeel hadn’t planned for was the way her golden eyes snatched the breath from his lungs. No amount of preparation could have readied him for the way his heart stuttered in his chest, stopping momentarily before throwing itself into the cage of his ribs when she smiled up at him and invited him in.

Levy. Her name was Levy. And she had enamored him completely by the end of that first meeting. Day after day he returned under the guise of completing the job that had been set for him by Makarov, gaining her trust with honeyed words and sugared intent. He was so dedicated to the ruse, that at some point the gimmick became truth.

Eventually, he stopped returning to the castle, opting to stay with her full time under the thinly disguised excuse of added protection. Ignoring the quizzical look from the queen, the heavy handed silence of the king and the growing pressure located just behind his sternum, Gajeel became a staple in Levy’s life, and she became one in his.

When his father had told Gajeel he’d manage to obtain greatness, he hadn’t thought that greatness would so easily fit against his chest, clutched within the halo of his arms. Levy had worked her way into his heart slowly, her hold upon his affections tightening ever so slowly that he hadn’t noticed she held it completely in her palm until it was already too late. She was the other half of his soul; the light to his darkness; daylight to his moonlight night sky. Her radiance grounded him, and her brilliance enthralled him. All she needed to do was smile up at him, the sun dancing in her hair and wind rouging her cheeks, to land a carefully shot arrow between his ribs.

She built him up while simultaneously holding all the power to tear him down. But wasn’t that the glory of love? Odes, and sonnets, and epics were created in honor of the sheer heroism that came with loving and being loved in return.  

Happiness filled his days, pushing his original intentions to the deep recesses of his mind. Soon, Makarov’s original request was lost in the far reaches of Gajeel’s memory, buried beneath honey eyes and azure hair. It was enough to lull the Iron Dragon’s son into a false reality, seeing only what he wanted to and ignoring the very fact he’d learned all those years ago.

Heroes weren’t meant to be happy. He had let himself forget that truth. The mistake was fatal, leading him to the final lesson that he would learn.

Love was worth dying for.

****************

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Psalms

for Sunday, may 31 of 2020 with Psalm 31 accompanied by Psalm 74 for the 74th day of Spring and Psalm 2 for day 152 of the year

[Psalm 31]

A David Psalm

I run to you, God; I run for dear life.

Don’t let me down!

Take me seriously this time!

Get down on my level and listen,

and please—no procrastination!

Your granite cave a hiding place,

your high cliff aerie a place of safety.

You’re my cave to hide in,

my cliff to climb.

Be my safe leader,

be my true mountain guide.

Free me from hidden traps;

I want to hide in you.

I’ve put my life in your hands.

You won’t drop me,

you’ll never let me down.

I hate all this silly religion,

but you, God, I trust.

I’m leaping and singing in the circle of your love;

you saw my pain,

you disarmed my tormentors,

You didn’t leave me in their clutches

but gave me room to breathe.

Be kind to me, God—

I’m in deep, deep trouble again.

I’ve cried my eyes out;

I feel hollow inside.

My life leaks away, groan by groan;

my years fade out in sighs.

My troubles have worn me out,

turned my bones to powder.

To my enemies I’m a monster;

I’m ridiculed by the neighbors.

My friends are horrified;

they cross the street to avoid me.

They want to blot me from memory,

forget me like a corpse in a grave,

discard me like a broken dish in the trash.

The street-talk gossip has me

“criminally insane”!

Behind locked doors they plot

how to ruin me for good.

Desperate, I throw myself on you:

you are my God!

Hour by hour I place my days in your hand,

safe from the hands out to get me.

Warm me, your servant, with a smile;

save me because you love me.

Don’t embarrass me by not showing up;

I’ve given you plenty of notice.

Embarrass the wicked, stand them up,

leave them stupidly shaking their heads

as they drift down to hell.

Gag those loudmouthed liars

who heckle me, your follower,

with jeers and catcalls.

What a stack of blessing you have piled up

for those who worship you,

Ready and waiting for all who run to you

to escape an unkind world.

You hide them safely away

from the opposition.

As you slam the door on those oily, mocking faces,

you silence the poisonous gossip.

Blessed God!

His love is the wonder of the world.

Trapped by a siege, I panicked.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” I said.

But you heard me say it,

you heard and listened.

Love God, all you saints;

God takes care of all who stay close to him,

But he pays back in full

those arrogant enough to go it alone.

Be brave. Be strong. Don’t give up.

Expect God to get here soon.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 31 (The Message)

and these lines mirrored in The Passion Translation:

I despise these deceptive illusions,

all this pretense and nonsense,

for I worship only you.

In mercy you have seen my troubles and you have cared for me;

even during this crisis in my soul I will be radiant with joy,

filled with praise for your love and mercy.

You have kept me from being conquered by my enemy;

you broke open the way to bring me to freedom,

into a beautiful, broad place.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 31:6-8 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 74]

We Need You Now

Asaph’s poem of instruction

Are you really going to leave us, God?

Would you turn your back on us, rejecting your people?

We are yours, your very own.

Will your anger smolder against us forever?

Don’t forget that we are your beloved ones.

Wrap us back into your heart again, for you chose us.

You brought us out of our slavery and bondage

and made us your favored ones, your Zion-people,

your home on earth.

Turn your steps toward this devastation.

Come running to bring your restoring grace to these ruins,

to what the enemy has done to devastate your Holy Place.

They have come into the very midst of your dwelling place,

roaring like beasts, setting up their banners to flaunt their conquest.

Now everything is in shambles! They’ve totally destroyed it.

Like a forest chopped down to the ground,

there’s nothing’s left.

All of the beauty of the craftsmanship

of the inner place has been ruined,

smashed, broken, and shattered.

They’ve burned it all to the ground.

They’ve violated your sanctuary,

the very dwelling place of your glory and your name.

They boasted, “Let’s completely crush them!

Let’s wipe out every trace of this God.

Let’s burn up every sacred place where they worship this God.”

We don’t see any miraculous signs anymore.

There’s no longer a prophet among us

who can tell us how long this devastation will continue.

God, how much longer will you let this go on

and allow these barbarians to blaspheme your name?

Will you stand back and watch them get away with this forever?

Why don’t you do something?

You have the power to break in,

so why would you hide your great power from us?

Don’t hold back! Unleash your might and give them a final blow.

You have always been, and always will be, my King.

You are the mighty conqueror, working wonders all over the world.

It was you who split the sea in two by your glorious strength.

You smashed the power of Tannin, the sea monster.

You crushed the might of Leviathan, the great dragon,

then you took the crumbs and fed them to the sharks.

With your glory you opened up springs and fountains,

then you spoke and the ever-flowing springs of Jordan

dried up so we could cross over.

You own the day and the night.

Sunlight and starlight call you Creator.

The four corners of the earth were formed by your hands,

and every changing season owes its beauty to you.

O Jehovah, don’t ever forget how these arrogant enemies,

like fools, have mocked your name.

Lord, aren’t we your beloved dove that praises you?

Protect us from these wild beasts who want to harm us.

Don’t leave us as lambs among wolves!

You can’t abandon us after all we’ve been through!

Remember your promises to us,

for darkness covers the land,

giving the violent ones a hiding place.

Don’t let these insults continue.

Can’t you see that we are your downtrodden

and oppressed people?

Make the poor and needy into a choir of praise to you!

Don’t ignore these ignorant words, this continual mocking.

Rise up, God; it’s time to defend yourself from all of this.

Never forget what your adversaries are saying.

For their rage and uproar rise continually against you.

It’s time to stand up to them!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 74 (The Passion Translation)

and this line mirrored in The Message:

God is my King from the very start;

he works salvation in the womb of the earth.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 74:12 (The Message)

[Psalm 2]

The Coronation of the King

Act I – The Nations Speak

How dare the nations plan a rebellion.

Their foolish plots are futile!

Look at how the power brokers of the world

rise up to hold their summit

as the rulers scheme and confer together

against Yahweh and his Anointed King, saying:

“Let’s come together and break away from the Creator.

Once and for all let’s cast off these controlling chains

of God and his Christ!”

Act II – God Speaks

God-Enthroned merely laughs at them;

the Sovereign One mocks their madness!

Then with the fierceness of his fiery anger

he settles the issue and terrifies them to death with these words:

“I myself have poured out my King on Zion, my holy mountain.

Act III – The Son Speaks

“I will reveal the eternal purpose of God.

For he has decreed over me, ‘You are my favored Son.

And as your Father I have crowned you as my King Eternal.

Today I became your Father.

Ask me to give you the nations and I will do it,

and they shall become your legacy.

Your domain will stretch to the ends of the earth.

And you will shepherd them with unlimited authority,

crushing their rebellion as an iron rod smashes jars of clay!’ ”

Act IV – The Holy Spirit Speaks

Listen to me, all you rebel-kings

and all you upstart judges of the earth.

Learn your lesson while there’s still time.

Serve and worship the awe-inspiring God.

Recognize his greatness and bow before him,

trembling with reverence in his presence.

Fall facedown before him and kiss the Son

before his anger is roused against you.

Remember that his wrath can be quickly kindled!

But many blessings are waiting for all

who turn aside to hide themselves in him!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 2 (The Passion Translation)

[mythopoeticreality]

Dark

((written as part of this challenge))

I don't know how long we'd been walking when we found the place. All of the day before and a good portion of that day as well. Ibarra  was against the entire thing from the start. “Were your brains knocked free when you fell off the side of the ship, Velasco? What do you think we'll find if we move further inland besides more English?” He'd said. He wasn't wrong of course, and a moment passed where all was silent. Zabala and I exchanged a look, and all three of us cast a glance towards the shattered shell of La Isabela looming over the shore. Her hull was torn half-off and she'd burried herself  halfway in the sand. I thank God every day that I was allowed to survive that wreck, and I did so at that very moment as well. My lips thinned into a line, a long breath pressing through my nose as I looked at her, reaching up and tangleing my fingers back through my hair.

Driftwood sparked, cracking and snapping in the flames. “We can't stay here.” Zabala was the one who finally spoke. He bowed his head down, warming his fingers by the fire. It's light carved dark hollows where his eyes shold have been.  “There is no repairing her. We either move on, or starve and freeze to death here.”

No one said anything more, but by the next morning we'd mixed the ashes with sand and were gone.

It isn't the cold that sticks most in my memory of that day (though the earth was crusted with frost and my feet were moving with all the weight of two blocks of ice), nor is it the difficulty of the road (if a road it could be called. A series of broken dirt paths across the rocks and scrub, the hills and heather fields of the English countryside. Better that then to encounter anyone. We dare not go near any village.) It was something else. I...I am not sure how to explain it. A weight in the air? A prickling on the back of my neck? An...awareness that something was there. Watching us. Waiting. Like a wolf watching a shepherd and his sheep.

There were ravens circling overhead. Even as it grew darker I could see them, their caws echoed over the endless moors.  

“I don't like this...” I murmured, managing to tear my eyes from them, and turn back to my companions once more. “Don't you feel it? Like there is some out there? Zabala? Ibarra?”

Ibarra snorted. “You sound like an old grandmother.”

“All I feel,” Zabala said, “is the frost biting through to my bones.”  He glanced around, “Is there nowhere we can stop for the night?”

We all began looking then, and I am the one who saw it. In the distance, atop a hill, a shadow like a cracked box stood. “Over there!” I pointed, and all of our paces picked up as we began moving towards it, renvigorated by the prospect of rest.

It was a barn, long since abandoned. Crumbling stone and a dust covered floor were what we found. The earth outside was barren of all save for a thick coating of hoarfrost. As the moon rose it all gleamed silver. There was something about the building – small and dark as it was, empty and abandoned – that made us slow in our pace. We stood outside for a moment, hesitating and glancing at one another. Zabala was the first to walk inside.

It would have been pitch black, were it not for the light that crept in though the narrow openings high on the walls all throught the room. Zabala slipped off, saying something about gathering kindling for a fire and calling first watch. Weary from the road, both Ibarra and I could only manage a short grunt,  dropping to the floor. We sat in silence, glancing up only as Zabala stepped into the barn again, and set about getting a fire going. It was not long, as I watched this, before I fell asleep.  

I dreamed that night of a man I had never seen before. Tall with sharp, handsome features, pale with dark hair, if the band of silver he wore on his head did not speak to his place as a King, his bearing surely did. He stood, silently, no word spoken, no action made. And he watched me. Despite myself, I edged bakwards, and my eyes darted towards the ground, unable to keep his gaze. Again that same feeling I'd gotten that morning rose up, prickling at the back of my neck. Like a wolf watching his prey...

I groped at the empty air, bolting upright, my eyes snapping open as my heart pounded in my chest. The air tasted of snow and ice and the wind was a keening whistle in my ear. The light was faint and at first I struggled to remember where I was, even if I was indoors or out. As my eyes adjusted to the grey light spilling into the room I began, slowly, to remember. I forced my breaths to slow. Behind me I heard snoring. I stopped, twisting around to find Zabala nearly half folded over on himself and fallen asleep. With a long sigh I shook my head, and turned around once more.

That was when I saw him.

The coming dawn outlined a raised spot on the floor, like a large step made of stone. As the light grew I saw more and more of it: A black throne, upon which he sat. Unmoving, unblinking. From his long black hair to the robe he was wrapped in, he was the very same man from my dream. My heart stopped still, my breath catching in my throat.

“Ibarra! Zabala!” I spun around, shaking the other two awake. While Ibarra swiped a hand at and pushed me off, I only pointed back to the other end of the room. The two others froze still. They glanced between the man and me.

“Who is he?” Ibarra asked, his voice a low undertone.

“Why is he there?” Zabala, this time, “Where did he –”

“I don't know! Only I – ” I cut myself off, unable to bring myself to say it. I saw him in my dreams? And what would they make of me then?

Our eyes all traced back to the man. If he were carven of stone he could not have been more still. And his eyes never left us. There seemed almost a warning there, and again that idea, of the wolf and the sheep came to my mind. Only, it occered to me now that we were the intruders, we were the ones who did not belong here. We were the wolves, and this...this was the shepherd come to make us flee.

“Zabala! Ibarra!” I hissed, not taking my eyes from the man, “We need to leave. Now.”

Without another word, the three of us were on our feet again, stumbling out the door and onto the moors.

I am the only one who survives now. Zabala died within that very week from cold and a sick heart. Ibarra still longed for home and what became of him I can't say. I remained here however, in Cumbria, finding work as a servant to a family of farmers and marrying my Lizzy, who worked on a farm nearby. I learned later who the man on that black throne was. John Uskglass, they said, The Raven King, the ruler of Northern England, and it made sense to me. A King, after all, does not generally tend to appreciate those who  threaten his own Kingdom.

I never found that barn again – I am not sure that I truly wish to, if I am being honest – but I know out there in the Dark, there is always the possibility that I will again meet the King. In every dark place I enter, I find myself repeating the words that I have been taught since coming here: “I greet thee, Lord, and bid thee welcome to my heart.” I am no threat, no wolf that needs to be slain, and I wish him to know that.

[live4yahushua-blog]

Amightywind prophecy #16

Prophecy 16 Don’t Muzzle MY Prophets!

Prophecy given to Apostle Sherrie Elijah (Elisheva Eliyahu)

February 6, 1998

This is from Prophecy 105, YAHUVEH said to put this up on all Prophecies from now on: I warned you a long time ago Elisabeth (Elisheva) not to name this Ministry after a man or a woman even before there was a Ministry. I put it in your spirit for none of this has been done by your hand, none of this has come forth from your mouth. It is from the Mouth of YAHUVEH that has given birth. It is from the Mouth of YAHUSHUA your MASHIACH that has given birth. It is from the Mouth of the RUACH ha KODESH your IMMAYAH that has given birth. If it had only been by your hand it would have failed long ago. It is by the SHKHINYAH GLORY’S Wind that blows across this earth, the Holy Wind of Revival, it is not by your breath or it would have failed. (Isaiah 42:8)

In July 2010 YAHUVEH GOD also said to add the following from 2nd Chronicles before every Prophecy:

2 Chronicles 36:16, “But they mocked the Messengers of GOD, despised HIS Words, and scoffed at HIS Prophets, until the wrath of the LORD arose against HIS people, till there was no remedy.”

* * * * * * *

When they attack MY Prophets, they are attacking ME. They are jabbing a finger in MY eye. They are attacking and declaring war on the Great, “I AM,” YAHUVEH, YAHWEH all mean the same God. There is but one God the Father. When they attack MY Prophets they are attacking the one that sends them and anoints them. BEWARE for I know what Spirit MY true Prophets are of and it’s of the RUACH ha KODESH (Holy Spirit) I have put MY RUACH ha KODESH within you; I will stir up the gifts of discernment. You shall be used to expose the wolves in sheep’s clothing out to deceive discourage and silence MY Prophets. They say hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil. But you know MY voice. Rebuke the curse of the 3 monkeys. See the wolves for what they are.

I have sent your sister to bind up your wounds that I did not inflict. For I love you MY beloved. You only seek to draw closer to ME, but watch who you are learning from, discern their Spirit. Your sister Sherrie Elijah [Elisheva Sherrie Eliyahu] that speaks to you knows ME and I know her, and I have shown you her Spirit and fruit. Be a fruit inspector for here on. Intercede and warn those that the enemy is harming like you were harmed. I allowed it to show you what it feels like so you can identify with their pain. Rebuke the wolves that rebuke you seek ME and I will confirm what is being written now. Seek ME and I will give you the words to do so. I have led you to this place to minister to those that have ears to hear and eyes to see. All other will remain deaf. I have given you many messages. Share what I have given that you will know is to be shared for this sister will know it is of ME.

Satan is afraid of your prophetic gifts. But pray and I will speak forth words she will shout from the housetops and internet. Together you will take back MY Prophets that are being led astray, gagged, blinded, deafened, silenced, bound, discouraged and who have quit. I am sending this prophet to speak forth MY words and give you encouragement and bring you back to what I called you for. Multitudes will hear MY voice and have confirmation in their Spirits as I speak forth these words. Speak what I have given you. No longer be muzzled. For MY glory Speak up and sound the alarm. Whether they choose to listen or not, I call you back to the office of the prophet. Unstop your ears, take your blindfolds off and take the gag out of your mouths. Unbind yourselves. Do the same for others. Nurture them as you will be nurtured. Comfort them, encourage them. For the 3 monkey curse shall be exposed and the ones that are putting this curse upon MY Prophets, telling them speak not about vengeance or the judgment of YAHUVEH. Speak not on repentance. YAHUVEH only encourages he does not rebuke! Lies, lies, and more lies!

I send forth MY Prophets before I send blessings, or the wrath of Almighty God YAHUVEH! I have spoken this forth to you to encourage you and to tell you go back and do what I have anointed you to say and do. There is little time so warn the people. Shout out in boldness so they can’t say they weren’t warned. Warn about prophets who start prophets schools, teaching that which they cannot teach. Only the RUACH ha KODESH can anoint a man or woman or yea, even a child to speak forth MY words of fire.

Warn about Craig Martin (Vanguard), Andrew Strom (Revival ministry), and Pam Clark (Prophecy Site), warn them. For these so-called prophecy groups are speaking forth lies and cursing MY Prophets by using the 3 monkey curses. Beware of books authored by the wolves that seek to lead MY Prophets astray. I warn you for many have already fallen into the traps being taught error doctrines. They must repent for twisting and voiding MY Word. There is a thus saith the Lord and they are receiving it now.

They tell MY Prophets to be silent that YAHUVEH doesn’t speak like this. Telling MY Prophets to be blind, for YAHUVEH doesn’t give visions like this. Telling MY Prophets to be silent for YAHUVEH does not speak about the wrath of YAHUVEH or repentance or judgment. Telling MY Prophets only speak good things and nothing to upset the people. Lies and more Lies! Saying they are meant to teach the prophets and yet “I AM” is the only one who anoints and teaches with MY RUACH ha KODESH. Beware of those taking money writing books and selling knowledge that I have not given them. Beware MY Prophets, of the liar who seeks to close the mouths of the prophets. BEWARE for what will you do without the true prophets speaking forth MY Words? In this end time the prophet’s mouths cannot be muzzled like a dog. They must be free to speak boldly and what I decree it shall come to pass.

Beware those who seek to muzzle MY beloved prophets and apostles and pastors, teachers, evangelists. Beware for the wrath of Almighty God YAHUVEH will come upon you and the angels of YAHUVEH will chase you. Leave MY precious prophets alone. Their job is not of them but it is I that sends them forth as a gift to this world. If I were to speak in an audible voice, even a whisper, such force would be in that whisper that nothing could stand the force of that wind. MY anger is kindled against those that harm MY Beloved prophets. WOE, WOE, WOE for you shall answer to ME personally and you shall reap what you have sowed.

Don’t muzzle MY Prophets anymore. They are not dogs to be muzzled. The flaming bite they have inflicted by speaking forth MY words are not their words and their bite is not their bite but MINE. The wrath called down is not their anger, not their wrath, not their judgment, but MINE! Don’t listen to anyone that says like those named in this message that there is no such thing as a true, “Thus saith the Lord.” They teach there is always flesh also. If the word comes from MY RUACH ha KODESH then it is just that. Dictated by the anointing of the RUACH ha KODESH and it is all Spirit and no flesh involved. Flesh is a false prophet.

I have anointed this prophet I am speaking forth from now to call back MY prophets that have been chased away, convinced they were a false prophet. But this day, who will you believe, man or Almighty God YAHUVEH? I have anointed her to bind up your wounds, let her minister unto you MY love, comfort and MY truth. Come back! Oh warriors who I have anointed to speak forth with a loud voice and boldness. Allow this one who I have anointed to be like a mother to the young prophets and the abused prophets. I have called Sherrie [Elisheva Sherrie] to nurture, encourage, bind up your wounds, teach, love and war in your behalf as mother lion wars for her cubs in danger. I will put a roar in her mouth, MY roar, and the enemy shall go running in 7 different directions.

She has been attacked for as it has been prophesied, 500,000 mouthpieces of MINE shall rise up and all shout together. MY Prophets shall gather together and shout in unison and just like in the days of old it will be for MY Praise, Honor and Glory, a witness I am the same and do not change. Like the walls of Jericho have crumbled to dust. Like David Slaying Goliath. Don’t try and understand, only believe what I have spoken will come to pass. I shall have you stationed on the wall like a Nehemiah but your stations shall be around the world and you shall not come down from building the temple until I say the job is finished. Your Job will be finished when I come again, not because of anything she does, but because she speaks forth MY roar of the Lion of Judah.

Get ready to run enemies, wolves disguised as sheep but instead you are devouring MY sheep. BUT NO MORE! I have raised up one that will expose you and all your hidden motives. Not in her strength but In Almighty GOD’s strength alone they will run. She will nurture you and encourage you once again so you once again will have confidence that you are called to be a warrior on the wall sounding forth MY messages like a loud trumpet blast for all. Station yourselves on the wall and speak forth what I tell you to say.

Come down off of the wall for no man or woman or devil. Don’t fear their faces! Don’t fear their wrath. FEAR MY WRATH! For If you don’t do what I am commanding you to do then you’re in rebellion against the God you serve. For I need you to speak forth. Like your sister is speaking forth another message that will be a roar heard around the world. For once again I am using her to speak what others refused. They see the wrong, and said it’s not MY concern. Let someone else speak it forth. The enemy and MY Children will hear this trumpet blast whether they want to or not. They will hear! Don’t hinder MY Prophets from speaking.

Churches stop silencing them. Stop kicking them out. Admit that you really don’t want your sin exposed and repent! Don’t silence or think you determine who speaks and who does not. Pastors you have grieved MY RUACH ha KODESH. Who are you to censure those that I send? You say it’s because you don’t want to allow just anyone to speak forth as MY Prophets. Yet if they are not of ME I will expose them. I will show you the signs if they are speaking forth MY words of Holy Fire or whether it is strange fire or occult fire. Let them speak! No, you don’t have to proof read what is said first. Pastors you have overstepped your boundaries. REPENT TODAY! Cannot the RUACH ha KODESH give discernment what is of ME and what is not. Beware, for you are grieving the RUACH ha KODESH! You will be held accountable. You will know if they are a false prophet.

The signs of a false prophet are their fruit will be rotten and corrupt also the word of YAHUVEH will be twisted to conform to their image, not MY image. They will be full of pride. They will be selling the gifts of the RUACH ha KODESH to the highest bidder. They will lead to a different YAHUSHUA (Jesus Christ); even the evil ones use MY Name. Many evil ones have gone forth in MY name seeking to destroy the prophets. But they are the ones I shall destroy. Enemies of MINE, although you look so good, I alone know your heart. REPENT this day for you have been warned! Spoken this day through MY prophet Pastor Sherrie Elijah [Elisheva Sherrie Eliyahu] 4:00 PM 2/6/1998, again when I have the time included so beware for now you are held accountable for what you know. What will you do with it? I already know!

Please include the personal below when you copy for it shows how angry the devil is for delivering this word from YAHUVEH.

* * * * * * *

Personal note: Every time I am given a prophecy lately YAHUVEH confirms what has been spoken. This was finished at 4:00 PM and at 5:25 PM I was attacked twice verbally. One by a minister I had called friend and even led you to his website which I will be removing his name shortly, for he has grieved the RUACH ha KODESH. He wrote me and said take his name off of my email list when I am sending the prophecies out. He thinks I am pushy doing it without his permission. Sorry Pastor Steve C. I thought we were of the same Spirit. Appears I am wrong. YAHUVEH be your judge. He knew what you were going to do, trying to shame me in front of other warriors for YAHUSHUA. I thought you would be blessed and you would want to know what YAHUVEH is speaking. I am deleting your name entirely from the address book. You won’t hear from me again.

But I am sure one day YAHUVEH will remind you of what you have done this day. By this you shall know them by the love they have for the brethren. Your fruit is showing. I pray you repent. And by the way, when you sought to rebuke me, I didn’t notice you getting anyone else’s permission to email them. Practice what you preach. Besides, in the Bible when did a prophet need permission to speak forth Almighty YAHUVEH’s Prophecies? The major part of the Bible would not have been written. This prophet refuses to be gagged, bound, silenced, or blinded by man or woman or the devil that sends them. This prophet only seeks to see clearly and hear clearly what the RUACH ha KODESH speaks forth. Please YAHUSHUA never let anything be spoken or written through this vessel that is not truly a Thus Saith YAHUVEH!

Offending some that don’t want to hear, enlightening others that do. Prophet Sherrie Elijah (Elisheva Sherrie Eliyahu), Alpha & Omega AlmightyWind, Holy Ghost Fire Church. Love, your sister, a broken vessel of clay but mighty warrior and Bride of YAHUSHUA. 2-6-98 4 pm

* * * * * * *

New Update regarding this Prophecy written on December 24th, 2015: I regret not using the full name of the Pastor at footnote who in 1998 did everything he could to try and muzzle this Prophet. Pastor Steve C. was a Sunday Pastor of a Church and tried to convince me, that JESUS CHRIST (JESUS CHRIST is the name he used at the time), does not call Women to be spiritual leaders or Prophets. He made my life miserable, attacking me with the spirit of religion and man made doctrines. Pastor Steve C. wrote on his website months later, he had been diagnosed with cancer, he stopped attacking me, and very quickly afterwards I read he had died of quick spreading cancer! YAH proved to me ” Touch not my anointed , and neither do my Prophets harm”.

I have no doubt deceased Pastor Steve C. will answer for his cruelty to me on Judgment Day! He will be forced to admit YAHUSHUA does use me as a Prophet and Spiritual leader ! I look forward to that day! Did he go to hell for what he did to me, I shall see when I get to Heaven.

A new revelation after all these many years about the 500,000 troops on the wall, they are mouth pieces! Jasmine, a precious daughter of mine saw a secret piece of the puzzle no one has seen before! The 500,000 are anointed Prophets! Now a Prophet may only have one Prophecy like Stephen in the book of acts (Acts Chapter 7), or many Prophesies! Praise YAHUSHUA! Please as you read these prophecies and YAHUVEH testifies these words to your spirit as truth write us and let us know so that can edifiy and encourage eachother as the bible tells us to do. It only increases the anointing in all of us as we share the discernment the RUACH ha KODESH gives us from reading the prophecies.

[bjornjernskjold-blog]

Hávamál-The words of Odin the high one from the Elder or Poetic Edda(Sæmund's Edda) translated by Olive Bray

Wisdom for Wanderers and Counsel to Guests

1. At every door-way, ere one enters, one should spy round, one should pry round for uncertain is the witting that there be no foeman sitting, within, before one on the floor

2. Hail, ye Givers! a guest is come; say! where shall he sit within? Much pressed is he who fain on the hearth would seek for warmth and weal.

3. He hath need of fire, who now is come, numbed with cold to the knee; food and clothing the wanderer craves who has fared o'er the rimy fell.

4. He craves for water, who comes for refreshment, drying and friendly bidding, marks of good will, fair fame if 'tis won, and welcome once and again.

5. He hath need of his wits who wanders wide, aught simple will serve at home; but a gazing-stock is the fool who sits mid the wise, and nothing knows.

6. Let no man glory in the greatness of his mind, but rather keep watch o'er his wits. Cautious and silent let him enter a dwelling; to the heedful comes seldom harm, for none can find a more faithful friend than the wealth of mother wit.

7. Let the wary stranger who seeks refreshment keep silent with sharpened hearing; with his ears let him listen, and look with his eyes; thus each wise man spies out the way.

8. Happy is he who wins for himself fair fame and kindly words; but uneasy is that which a man doth own while it lies in another's breast.

9. Happy is he who hath in himself praise and wisdom in life; for oft doth a man ill counsel get when 'tis born in another's breast.

10. A better burden can no man bear on the way than his mother wit; 'tis the refuge of the poor, and richer it seems than wealth in a world untried.

11. A better burden can no man bear on the way than his mother wit: and no worse provision can he carry with him than too deep a draught of ale.

12. Less good than they say for the sons of men is the drinking oft of ale: for the more they drink, the less can they think and keep a watch o'er their wits.

13. A bird of Unmindfulness flutters o'er ale feasts, wiling away men's wits: with the feathers of that fowl I was fettered once in the garths of Gunnlos below.

14. Drunk was I then, I was over drunk in that crafty Jötun's court. But best is an ale feast when man is able to call back his wits at once.

15. Silent and thoughtful and bold in strife the prince's bairn should be. Joyous and generous let each man show him until he shall suffer death.

16. A coward believes he will ever live if he keep him safe from strife: but old age leaves him not long in peace though spears may spare his life.

17. A fool will gape when he goes to a friend, and mumble only, or mope; but pass him the ale cup and all in a moment the mind of that man is shown.

18. He knows alone who has wandered wide, and far has fared on the way, what manner of mind a man doth own who is wise of head and heart.

19. Keep not the mead cup but drink thy measure; speak needful words or none: none shall upbraid thee for lack of breeding if soon thou seek'st thy rest.

20. A greedy man, if he be not mindful, eats to his own life's hurt: oft the belly of the fool will bring him to scorn when he seeks the circle of the wise.

21. Herds know the hour of their going home and turn them again from the grass; but never is found a foolish man who knows the measure of his maw.

22. The miserable man and evil minded makes of all things mockery, and knows not that which he best should know, that he is not free from faults.

23. The unwise man is awake all night, and ponders everything over; when morning comes he is weary in mind, and all is a burden as ever.

24. The unwise man weens all who smile and flatter him are his friends, nor notes how oft they speak him ill when he sits in the circle of the wise.

25. The unwise man weens all who smile and flatter him are his friends; but when he shall come into court he shall find there are few to defend his cause.

26. The unwise man thinks all to know, while he sits in a sheltered nook; but he knows not one thing, what he shall answer, if men shall put him to proof.

27. For the unwise man 'tis best to be mute when he come amid the crowd, for none is aware of his lack of wit if he wastes not too many words; for he who lacks wit shall never learn though his words flow ne'er so fast.

28. Wise he is deemed who can question well, and also answer back: the sons of men can no secret make of the tidings told in their midst.

29. Too many unstable words are spoken by him who ne'er holds his peace; the hasty tongue sings its own mishap if it be not bridled in.

30. Let no man be held as a laughing-stock, though he come as guest for a meal: wise enough seem many while they sit dry-skinned and are not put to proof.

31. A guest thinks him witty who mocks at a guest and runs from his wrath away; but none can be sure who jests at a meal that he makes not fun among foes.

32. Oft, though their hearts lean towards one another, friends are divided at table; ever the source of strife 'twill be, that guest will anger guest.

33. A man should take always his meals betimes unless he visit a friend, or he sits and mopes, and half famished seems, and can ask or answer nought.

34. Long is the round to a false friend leading, e'en if he dwell on the way: but though far off fared, to a faithful friend straight are the roads and short.

35. A guest must depart again on his way, nor stay in the same place ever; if he bide too long on another's bench the loved one soon becomes loathed.

36. One's own house is best, though small it may be; each man is master at home; though he have but two goats and a bark-thatched hut 'tis better than craving a boon.

37. One's own house is best, though small it may be, each man is master at home; with a bleeding heart will he beg, who must, his meat at every meal.

38. Let a man never stir on his road a step without his weapons of war; for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise of a spear on the way without.

39. I found none so noble or free with his food, who was not gladdened with a gift, nor one who gave of his gifts such store but he loved reward, could he win it.

40. Let no man stint him and suffer need of the wealth he has won in life; oft is saved for a foe what was meant for a friend, and much goes worse than one weens.

41. With raiment and arms shall friends gladden each other, so has one proved oneself; for friends last longest, if fate be fair who give and give again.

42. To his friend a man should bear him as friend, and gift for gift bestow, laughter for laughter let him exchange, but leasing pay for a lie.

43. To his friend a man should bear him as friend, to him and a friend of his; but let him beware that he be not the friend of one who is friend to his foe.

44. Hast thou a friend whom thou trustest well, from whom thou cravest good? Share thy mind with him, gifts exchange with him, fare to find him oft.

45. But hast thou one whom thou trustest ill yet from whom thou cravest good? Thou shalt speak him fair, but falsely think, and leasing pay for a lie.

46. Yet further of him whom thou trusted ill, and whose mind thou dost misdoubt; thou shalt laugh with him but withhold thy thought, for gift with like gift should be paid.

47. Young was I once, I walked alone, and bewildered seemed in the way; then I found me another and rich I thought me, for man is the joy of man.

48. Most blest is he who lives free and bold and nurses never a grief, for the fearful man is dismayed by aught, and the mean one mourns over giving.

49. My garments once I gave in the field to two land-marks made as men; heroes they seemed when once they were clothed; 'tis the naked who suffer shame!

50. The pine tree wastes which is perched on the hill, nor bark nor needles shelter it; such is the man whom none doth love; for what should he longer live?

51. Fiercer than fire among ill friends for five days love will burn; bun anon 'tis quenched, when the sixth day comes, and all friendship soon is spoiled.

52. Not great things alone must one give to another, praise oft is earned for nought; with half a loaf and a tilted bowl I have found me many a friend.

53. Little the sand if little the seas, little are minds of men, for ne'er in the world were all equally wise, 'tis shared by the fools and the sage.

54. Wise in measure let each man be; but let him not wax too wise; for never the happiest of men is he who knows much of many things.

55. Wise in measure should each man be; but let him not wax too wise; seldom a heart will sing with joy if the owner be all too wise.

56. Wise in measure should each man be, but ne'er let him wax too wise: who looks not forward to learn his fate unburdened heart will bear.

57. Brand kindles from brand until it be burned, spark is kindled from spark, man unfolds him by speech with man, but grows over secret through silence.

58. He must rise betimes who fain of another or life or wealth would win; scarce falls the prey to sleeping wolves, or to slumberers victory in strife.

59. He must rise betimes who hath few to serve him, and see to his work himself; who sleeps at morning is hindered much, to the keen is wealth half-won.

60. Of dry logs saved and roof-bark stored a man can know the measure, of fire-wood too which should last him out quarter and half years to come.

61. Fed and washed should one ride to court though in garments none too new; thou shalt not shame thee for shoes or breeks, nor yet for a sorry steed.

62. Like an eagle swooping over old ocean, snatching after his prey, so comes a man into court who finds there are few to defend his cause.

63. Each man who is wise and would wise be called must ask and answer aright. Let one know thy secret, but never a second, -- if three a thousand shall know.

64. A wise counselled man will be mild in bearing and use his might in measure, lest when he come his fierce foes among he find others fiercer than he.

65. Each man should be watchful and wary in speech, and slow to put faith in a friend. for the words which one to another speaks he may win reward of ill.

66. At many a feast I was far too late, and much too soon at some; drunk was the ale or yet unserved: never hits he the joint who is hated.

67. Here and there to a home I had haply been asked had I needed no meat at my meals, or were two hams left hanging in the house of that friend where I had partaken of one.

68. Most dear is fire to the sons of men, most sweet the sight of the sun; good is health if one can but keep it, and to live a life without shame.

69. Not reft of all is he who is ill, for some are blest in their bairns, some in their kin and some in their wealth, and some in working well.

70. More blest are the living than the lifeless, 'tis the living who come by the cow; I saw the hearth-fire burn in the rich man's hall and himself lying dead at the door.

71. The lame can ride horse, the handless drive cattle, the deaf one can fight and prevail, 'tis happier for the blind than for him on the bale-fire, but no man hath care for a corpse.

72. Best have a son though he be late born and before him the father be dead: seldom are stones on the wayside raised save by kinsmen to kinsmen.

73. Two are hosts against one, the tongue is the head's bane, 'neath a rough hide a hand may be hid; he is glad at nightfall who knows of his lodging, short is the ship's berth, and changeful the autumn night, much veers the wind ere the fifth day and blows round yet more in a month.

74. He that learns nought will never know how one is the fool of another, for if one be rich another is poor and for that should bear no blame.

75. Cattle die and kinsmen die, thyself too soon must die, but one thing never, I ween, will die, -- fair fame of one who has earned.

76. Cattle die and kinsmen die, thyself too soon must die, but one thing never, I ween, will die, -- the doom on each one dead.

77. Full-stocked folds had the Fatling's sons, who bear now a beggar's staff: brief is wealth, as the winking of an eye, most faithless ever of friends.

78. If haply a fool should find for himself wealth or a woman's love, pride waxes in him but wisdom never and onward he fares in his folly.

79. All will prove true that thou askest of runes -- those that are come from the gods, which the high Powers wrought, and which Odin painted: then silence is surely best.

Maxims for All Men

81. Hew wood in wind, sail the seas in a breeze, woo a maid in the dark, -- for day's eyes are many, -- work a ship for its gliding, a shield for its shelter, a sword for its striking, a maid for her kiss;

82. Drink ale by the fire, but slide on the ice; buy a steed when 'tis lanky, a sword when 'tis rusty; feed thy horse neath a roof, and thy hound in the yard.

83. The speech of a maiden should no man trust nor the words which a woman says; for their hearts were shaped on a whirling wheel and falsehood fixed in their breasts.

84. Breaking bow, or flaring flame, ravening wolf, or croaking raven, routing swine, or rootless tree, waxing wave, or seething cauldron,

85. flying arrows, or falling billow, ice of a nighttime, coiling adder, woman's bed-talk, or broken blade, play of bears or a prince's child,

86. sickly calf or self-willed thrall, witch's flattery, new-slain foe, brother's slayer, though seen on the highway, half burned house, or horse too swift -- be never so trustful as these to trust.

87. Let none put faith in the first sown fruit nor yet in his son too soon; whim rules the child, and weather the field, each is open to chance.

88. Like the love of women whose thoughts are lies is the driving un-roughshod o'er slippery ice of a two year old, ill-tamed and gay; or in a wild wind steering a helmless ship, or the lame catching reindeer in the rime-thawed fell.

Lessons for Lovers

90. -- Let him speak soft words and offer wealth who longs for a woman's love, praise the shape of the shining maid -- he wins who thus doth woo.

91. -- Never a whit should one blame another whom love hath brought into bonds: oft a witching form will fetch the wise which holds not the heart of fools.

92. Never a whit should one blame another for a folly which many befalls; the might of love makes sons of men into fools who once were wise.

93. The mind knows alone what is nearest the heart and sees where the soul is turned: no sickness seems to the wise so sore as in nought to know content.

Odin's Love Quests

95. Billing's daughter I found on her bed, fairer than sunlight sleeping, and the sweets of lordship seemed to me nought, save I lived with that lovely form.

96. "Yet nearer evening come thou, Odin, if thou wilt woo a maiden: all were undone save two knew alone such a secret deed of shame."

97. So away I turned from my wise intent, and deemed my joy assured, for all her liking and all her love I weened that I yet should win.

98. When I came ere long the war troop bold were watching and waking all: with burning brands and torches borne they showed me my sorrowful way.

99. Yet nearer morning I went, once more, -- the housefolk slept in the hall, but soon I found a barking dog tied fast to that fair maid's couch.

100. Many a sweet maid when one knows her mind is fickle found towards men: I proved it well when that prudent lass I sought to lead astray: shrewd maid, she sought me with every insult and I won therewith no wife.

Odin's Quest after the Song Mead

102. I sought that old Jötun, now safe am I back, little served my silence there; but whispering many soft speeches I won my desire in Suttung's halls.

103. I bored me a road there with Rati's tusk and made room to pass through the rock; while the ways of the Jötuns stretched over and under, I dared my life for a draught.

104. 'Twas Gunnlod who gave me on a golden throne a draught of the glorious mead, but with poor reward did I pay her back for her true and troubled heart.

105. In a wily disguise I worked my will; little is lacking to the wise, for the Soul-stirrer now, sweet Mead of Song, is brought to men's earthly abode.

106. I misdoubt me if ever again I had come from the realms of the Jötun race, had I not served me of Gunnlod, sweet woman, her whom I held in mine arms.

107. Came forth, next day, the dread Frost Giants, and entered the High One's Hall: they asked -- was the Baleworker back mid the Powers, or had Suttung slain him below?

108. A ring-oath Odin I trow had taken -- how shall one trust his troth? 'twas he who stole the mead from Suttung, and Gunnlod caused to weep.

The Counseling of the Stray-Singer

110. Of runes they spoke, and the reading of runes was little withheld from their lips: at the High One's hall, in the High One's hall, I thus heard the High One say: --

111. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: rise never at nighttime, except thou art spying or seekest a spot without.

112. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: thou shalt never sleep in the arms of a sorceress, lest she should lock thy limbs;

113. So shall she charm that thou shalt not heed the council, or words of the king, nor care for thy food, or the joys of mankind, but fall into sorrowful sleep.

114. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: seek not ever to draw to thyself in love-whispering another's wife.

115. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: should thou long to fare over fell and firth provide thee well with food.

116. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: tell not ever an evil man if misfortunes thee befall, from such ill friend thou needst never seek return for thy trustful mind.

117. Wounded to death, have I seen a man by the words of an evil woman; a lying tongue had bereft him of life, and all without reason of right.

118. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: hast thou a friend whom thou trustest well, fare thou to find him oft; for with brushwood grows and with grasses high the path where no foot doth pass.

119. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: in sweet converse call the righteous to thy side, learn a healing song while thou livest.

120. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: be never the first with friend of thine to break the bond of fellowship; care shall gnaw thy heart if thou canst not tell all thy mind to another.

121. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: never in speech with a foolish knave shouldst thou waste a single word.

122. From the lips of such thou needst not look for reward of thine own good will; but a righteous man by praise will render thee firm in favour and love.

123. There is mingling in friendship when man can utter all his whole mind to another; there is nought so vile as a fickle tongue; no friend is he who but flatters.

124. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: oft the worst lays the best one low.

125. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: be not a shoemaker nor yet a shaft maker save for thyself alone: let the shoe be misshapen, or crooked the shaft, and a curse on thy head will be called.

126. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: when in peril thou seest thee, confess thee in peril, nor ever give peace to thy foes.

127. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: rejoice not ever at tidings of ill, but glad let thy soul be in good.

128. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: look not up in battle, when men are as beasts, lest the wights bewitch thee with spells.

129. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: wouldst thou win joy of a gentle maiden, and lure to whispering of love, thou shalt make fair promise, and let it be fast, -- none will scorn their weal who can win it.

130. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: I pray thee be wary, yet not too wary, be wariest of all with ale, with another's wife, and a third thing eke, that knaves outwit thee never.

131. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: hold not in scorn, nor mock in thy halls a guest or wandering wight.

132. They know but unsurely who sit within what manner of man is come: none is found so good, but some fault attends him, or so ill but he serves for somewhat.

133. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: hold never in scorn the hoary singer; oft the counsel of the old is good; come words of wisdom from the withered lips of him left to hang among hides, to rock with the rennets and swing with the skins.

134. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: growl not at guests, nor drive them from the gate but show thyself gentle to the poor.

135. Mighty is the bar to be moved away for the entering in of all. Shower thy wealth, or men shall wish thee every ill in thy limbs.

136. I counsel thee, Stray-Singer, accept my counsels, they will be thy boon if thou obey'st them, they will work thy weal if thou win'st them: when ale thou quaffest, call upon earth's might -- 'tis earth drinks in the floods. Earth prevails o'er drink, but fire o'er sickness, the oak o'er binding, the earcorn o'er witchcraft, the rye spur o'er rupture, the moon o'er rages, herb o'er cattle plagues, runes o'er harm.

Odin's Quest after the Runes

138. None refreshed me ever with food or drink, I peered right down in the deep; crying aloud I lifted the Runes then back I fell from thence.

139. Nine mighty songs I learned from the great son of Bale-thorn, Bestla's sire; I drank a measure of the wondrous Mead, with the Soulstirrer's drops I was showered.

140. Ere long I bare fruit, and throve full well, I grew and waxed in wisdom; word following word, I found me words, deed following deed, I wrought deeds.

141. Hidden Runes shalt thou seek and interpreted signs, many symbols of might and power, by the great Singer painted, by the high Powers fashioned, graved by the Utterer of gods.

142. For gods graved Odin, for elves graved Daïn, Dvalin the Dallier for dwarfs, All-wise for Jötuns, and I, of myself, graved some for the sons of men.

143. Dost know how to write, dost know how to read, dost know how to paint, dost know how to prove, dost know how to ask, dost know how to offer, dost know how to send, dost know how to spend?

144. Better ask for too little than offer too much, like the gift should be the boon; better not to send than to overspend. ........ Thus Odin graved ere the world began; Then he rose from the deep, and came again.

The Song of Spells

146. A second I know, which the son of men must sing, who would heal the sick.

147. A third I know: if sore need should come of a spell to stay my foes; when I sing that song, which shall blunt their swords, nor their weapons nor staves can wound.

148. A fourth I know: if men make fast in chains the joints of my limbs, when I sing that song which shall set me free, spring the fetters from hands and feet.

149. A fifth I know: when I see, by foes shot, speeding a shaft through the host, flies it never so strongly I still can stay it, if I get but a glimpse of its flight.

150. A sixth I know: when some thane would harm me in runes on a moist tree's root, on his head alone shall light the ills of the curse that he called upon mine.

151. A seventh I know: if I see a hall high o'er the bench-mates blazing, flame it ne'er so fiercely I still can save it, -- I know how to sing that song.

152. An eighth I know: which all can sing for their weal if they learn it well; where hate shall wax 'mid the warrior sons, I can calm it soon with that song.

153. A ninth I know: when need befalls me to save my vessel afloat, I hush the wind on the stormy wave, and soothe all the sea to rest.

154. A tenth I know: when at night the witches ride and sport in the air, such spells I weave that they wander home out of skins and wits bewildered.

155. An eleventh I know: if haply I lead my old comrades out to war, I sing 'neath the shields, and they fare forth mightily safe into battle, safe out of battle, and safe return from the strife.

156. A twelfth I know: if I see in a tree a corpse from a halter hanging, such spells I write, and paint in runes, that the being descends and speaks.

157. A thirteenth I know: if the new-born son of a warrior I sprinkle with water, that youth will not fail when he fares to war, never slain shall he bow before sword.

158. A fourteenth I know: if I needs must number the Powers to the people of men, I know all the nature of gods and of elves which none can know untaught.

159. A fifteenth I know, which Folk-stirrer sang, the dwarf, at the gates of Dawn; he sang strength to the gods, and skill to the elves, and wisdom to Odin who utters.

160. A sixteenth I know: when all sweetness and love I would win from some artful wench, her heart I turn, and the whole mind change of that fair-armed lady I love.

161. A seventeenth I know: so that e'en the shy maiden is slow to shun my love.

162. These songs, Stray-Singer, which man's son knows not, long shalt thou lack in life, though thy weal if thou win'st them, thy boon if thou obey'st them thy good if haply thou gain'st them.

163. An eighteenth I know: which I ne'er shall tell to maiden or wife of man save alone to my sister, or haply to her who folds me fast in her arms; most safe are secrets known to but one- the songs are sung to an end.

164. Now the sayings of the High One are uttered in the hall for the weal of men, for the woe of Jötuns, Hail, thou who hast spoken! Hail, thou that knowest! Hail, ye that have hearkened! Use, thou who hast learned!