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qierxing · 2 years ago

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Under the Sea

Yan! Leona Kingscholar x Reader

Halloween AU

CW/TW: Reader is noted with both she and they pronouns interchangeably due to their fluid state of being but is still considered G/N overall

“If you choose to lock your heart away, you’ll lose it for certain.”

–

Dead men tell no tales, they said.

Sailing would be easy, they said.

Did they think about the repercussions of unforetold supernatural problems?

The rancid smell of seaweed and brine makes your nose scrunch as you’re hauled up and thrown roughly onto your knees, shredding even more of your nice clothing. You doubt the cold hands cared though. After all, what is one puny mortal against a whole ship full of undead pirates?

“This one ‘ere’s seems to be the ca’pn, sir.” A guttural growl echoes above you, and murmurs of more crewmates surround you.

It was a good run, you thought to yourself. You fought till the end, until your daggers and saber were knocked out of your hands, your skin slashed and bruised, and till they had to pin you down from causing more trouble. It was more than what you could say for your own crewmates, the traitorous, cowardly scum, leaving you immediately and trying to flee with their own lives. Didn’t matter though, because they were all immediately slaughtered without mercy. You’d have more pity for them dying in their own pools of blood if they didn’t abandon you first.

A barnacle covered boot tips your chin up, and you’re face to face with a smug man, piercing green eyes, dark hair like coal tied in dreads and braids, tall and lithe figure to boot. The captain of this crew, no doubt.

“You. Herbivore. What’s yer name?”

People back home called you many names. The looney merchant. A superstitious fanatic. Raving madman on the better days. Today, you can now safely say they’re all fitting.

“...[First]. [First] [Last].” You cough up, after the boot digs into the crook of your chin and head, causing an unbearable pressure on your throat. The pressure removes itself and you’re left choking for air while the man hums in thought.

“Well, ca’pn Leona?” The voice behind you asks. A scrawny, weasley sounding voice. Must be the one who binded you. “Dunno why you kept this one alive.”

You could practically hear the grin in the next words.

“‘Cuz they got some worth to ‘em right now.”

–

“Have ye heard about the myth of Calypso?”

The name sets you on edge immediately. A pirate asking after the revered primordial sea goddess? That can only mean…

“Who hasn’t?” You shrug your shoulders flippantly. “Every child in a coastal town has heard about how she controls the seas and watches over sailors.”

An annoyed growl is your response. It seems your hunch was correct. “Not that, idiot. I meant about her curse.”

Aha.

“Curse?”

The captain gnashes his canines impatiently. “The one where she curses her lover for leaving her.”

“Ah, that. Yes, I’m acquainted.” You decide to stop teasing him and see where this leads.

“I need ta find her ring.” Silence reigns. You furrow your brows and cross your arms.

“You mean, the one that so happens to be dropped into the ocean, never to be seen again? The one where Calypso, herself, has been rumored to destroy? That ring?”

“Yes, that damn ring!” The ghost snarls, banging his fist on the desk, causing documents and books to fall off. “I need to find that ring so I can finally–!”

“That ring has been gone for more than a millenia. Scratch that, it’s not even proven to ever have existed.” You interrupt, uncrossing your arms, leaning brazenly on the rickety oak desk. “And yet, you’re wanting to stake your undead life on this trinket?”

A knife is driven a finger’s width away from your hand. You don’t blink as the captain’s face becomes inches away from your own. “What does a mortal know about being undead?! What do ye know of–” He cuts himself off, a pained look clouding his eyes. You only observe as he breathes in deeply.

“Alright. I’ll help you find it.” His head whips up in surprise. “On several conditions.”

He smirks. “Negotiatin’? You’ve got guts. Name ‘em.”

“One, that you promise not to kill or harm me at any point, especially after our deal is over. Second, once this is all over, you’ll return me back to land. Third and finally, you return my belongings back from your loot.”

The captain mulls over your words, deep in thought. Beads of sweat run down your back. It was a daring bluff, but if you were kept alive this long, it had to be for something!

He runs his hand down his face, groaning. “You drive a steep price. Fine. It’s a deal.”

A crack of an incoming thunderstorm echoes as you both shake hands.

–

You were many things. You were once a privateer. A bartender. Even a librarian at some point, shelving books for hours till the daylight blended to blue darkness.

But never, in your entire life, have you been made to scrub deck floorboards.

The sun beating down upon your aching figure feels like salt on top of many wounds. The biting smell of lye only makes your head spin and fingers burn.

Worth? Was your worth really amounting to just being a ship’s hands?!

Unbelievable. You end up slipping and nearly falling on your face into the bubbly mess. Left alive, but only to be doing dirty work for ghost pirates. If only the people back home could see you now…

“Shihehehe! Nice work, newbie. Cap’n Leona wants ta see you now, by the way.” The weasley voice! You look up to see squinty gray eyes and sharp teeth, all in a narrow face. There’s something unnerving about the way the ghost leans over you with his smirk, as if he’s a beast ready to devour its prey.

Shaking away the bubbles and your shame, you silently march right past him and into a sturdy chest.

“Oi, watch where ya goin’!” An angry rumble shakes you back to view the familiar face with silver hair and golden eyes that pushed you down back then. You stand your ground as the both of you stare each other down.

“My bad.” The man grunts as you push past him. “What’s their problem?” is the last thing you hear before you’re out of earshot.

You’re in a foul mood by the time you see Leona’s mug, and it seems he is too.

“What’s the hold up on finding the ring?!” He growls. His clothes are a mess more than usual, hair rumpled, and even his desk is near inhabitable.

You huff. “If I wasn’t bogged down on ship chores perhaps I can work more on that map to get you there, Captain.”

“We’re short on manpower, if ye can’t tell. Also I can’t have ye havin’ enough time to go schemin’ behind me back.” You roll your eyes, walking up to his desk and yanking out a long parchment, causing a rather cute yelp from Leona.

“Hey–!” You unravel the aged parchment, scanning over the red lines and dots that circle the map.

“Wow, you’ve made no progress at all. Do you really wanna find this ring?” The parchment is snatched out of your hands as Leona angrily snarls.

“Shut yer trap! I’m workin’ on it.” You heave a long sigh, walking over to his desk and starting to arrange the scattered papers and books.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

“What does it look like? I’m helping organize your space. Since you’re ‘working’ on it, nothing wrong with making your environment better, no?”

He only grumbles in response, but a strangely comfortable silence falls as you both do your tasks, seemingly in tandem. The sound of the quill scribbling is rather nice on the ears as you put back books and sort papers into neat piles. It’s only when you’ve finally refilled his inkwell that you lean over his shoulder and take a look and whistle.

“Nice work, Captain! Now we’re getting somewhere!” You clapped him cheerily on the back without much thought, making him scoff.

“This much is nothin’, herbivore.” If you looked closer, you would’ve seen how he leant into your palm, eyes softening as his voice resembled one of looking at a lover.

–

The night sky has always been beautiful.

And as the stars twinkle above, you can hear the pirates singing their drinking songs, raucous and loud, but with whatever soul they have left in their rattling ribs.

Your drinks were pretty popular, once they found out you could make the most killer mixes out of whatever they had in stock. Ruggie, the silver eyed weasley pirate, became your instant friend as he handed out your brews to other eager crewmates.

“Shihehehe! Think of all the profit we could make outta this! Yo, Jack, come get some of this!” The younger man staggers under the weight of his drunk senior throwing himself onto him, grunting as he looks panicked.

When you break away for some peace, you find that your intended spot was already taken.

“Come ‘ere.” You blink, half turned in resignation at finding another stargazing spot.

“Are ya deaf? Come ‘ere.” Well, it’s not like you can turn down a command. You settle yourself down next to the lazing captain, looking up wistfully.

It’s a perfect clear sky. You wish you had your telescope with you. From here, you can see a bit of the Crux and then bits of the Centauri–

“We’re close to the ring, aren’t we?” You turn your head to observe a still Leona.

“Yes.”

A long pause.

“Why did ye agree to help me? I didn’ even hafta threaten ye all that much.”

You hum, eyes still fixated on the stars. “I could ask ya the same question of why you spared me, Captain.”

Another agonizing beat.

“I thought ya were a fool.” He shifts, shoulders popping and cracking. “All yer crewmates had the sense to run but ye just stood ya ground like ye weren’t up against the famous dread pirate Davy Jones.

I guess I can admire that kind of stupidity, ya know?”

You remain silent, throat closing in on itself. Silence returns, but you can no longer admire the stars before.

–

The shrine is ruined, as you expected. All that remains is a half buried altar in sand and broken shells and rocks around it.

“What the hell is this?”

“It is what you’re searching for.”

For someone to have been searching for this ring so desperately, he looks furious, enraged even. He clenches his hand around the silver tightly, hands trembling. Perhaps you should’ve been more sensitive than just plopping the trinket into his hands.

“How do I know yer not just trickin’ me with a fake?!” He roars, the cave around you echoing. Water drips from stalactites, plopping down into puddles surrounding your area.

You gesture towards the shrine carelessly. “Give it a try. It’s what you’ve been wanting all this time right?”

Leona’s eyes widened. “What do you–” “You wanted to be free, didn’t you?” You tilt your head, annoyed. “Well, this is it. Once you do the ritual with that ring and return it to Calypso, you’ll be free of your curse. Your love.”

“No.”

Your mouth purses at the ghost’s retort.

“I want to return to her.”

Something in you snaps.

“You left me.” It is not you speaking, but the sea. It wails and groans as the wind howls. “You do not get to choose to come back to me, not now.”

Water rises with your temper as Leona begins to comprehend what is going on. The stalactites tremble, ready to collapse under the pressure the water pounds upon the rocks. You slowly reach out your hand.

“Give me back my ring.” Your eyes glow, your mortal veil falling away like sand. This is your domain, where he left you to rot and cry out for him for many nights, until you could only pick your trembling bones up and out into the world. Stripped of your emotions, left to rage and scream at the sky, as you walked along the seafloor. For many moons, you wondered if you could ever live without him. As year by year passed, you wandered dry land to forget the aching pain in your heart.

You will make him regret ever wronging you.

“No.” Leona steps forward against the sloshing tides, now up to his knees. He bares his fangs.

“I won’t.”

“What are you doing–!? Give me–” You howl in rage as your outstretched arm is snatched and you’re wrenched into his arms, writhing in anger.

“I won’t let you go, ever again.” He whispers in your ear, and the last thing you register is the feeling of metal on your ring finger.

—

“It seems like the ship was ransacked by pirates.” The old man sighs, leaning back in his rocking chair.

“Really?” The child at his feet frowns. “But that nice sailor told me all sorts of cool stories…”

The old man shakes his head in disapproval. “Loads of tosh. That superstitious lunatic would only fill your head with stuff of fairytales. Forget it.”

The child looks out their window into the horizon, the sunset leaving shadows on the waves crashing onto the shore. He blinks, and for a moment, he swears he sees the silhouette of a large ship in the distance.

He rubs his eyes, and when he opens them again, it’s gone.

“How strange…”

He could've sworn the flag was a skull crossbones.

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst #my works #another word barf that worked out. nice #a small twist on pirates of carribean but this time reader gets to go crazy #this is rather tame for yandere fic lol

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lady-o-ren · 6 years ago

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The Witch and The Red Man

Chapter One / Chapter Two

Chapter Three

It felt like a lifetime ago back when Jamie was a lad, where his only problems were waking early in the morning before the streaks of sun blazed the sky with languid blues and pinks. To milk the cows fit to burst and feed the chickens ready to feast, then off to the fields to plow for harvest, only to get lost in the clouds or a dip in the chilly brook till he was as pruned as a wean. And always, ever always, arguing with his sister Jenny, over every aspect of each other's being down to the loudness of their breathing. Lord, how he missed her so.

Had she grown past his hip now? Jenny would twist his bawls like the wee savage she was for wondering so.

Did she ever marry, Ian? So obvious were they in stolen glances, a graze of wrist...

Maybe children of her own just as small as she.

Jamie could still remember his families faces, all beaming with pride and a love always felt yet seemingly tripled in those final moments at home. His father and sister a pair of dark haired silkies and his mother a kindred flame of locks, all held a sheen in their eyes that stung at Jamie's own. He was leaving them to sail to Gaul to be an educated man in his cousin Jared's keeping, like Jenny had before him.

But there was little those images of loving warmth could do to keep Jamie sane on the the tortuous tides of sea, where every swell of wave brought forth the suffocating stench of fishy brine and filth of sailor that twisted his wame to constriction and burned his throat with bile. That's when Jamie's godfather Murtagh (sent to accompany his travels and oversee his pension for foolery with a hard twist of an ear or whip of a belt at his head), would sing a tune to ease his sickness.

Will you search through the lonely earth for me

Climb through the briar and bramble

I'm with the ghosts of the men who can never sing again

Murtagh would take his coarsely calloused hand and gently stroke Jamie's copper hair soaked in sweat and wipe the vomit that had dribbled to his chin barely stubbled in reddish gold. Jamie had never known the man to have such a tenderness of touch or so sweet a voice.

Did Murtagh forgive him from his perch high above with a spirit at peace with the Lord? Or was he beside him in the here and now?

Perhaps, he was humming that same old tune.

Just three months living abroad as a man walking amongst humanity, Jamie held a heart filled in triumph from a duel over a woman whose affections he had won. Again and again, Jamie had been rewarded by his Annalise, so perfectly beautiful and petite with a charm of wit that spoke to his own unlike any lass of home.

Jamie still thought of her on forsaken, wretched nights and days where he could smell Annalise's perfume of roses that coated her silken skin, of which she was never shy to show or press Jamie's touch to wherever he dared. To please, tease and kiss that had Jamie longing achingly between his thighs and desperately - shamefully at his own hands.

A temptation Annalise was that Jamie willingly chose to throw himself to. And he did just so that day forever scarred to his soul.

Jamie was on his way to see Annalise for a late night rendezvous where her father was away and mother seeking oblivion with a handkerchief dripping in laudanum clutched to her breast. Just Jamie and Annalise who cared little for layers and layers of troublesome cloth.

On his way out the front gate of Jared's apartment, Jamie saw a figure at the corner of the street that very well could have been the shade of a ghostly haunt if not for the spark of light and fumes of smoke that followed, indicating the breath of the living. Jamie being a man of manners no matter the hour tipped his head to the stranger with a grin to bid him well and off the blush stained lad went strolling down the street.

But not for long.

Annalise's mother had awaken in a fit of hysteric delusions, wailing with need of her daughter, sending Jamie home with great reluctance and disappointment at his own ineptitude to assist. Veering down the cobbled street he noticed the iron gate of his cousins home was left ajar with a screech of unbalance. An anxious stride to the front doors that rushed a chill to clutch his heart, Jamie saw that the heavy set doors were hanging off their hinges and splintered at every edge. Where beyond the sway of wood all was engulfed in unnatural silence and obscured from his vision, with only the rich tang of blood his greeting.

With a guiding hand along the wall of the entryway that turned towards the parlour room, there was a soft flicker of a melting candlestick that cut through the dark, along with a whimpering, gasping cry. Jamie's godfather laid on the floor, choking on blood that frothed at his mouth and drenched his beard in a shining black and sword off to the side. Had it ever been raised? Murtagh's assault was splattered to the walls and revoltingly hot on the carpet that seeped through the breeks of Jamie's knees as he bent to find the wounds. To stop the gush of death. To save the life of the man who was his idol in boyhood. And still even now.

But ahead of that body that writhed in fear and fury, stood a man whose features were hidden away, dressed in ruined finery that clung wet to his lean, unassuming frame. His hands were unadorned in weaponry yet held the gleam of slaughter in their grip, as they were wrapped around the to and fro of hair still immaculately tied with a violet ribbon. His cousins favorite color.

"You came home." Relief, so like that of a lover, crawled from the strangers lips to a caress of Jamie's ears in a horror that resounded deep within him to scream and run. Commanded vengeance. To cry for help.

Jamie would remember in that moment that there was an absence of air all around. The life within him already resigned to a fate destined for the grave, as he made his choice. Running towards the murderer, with the sword of his godfather wielded slippery in his grasp, Jamie slashed his steel at the throat only to be stopped by a block of an arm. The sword, ablaze with his last shred of bravery, shattered in a rain that carved into the flesh all along the breadth of Jamie.

Who had gone rigid as stone. Not only in terror but by an invisible force that seized Jamie by his very marrow. Where he was powerless to defend his life as hands smooth and slick were upon him, crushing the bone of his skull with unyielding pressure and drawing out a curdling scream. Jamie fell on his knees to the squelch of his own blood and piss, down to his back with the man straddling him and clear before him. The lone candles flame had caught on the carpet and licked across the mans face misted with the red of Jamie's kin, his hair black as the eclipse and eyes, soulless as the devils. All that Jamie could do that was left to him was invoke a damnation of the mans soul.

"Burn in fucking hellfire!"

The mans face softened with a blooming grin and a bemused chuckle that disturbed Jamie to a soundless weep. He released his hold of Jamie's head, grazing his fingertips to tears and cuts against the petrified lads cheek, dipping his mouth to a whisper that kissed Jamie's trembling lips.

"Join me."

The Black Butchers curse to Jamie held no pain that he could remember, not until he awoke drenched in a christening of carnage. Bodies of men he knew to be neighbors around him, with his skin tingling with the last vestiges of their heartbeats.

Then there were voices of men, alive and shouting in a swarm. Outside with torches, reflecting bright in the windows glass. Armed with all that could bludgeon, stab and gut.

So Jamie ran. And ran. And ran

Hid in caves. Shades of mountains. Safety found in the solitude.

Sought miracles never granted. Crossed villages to do so, where the inevitable would fly in streams of crimson to a rising gale. A fate forever doomed to those who glanced his way. Saw the fire of his hair. Remembered the gossip told over drams and pews of The Red Man.

For years Jamie lived this way to no avail.

And now here he was. Trapped in a land not his own, wearing the clothes of a man he killed to shield him from the cold, and bound to a woman who would lead that demon right back to him.

In the twilight hours of trekking through the forest aching for dawn, Jamie and Claire were quiet with one another. Neither wanting or daring to engage in anything more then a grunt or sigh to signal a slowing of pace, a moment of rest.

Jamie approached a slope of earth covered in gorse flowers, their spikes sharper then needles could scratch against the cuff of breeks to pierce the skin raw, when a foulness of voice cut the air and broke Jamie out of his morose reverie.

He looked up to see Claire, twisting about as her footing had caught in the dense undergrowth of ivy concealing the dips in the forest floor. She pulled the same thin blade she used to split her wrist on the vines and nearly toppled over on her arse in the process with shoulders slumping from the strain that mirrored Jamie's own in a shake of fatigue. They would need to rest. Now rather then later. Jamie threw his sight (softly blurring at the corners) to the trees in the distance, where only the creak of boughs whistled with the wind and to the blackness inbetween where not a stir of the wee things that lurked about could be seen or heard.

"There." Jamie said flatly in a powdery huff, sounding hoarse and scraping at his throat. He found himself regretting his dismissal of Claire's pass of drink but Jamie would rather not piss in the pitch dark. Or worse, a shit.

Jamie skittered down the slope without a glance back to Claire, who followed the imprints of his boots down to a gathering of low hanging trees and blue thorned bushes. Opposite one another, they both collapsed against the bark, pulling at the cloth around their bodies tight and shuffling uncomfortably where they sat as the soil was hard as ice beneath them, unsoftened by the grass. Claire's brown eyes heavily lined closed in relief, trusting in Jamie that he found their surroundings safe. Something he found to be odd for another person to think so of him. It had been so long.

The crickets chirped their graceless songs, the leaves rustled with every whip of air from above but Jamie kept his hearing alert, his nerves still refusing him sleep. In frustration with his own paranoia that always served him well (his head still attached but with eyes soon to dissolve in a slurry) Jamie sought to control his emotions in a shivered query to Claire.

"How long has it been since ye've seen him?"

Claire's sight fluttered open to a watery sting with nerves jerking from the abruptness of sound. Nerves always jumping at a dash along her periphery or a shadow holding whispers just along the shell of her ear down the sweep of neck. The presence of a phantom seeking Claire's whereabouts where even sleep held no sanctuary for her as he was always waiting with the deadly patience of an arachnid before it's strike of fangs. But she'd always escape in a wake of her own convulsing breath and staggering pulse.

"Weeks. And hopefully never again beyond that day." She said with a waver quickly reined in, tucking a hand under her chin should she need to slap it to her mouth. "But he could be anywhere, you know that. Even here. Now. And we wouldn't know. Not until he wanted us to."

A wish to ignore the hitch in her words Jamie carelessly questioned what Claire did to incur the butcher's wrath. He was asking for a penny dreadful in the dead of night, something Claire felt just as keenly, the reciprocation spilling to Jamie in a shudder across his skin from their link. It was a time before she spoke, a wisp of tone that even she wasn't aware of inflecting.

"I told you that my gifts are rooted in healing the sick, a craft I learned from a man lost to the ages now, My Maître Raymond." So perfectly strange was Claire's guardian and mentor, in manner anda grenouille in appearance. But a figure that walked too close to the line of decency and immorality that had left Claire to wonder if that was his downfall.

"We had a quiet reputation and apothecary of our own with a trusted few knowing of what we were. Even still, the butcher caught word of us." Claire remembered his hushed arrival so soundless she questioned if he even breathed. How Raymond's face drained of it's hue when his gaze lifted from his parchment ruined with the spill of ink and drop of quill. The subtle stroke of stubbied fingertips against the embroidery of his coat to signal for Claire to hide, a gesture seen by eyes devoid of light.

"We were dragged to his dwelling to heal a man - a boy truly, that he called brother."

"A brother? Jamie asked in a confounding shock. "Ye mean to tell me that creature was born of a woman? Human?" He had never pondered the butchers creation, only ever inquiring to olden enchanters of his makers name (the title of butchery was all that was given) and a cure from the wickedness that was spilled down Jamie's throat.

Claire nodded, she herself having once had the same disbelief. "Who sired him is the greater evil. But a mother he had and who named him Johnathan Randall."

"He promised our lives would be spared if we could save his brother, Alex life and if we didn't..."

In a room of dying a flame laid Alex, a frail and gasping thing in a bed of pillows that propped and quilts that did nothing to purge what was killing him in a slowed agony. Neither of the healers needed to lay a hand on him to see the affliction growing inside the boy. It could be seen from just a glance of Alex, envelopled in a shroud of livid black that smelled putridly of burning rot. The radiant glow that all good men have was being smothered by what emanated from Randall in malevolence and what hopelessly cried in sorrow for death in Jamie.

But what thrived in them was killing Alex and them soon enough with him.

Then Claire's Maître patted her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze and a crack of what she supposed was a reassuring smile. He shook his chin for her to keep to the wall towards the back, away from Randall glowering at Alex's bedside. Then Raymond pulled from his waist a knife, slitting his wrist and placing his palm on the boys bared chest alighting it in blue, all while envoking the unholy spells of Les Disciples du Mal. His personal obsession that Claire had never approved of that would now save them from being strewn across the room.

It was a hope short lived as Raymond's blue aura erupted frantically in a struggle, clashing with Alex's in a consumption that hollowed out their skin and dissolved the flesh within.

Claire ran for the door and to the stairs. Falling in a smash of shoulder and hip, broken to the ground with an intensifying swell of pain. Claire had been rendered immobile by a simple brush of Randall's will and all she could do was scream while his hands buried in her curls ripping at her scalp, dragging Claire roughly to the bed where the remains of the two laid atop one another.

It would have been the end if not for her body healing hurriedly in defiance of impending death. For the force of her own power to raise what was once broken and to slash across Randall's eyes in a sear that toppled him off her with a wail.

And Claire ran from the room. Never stopping. Not until she found a chance to escape Gaul before the waters would ice over in winter.

Jamie

Claire didn't bother asking Jamie if he understood her need of him now. What right did she have when he had suffered from the same man's hand. But she returned the question, it only being fair that she had to relieve the experience.

"What about you?"

With his gaze brimming with a gloss that was shaded in dusk from Claire, Jamie replied flatly -

"I noticed him." And he curled his back to Claire to grab what little comfort sleep would grant him.

It wasn't much, a few hours only, as the prick of awareness had Jamie rise with a jolt on all fours to Claire, softly breathing a snore from parted lips, brace her tightly with a rough shake and insult.

"Wake up, ye bleating goat!"

With a tap of cheek to stir her. That was Jamie's mistake.

Claire woke to a throbbing hand and Jamie's face hovering closely above hers with three black gashes running down the curve of his cheekbone to a mouth strained to a scowl.

"What on Earth -" Before Claire could say another word Jamie pressed himself to her with his entire weight, squashing her ribs and lungs to a sputtering breath for air.

"Quiet yerself there's -"

Claire didn't, as she caught sight of her hand deeply bruised with teeth marks.

"You bit me!" She exclaimed.

Jamie would have countered that she nearly blinded him when he tried to wake her but the reason for needing to do so pierced the night with snarls and howls surrounding them.

Jamie lifted himself cautiously to a sitting position, Claire moving with him, chin on his shoulder with fingers clutched beneath his cloak, directly at his sark and cutting at Jamie's skin. In fear of the golden eyes dotting the forest like fireflies but mostly from the rising call to attack bubbling inside Jamie. Claire restrained his senses quickly bursting in bloody impulse with a summoning of her mark upon him, painfully rattling her mind and sending her heart to rapidly palpitate.

"Leave me be woman, if ye care to see another day." Jamie warned with his tone a dangerous growl, keeping his attention forward with a hand digging just as deep in the tender skin of Claire's arm clasped to his chest. An invasion of filthy desire to rip it from her frame frightening Jamie but the flood of her in his veins keeping it just in his mind. And for that at least he was thankful.

"To the right of ye, there's a split in the tree. I dinna care how fat yer arse is, wedge yerself there until I'm done with them and only when I've come back to myself." He tilted his head to Claire with a wry smirk. "Will be a true test of yer bewitchment on me, aye?"

Claire curled her nails one last time at Jamie's chest for his less then kind comment that had him grunting, before slackening her hold on him (the physical and intangible). She was readying herself to run like hell when a wolf, hulking in size with fur white as it's teeth brighter then moonlight, approached them from the blackness. It's eyes the vibrant color of the forest itself fixed on Claire in shining familiarity and Jamie shifted himself to block her from it's view, much to her surprise.

"Don't move." Claire ordered when she felt Jamie's muscles spasm and his body lurch while hissing under his breath,"Shit."

"Are ye mad woman?! I'm no' yer dog! I willna -"

"Mo calman geal." A voice inhuman came from the slack jaw of the wolf, deadening Jamie of speech and saliva. The beast not only spoke the language of Jamie's homeland far across the sea, the damn thing talked.

Mo calman…?

Jamie whipped his head to Claire, white as any dove with a drop of red spilling from her nose to the curve of her lip aquiver that she quickly wiped away in a smear. It was then Jamie realized that despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins he was still in mastery of himself, or rather Claire was and seemingly just barely.

"Come wi' me." The wolf beckoned, then cackled devilishly that tugged at it's mouth, prying it wide with a waggle of it's tongue and flare of steaming nostrils. "Before my pets fill their belly's wi' ye."

Claire exchanged a glance towards Jamie where he shook his head at any notion of stupidty of hers that didn't end with him covered in animal but still very much alive.

"Yer going to listen that creature?!" Jamie asked incredulously, even as the hoarde of wolves began to swarm upon them in a circling taunt of teeth.

"What other choice do we have?"

Jamie's eyes darted around him before landimg back on Claire in grudging resignation. "Aye. But if one of them howlers nips at yer leg I'll encourage the fiends to reach a bit higher."

"Not if they don't take a bite of your redhead first." Claire mumbled not intending it as a shot but the honest truth even so Jamie felt his throat catch almost in a chuckle.

They rose together, still attached at the palms, with neither bothering to raise issue, an excuse of keeping Jamie in control was all that was needed. But in truth a touch of human, however veiled in magic and curses, was a desperate and unexpected comfort to them both.

_____

A/N: The big bad of this story was actually supposed to be Master Raymond who was stalking Claire's dreams and would eventually (unknowingly to you readers until close to the end) struck a deal with Jamie (seeing him through Claire's eye) in his dreams to deliver Claire to him. But it was all so complicated and in order to get this story going in I went to bjr (part of what was supposed to be a second arc).

*The song Murtagh sings is, "Detectorists" by Johnny Flynn. I was randomly looking for this song and found an English murder ballad from another century instead. Which is what made me decide to move forward with this story.

*The bite scene is from my thirteen year old selfs brain when I first thought of this story (which was inspired by a dress) about an empress and a cursed man. It's a little odd but I had to put it in. my own silly easter egg.

Thank you for reading.

#Outlander #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic #jamie x claire

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bucklesomeswashswan · 6 years ago

Text

Once Upon a December (10/10)

Summary: Emma doesn’t remember much of her past, all she knows is she needs to get out of Misthaven. The mysterious group called the Industrialists continues to gain power and control since they overthrew the royal family over a decade ago. Out of options, Emma joins forces with a conman Killian and his partner Ruby in their plot to pass her off as the lost princess of Misthaven. But as they travel together and Killian and Ruby try to teach her how to be a princess, Emma begins to uncover hidden pieces of her past. When threats start closing in around them will she choose to escape to safety or risk everything to find her family and reveal a dangerous secret that could change history forever?

Rating: M

Story content warning: some descriptions of violence, slow burn Chapter content warning: smut ahead

Part of @captainswanbigbang 2018.

One last thank you to the wonderful @prongsie whose art is magnificent and perfectly captured this story! Check out her blog for all her amazing artwork! Thank you again to my beta reader @csobsessed-21!

Final Notes: Well, this is the end. It’s so surreal. But it feels right to be ending this story on the first of December!

I cannot express how much this whole experience has made me grow as a writer and as a member of the fandom. This is the longest story I have ever completely drafted and written. There were days, even months, I didn’t think this would ever make it and see the light of day. It definitely wouldn’t have without the amazing support of the other Big Bang writers, betas, artists, and admins! I want to say a huge thank you and a huge congrats to everyone who took part this year as I sign off here.

As always thank you to everyone who has read, liked, left kudos, reblogged, commented, gushed, reached out, and enjoyed this story! You have made this experience what it was!! I love you all so much! Hopefully this chapter will be a worthy thank you and a little cherry on top for everyone who stuck it out this far!!

Thank you again from the bottom of my heart! xx Corinne

Chapter 10 : Someone Holds Me Safe and Warm

Emma spurred her horse on quicker. The road was starting to slope downward along the tall cliffs of the coast. Already she could smell the brine of the sea and feel the salty spray on the air from the crashing waves below.

She had heard stories about Capetown from the grizzled and worn sailors in the fishing village she had lived in. It was a fabled pirate stronghold nestled into a rocky bay that was plagued by mermaids. It was said that the mermaids had caused such a problem for sailors that it had greatly helped speed the transition to airships. Many shipping companies realizing their cargos were safer in the skies than navigating the bay. However Glowerhaven had not taken to the new technology like Misthaven had, and Capetown still remained an important harbor for seagoing ships.

The sun was setting into the waves on the horizon painting the sky in golds and reds when Emma started to see the lights of the town up ahead. Her hand drifted to the pocket of her coat with the slip of paper from Ruby.

Capetown was a village of closely packed houses and buildings with wooden siding, white shutters, and steeply pitched roofs. Gulls cried out from where they perched on the chimneys. The town seemed to have been influenced by centuries of profitable sea trade. There were crushed shells on the roads and walkways and the stores all seemed to be selling nets and ropes and other sailing supplies. There were signs hanging above doors advertising shipping companies and whalers. Outside most of the doors and hanging along the street were lanterns lit with flickering flames. It gave a softer light than the gas lamps she was used to in Misthaven.

Emma slid down from the saddle to lead her horse down the busy streets. Even after dark there were still people milling around, moving into the taverns and haggling over prices of crates of goods outside warehouses and shops.

She stopped a young woman on her way past. “Excuse me, can you tell me where the Swan and Anchor is?”

She pointed up the street. “You’re nearly there. It’s just up the street, closer to the docks. You’ll know it by the sign and the bright blue door. Take care there, that place is famous for a slightly unsavory crowd.”

Unsavory crowds were becoming something of a specialty for her lately.

“I’ll be fine, thank you for your help,” Emma said making her way quicker up the street.

The Swan and Anchor was a sprawling building that stretched more than half a block. It was three stories high, its face dotted with many windows and even spaced dormers rising from the slanting roof. And as described it had two wide bright blue doors thrown open to the night air and there was a group of people loitering at the entrance.

Emma led her horse around to the stable behind the boarding house.

“I’ll need a stall for the night,” Emma told the stable boy. “Give him as much water and hay as he wants.”

“Room number?” the boy asked taking the lead rope from her

“I’m not sure, I’m meeting a friend,” she said. The boy didn’t seem impressed by that answer. Emma dug into her pocket and pulled out a few silver coins and passed them to him. “Will that cover it?”

The boy stared for a moment before he hurriedly stuffed the silver into his jacket. “I’ll see to him right away, Miss,” he said leading her horse back into the rows of stalls.

Emma made her way out of the stable and followed the path around to the entrance of the boarding house. She edged between the people standing there ignoring their looks and sneers. She felt a familiar unease settle in her stomach, that feeling of not belonging. These calculating glances were different from all the stares she had endured the last few days beside her parents but they still made her feel alien. She suddenly wished she had changed into less conspicuous clothes before she left.

She followed the noise to large parlor that seemed to be used as a bar of some kind. There were groups seated at tables laid heavy with mugs of drink, coin and cards, and others grouped loosely around one of the women dressed in brightly colored dresses that hang low on their frames giving wanting eyes plenty to look at.

Emma made her way to the bar and flagged over the woman serving drinks. “I’m looking for someone staying here,” she said.

The woman popped the cap on a bottle of rum before pouring a glass for one of the patrons. “You’ll have to be more specific, we have a lot of rooms, lass.”

“His name is Killian Jones.”

The woman paused looking up at her for a moment a smile tugged at her lips. “He’s got them pretty blue eyes, yeah?” she asked.

Accurate enough. Emma nodded and the woman pointed above them. “Second floor, room 204.”

Emma left a silver piece on the bar for her help and wove her way through the other patrons to the set of stairs tucked at the back of the room. The second floor was little more than a dimly lit hallway with rows of doors leading to rooms. She paused in front of the door marked 204 feeling suddenly nervous. She had raced across Glowerhaven to stop him before he left but now she found herself hesitating. What if there was a reason he never came to see her after the ball? What if he didn’t want anything to do with her now that she was a princess?

She closed her eyes and held her breath as she lifted her hand and knocked on the door. She stepped back once it was done and waited, her pulse echoing in her ears as if she were underwater.

She heard the lock unlatch and then the door opened. Killian stood there looking less put-together than she had ever seen him. His hair was disheveled and he wasn’t wearing his leather greatcoat or a waistcoat. Instead his linen shirt hung loose over his shoulders the buttons down the front open almost to his navel. Emma glanced away at the sight.

“Emma?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” she told him.

He frowned glancing both ways up the hallway. “You shouldn’t be wandering around here alone,” he said waving her forward. “Come inside.”

She moved past him over the threshold and a few steps into the room. Her eyes took in the bed in the corner, the small desk beneath the window, the candles on the desk and bedside table, the open book laid out beside the candles as if he had put it down to answer the door.

“Why are you here, Your Highness?” he asked her once the door was closed.

She turned to face him, his tone and use of her title surprising her. She had prepared for a few different ways he might react to her chasing him down, but this formality wasn’t one of them. For a moment they stood in silence as she scrambled for what to say. She wondered if it wouldn’t be easier if he simply read her thoughts and intentions as he had so many times in the past and saved her the trouble of the speech she had practiced over and over on the ride here.

“Ruby told me you were leaving,” she said as a start.

He nodded. “How is Ruby?”

“She’s been offered a position working with my mother. She came by this afternoon.”

Killian nodded again not quite meeting her eyes. He didn’t say anything in reply. Emma could feel her frustration rising. Why was he being so distant? So cold? Was he going to react to anything she told him? Did any of it matter to him?

“She misses you,” Emma said trying a new tactic. “You’re running away from something good. Something that made you happy.”

She wasn’t even sure she was talking about Ruby anymore. The words just rushing out of her before she could stop them.

“You need each other,” she finished.

That seemed to hit its mark. Killian rounded on her. “What do you know about what I need?”

Emma faltered at his sharp tone. “You don’t need to leave,” she told him.

“I can’t stay,” he said bitterly.

Emma shook her head taking a step closer to him, a step she saw him watch carefully. “I know it’s different here, and it’s all new, but we can find a place for you. You’ll have your cut of the reward money, you’re a rich man now. You can start a new life. You could be in charge of trade or customs or whatever you want.”

He blew out a breath, his hand running over his face. “That’s just it. I don’t want your money, and I don’t want a place in your parents’ employ. I don’t want to be a Head of State or Secretary of Trade. I don’t want that.”

His words hung in the air as the silence stretched. She watched him, trying to understand.

“What do you want?” she asked softly.

He looked up with that same unreadable expression she had seen several times in his eyes. It was only now that she recognized it as longing, desire, love. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked her his voice hitching on her name.

He didn’t need to say the words because she did know. She had known for longer than she had allowed herself to admit. It was what she wanted too.

“Then why?” she asked him waving a hand. “Why are you running?”

“Emma,” he said her name almost like a plea, a plea for mercy. His gaze moved over her face as if he were memorizing it and she could sense him retreating from her.

His hand reached out to touch her hair where it lay against her shoulder, a familiar gesture. But she watched his eyes as his expression became an impassive mask, armor against the injury he thought was coming. He was preparing for her to break him.

“I know how the world works,” he said. “There are things that can’t be changed.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He tossed his head letting out a sound of frustration. “Come on, I’m not-,” he sighed before continuing, “I’m a criminal, a con, a forger. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things that shouldn’t be forgiven. I’d be thrown in jail, or worse, if I set foot back in Misthaven. We are from different worlds. You have your family now, a good family, a future, a purpose and a duty. You don’t need something weighing you down. And that is what I would be, a scar on your new life.”

She stared at him incredulously. She could tell he genuinely believed what he was saying, that he thought in some way he didn’t deserve her. As if someone who was so brave, who had risked everything to help her and others, and someone who had saved her life over and over could be below her. As if she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life trying to be as good as he had showed her she could be.

“So sailing off on some ship to who-knows-where is going to fix that?” she asked him.

When he didn’t answer she pressed on.

“You did what you had to do to survive, so did I, but we aren’t the people we used to be. That past is only a piece of who we are, and I will always choose to see the best in you. You’ve made me stronger, braver, kinder, and that is what we can be together. That is the future I want. The rest we will figure out as we go.”

He still looked a little uncertain, a part of him holding back. She decided to convince him the only way she had left. He was the one who was better with words anyway.

She closed the distance between them leaning up to capture his lips. He responded immediately, his arms folding her into him. It wasn’t like their first kiss, something quiet and almost shy, this was consuming and desperate. Both of them trying to keep hold of what they needed. She gripped the collar of his linen shirt as she pulled him even closer.

Heat coursed through her. The feeling of him against her was like a breath of fresh air after a week of drowning. She wanted to get lost in the moment, the feel of his fingers curled in her hair, the taste of his lips, the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart under her hand. It was what she had been searching for so long, at last she had found her place, this… this felt like home.

She hadn’t realized they were moving until her back shored up against the wall and she broke from him with a small gasp.

“Killian,” she breathed looking up at him.

He looked wrecked as his eyes moved between hers.

“I love you,” he told her.

She smiled widely, her hand coming up to his cheek. “I love you, Killian.”

He let out a shaking breath in relief and he leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes fell closed as though he were savoring the moment and the words echoing between them. It was a perfect peaceful moment but she wanted more.

Her hand trailed down his torso taking hold of the fabric of his shirt. His eyes snapped open as she pulled it from where it was tucked into his waistband. He watched her with a glint in his gaze as she ran her fingers along the hem.

There was a question in his eyes as he raised an eyebrow, but there was no hesitation in the way he raised his arms to help her when she lifted his shirt off in answer.

She allowed herself a few seconds to take in the sight. When she had stitched him up on the train she had tried not to stare at him. But now she traced the lines of lean muscle under his skin, she trailed her fingers through the hair on his chest, the line down past his navel. He glanced away as her hands moved up over his shoulders and down to his hands. He tried to pull his mechanical hand from her but she gently took hold of it.

She hated the way he looked ashamed. Slowly, holding his gaze, she lifted it and pressed a kiss to the cool metal of his palm. This didn’t make him a monster, it was a symbol of how much he had sacrificed to help her, a connection to the worst night of their lives, a devotion she hoped to repay.

Emotion swelled in his eyes and he then he was kissing her again pressing her back into the wall as both his hands moved over her until at last they settled where her bodice was laced. His fingers moving quickly to loosen it. She shook her shoulders as it fell to the floor and she reached back to untie her skirt until it followed.

She stood there in only her shift and waited for the creeping nerves. She remembered all the times she had opened herself up and tried give a fraction of her heart to someone. All the mistakes and failures. But there no urge to run, no need to hide behind her walls. There was only Killian standing before her already holding all the damaged pieces of her heart.

She pulled the shift over her head and leaned back against the wall as his eyes moved hungrily over her devouring the sight.

“My princess,” he breathed reverently as he placed a chaste kiss to her lips and then moved to trace the edge of her jaw. She pushed him back an inch and he drew back at once looking up at her as if afraid she might reject him.

“I’m just Emma,” she told him taking his hand and placing it over her heart. “Right now, with you, I’m just Emma.”

He stared at his hand on her for a moment before leaning back into her.

“Emma,” he said, her name a whispered prayer as he placed a kiss at the hollow behind her ear and kissed down the column of her neck. She sucked in a breath in surprise as his teeth nipped at the soft skin there.

“Emma,” he repeated as he bent to kiss her collarbone, her shoulder. His lips leaving a path of fire in their wake. He kissed right over her heart where his hand had been and she wondered if he could feel it trying to pound its way out of her chest.

He kissed down the side of her breast dropping to his knees before her. “Emma,” he breathed again into the skin at the bottom of her ribs making her shiver.

He moved lower still marking a path down her stomach his hands tracing the curve of her hips. One hand warm and one hand cool against her, the contrasting feelings driving her wild. His nose pressed into the dip beside her hip bone. “Emma,” he murmured one more time as he kissed there too.

He looked up at her silently asking permission as he lifted her leg behind her knee and eased it over his shoulder. She couldn’t have managed words if her life had depended on it. Instead she gave him a small nod and closed her eyes tilting her head back against the wall as he moved closer pressing kisses to her inner thigh until at last he reached the place they were both waiting for.

Her hand flew to his hair as she scrambled to get some purchase to maintain her balance. He groaned against her and she thought she might implode. Fire pounded through her veins sparking off her like lightning. She was a shooting star burning as she climbed higher and higher. She clung to him as she rose until all at once every nerve drew tight, pulling in and at last shimmering bliss radiated out of her, starlight dancing behind her eyes, and pleasure like sparks ran down to her toes, to the tips of her fingers. She let out a strangled sound as she slumped down the wall.

“Killian,” she said his name a desperate sound. He caught her against his chest holding her close.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her in that ernest tone that made her heart clench in her chest. Naked and trembling in his arms after what they had just done, and it was his words and the truth in his eyes that made her blush.

He leaned forward nuzzling into her chest, his breath warm against her. But she needed more. She needed him.

She stood on slightly unsteady legs and pulled him up and over to the bed. He followed her willingly. She sank down on the edge of the mattress before running her fingers over the waistband of his trousers.

He was breathing heavily as she undid the laces and slid them down his legs her knuckles dragging over his skin until he kicked them off. She trailed her fingers back up tracing over him making his breath hitch. She loved the sound, the needy expression in his eyes. She held his gaze as she lay back stretching over the soft bedspread.

The mattress dipped as he joined her leaning down over her. She shifted her legs wider, her hands finding the back of his neck and his hip. He braced himself on his elbow as he looked down at her.

“Are you-” he hesitated.

“I need you,” she said because it was the truth in every way. She leaned up from under him, her chest pressing to his as she pulled him into a kiss.

It opened a floodgate and he held her closer, cradling her. She arched up with a gasp as he pushed into her and her body throbbed around him.

“Please,” she begged not even sure what she was pleading for. But as always he seemed to know her better than she knew herself and he started to move. She angled her hips meeting him over and over each motion a wave trying to drag her under.

She let out a needy whimper clawing at his shoulders as he quickened his pace. And then he shifted, pulling her over on top of him and she loved the feeling as she rocked over him. It was only another minute before she was falling again, pulling him over the edge with her, and she collapsed onto his chest both of them breathing heavily.

He held her tightly his face buried in her neck. She could hear him murmuring something against her but couldn’t make out the words with ecstasy still echoing in her ears. She rolled off him curling into his side and he wrapped an arm around her holding her close, his lips pressing a kiss into her hair.

She wanted to stay awake all night, just to savor it or even just to watch him sleep beside her, but already she could feel sleep pulling her under. Her body exhausted and her mind drowsy from pleasure.

She woke the next morning to the sound of ship bells ringing in the harbor before there was any hint of sun in the sky. She felt Killian tense and roll away from her.

She turned to see him sit up, his legs falling over the edge of the bed. He pushed a hand through his hair as if trying to rouse himself fully from sleep before he reached out to grab for his trousers beside the bed.

Fear washed over her. Was he going to leave her? The ship bells, was he still planning on sailing off with them?

“Stay,” she said her voice a little rough with sleep. “Killian, please.”

He looked over at her, brows pulled down in confusion. “Stay?” he asked her.

“I thought,” she glanced down at her hand on the sheets beside her, her mother’s ring on her finger, suddenly feeling embarrassed and vulnerable, the bitter twist of rejection knotting her stomach, “after last night…”

He moved closer to her, pulling one leg back beneath the sheets. “Emma, darling, I’m not leaving you,” he said reaching out to lift her chin and pull her gaze to his. “There isn’t a force in this world strong enough to pull me from your side now.”

She stared. “Then why are you getting up?” she asked.

A smile pulled at his lips. “Because the town is waking up. And your people are going to be getting worried about you.”

She shook her head. “They know where I am. And I don’t think I’m ready to leave this bed just yet.”

He bit down on his bottom lip, a devilish glint in his eyes. “Is that right?” he asked.

She nodded solemnly at him. “I think we could stay in this bed for several more hours.”

He lifted a hand to scratch at his chin. “Several more hours?” he repeated.

“Mmhmm,” she hummed. “At least that long.”

He gave a small bow with a sweep of his hand. “As my lady commands,” he said settling back down beside her. “Your heart’s desire, that’s all I want you to have.”

She smirked at him. “Well, actually there are a few things I desire from you.”

He clucked his tongue. “Taking advantage of your power and subjects already I see,” he said.

“I was planning on reciprocating,” she said watching as his eyes darkened with lust, “I can be a fair ruler.”

“Very magnanimous,” he complimented. “Seems you’ll be a great princess.”

She smiled sitting up and moving to straddle his hips. He looked up at her with something like wonder. His hand came to rest at her hip as she leaned down. Her hair brushed his shoulder as she paused just a breath away from his lips. “Well, I had a good teacher.”

His chuckle was cut off as she kissed him the sound turning to a growl in the back of his throat that sent a shiver through her. She didn’t resist when he rolled them, his weight settling over her and she held him close as a new day dawned around them.

#csbb #captain swan #captain swan big bang #cs ff #cs ff au #anastasia au #steampunk au #my writing #thank you for reading!#it feels weird to be ending this journey after almost a year #it has been a blast

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checkfortraps · 6 years ago

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Stormblessed

I. Memories. He has never been fond of them, the way they crawl under his skin, haunting him, invisible but there, right within his bloodflow, passing through every inch of his body and his heart, ripping, until all he can taste is the bitter iron of despair. It makes him hurt in ways never known; the longing for all the things he has lost, or rather, let himself lose. Precious cargo at the bottom of the sea.

II. But sitting on the shore, moon alight on the waves in silver crests, wind in his face with the rage of dying summer, he cannot help but pull at the scars, pull them open until he’s bleeding with wonder: Has he chosen wisely? Or is he just a sailor abandoning course at the siren’s call, never realizing his mistake until it is far too late? His shadow is deep crimson at his heels, dripping with the evidence of sins he cannot not wash off no matter how much he scrubs with brine and trembling fingers. It spews forth images, a steady haunting, his own personal hell; acts of a life far away from salvation.

III. The old boat, moored to the pier beside the house, a spiderweb of knots and rope tangled around its single mast. Autumn seized the gulf with rusty fingers, decaying breath giving rise to waves more cruel than usual. It was like Umberlee herself rose from the depths to touch briny fingers to the dark bellies of stormclouds. The view had a strange beauty, he had found, longing rolling through his chest like thunder, leaving aftershocks in his heart that no prayer could soothe. He wished she would take him with her, down, down, until light and life seemed like distant memories.

IV. Smoke rose from the chimney, mingling with mist around a hut of dark woodblocks. Bright yellow leaves twirled in the wind, scent of stew and herbs overpowering the stench of drying fish and salt. Mother sat on the porch, in grandma’s old rocking chair, dark orange wool falling over her knees like a mantle while needles clicked with the tremble of her fingers. It’s the brine, the healer had said; as if there was another home for people like them, born from salt and misery and the dark light on the horizon just before a stormwall hit. The bruise on Mother’s cheek bore that same color, a sharp contrast to the ashen hue of her skin. He found himself wondering if death would finally erase it from her skin, and shuddered. Had he just invited the darkness into their house? But Mother smiled, and the chill faded, and for a moment, everything was alright.

V. He stared at the lightning as it came crashing into their house, and brought with it a fist of iron and a voice like violent waves. Mother’s cries were a siren song outlining the thunder in bitter blue; darkness swallowing her light as if pulled beneath the waters. Blood sizzled in the fireplace, shrinking the flames for a moment before stoking them ever higher. Just like the waves outside the window; just like Father’s rage when it painted the walls bright with red, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. He caught Mother’s pleading stare, seaglass eyes searching their like, and turned away. Like a single sandbag against the flood, he could not save the world from drowning. So why even try?

VI. Weeks spent at sea. The crashing of waves, the cries of seagulls, the distant shimmer of a lighthouse. Salt and kelp adorning vessel and sailor alike, the unsettling art of nature untamed. Never did freedom live in his heart like this before, nor would it ever again; he could taste it in the winds, see it in the shape of the clouds and the dance of fish beneath the waves. The city and its wonders fixed what it could, but even the gentlest lover’s touch could not heal old scars, nor prevent the skin from tearing again. Returning home would always come at the price of trauma repeating itself like the tides, burrowing ever deeper.

VII. He found the weather changed when he came back. Mother was not sitting on the porch anymore, her wool scattered to the winds, her needles broken, grandma’s rocking chair smashed against the stairs like driftwood swept in by the sea. Low ceiling, small windows, chimney dark with smoke – familiar sights turned into nightmares within a single heartbeat. Mother begged him to let it go, to not ruin what she had preserved so painstakingly at the cost of her own safety, and for a moment he thought he could conquer the storm within his heart. But then the fire illuminated his brother’s twisted shape, his sister’s hand tainted by grey scales, and he could not see past the anger coloring his vision red. If he could not be the sandbag, he would become the waves, cleansing the world from those who would challenge them with force unfathomed like the depths of the sea.

VIII. They searched high and low on the beach, poking through driftwood and kelp and fish too slow to escape back into the sea before the ebb took hold. Eventually they found their quarry: A body blue from cold, mangled and twisted, missing the hands that had wrought so much misery upon their house. An accident, they said. A terrible misjudgement of time that found him left out during the storm until his boat capsized and the ocean swallowed him whole, returning only broken bones back to the shore. Little did they know that the wrath of the tempest had come in the shape of the young man now kissing his brother and sister and mother goodbye, leaving a harbor that had never been safe for his troubled mind.

IX. Thunder, lightning, crashing waves. The sickening crunch of wood and bones intermingling with cries and dying breath while treasured crewmates were pulled under. Here, the first mate, trying in vain to steer the ship to safety while the captain clutched at the railing, legs smashed by ship parts come loose in the tempest. There, the pretty ship-boy he had kissed just the night before, impaled on the splinters of a broken mast, blood washed away before it could settle on his shattered chest. He wanted to mourn, but the sea seized him violently, pulling him overboard like a giant throwing a puppet through the air. The darkness swallowed him, and he closed his eyes, awaiting judgement.

X. Light washing over his skin, waking him from deep slumber on an unfamiliar shore. Trembling fingers searching for the terrible truth but finding only hale bones and skin and hair matted with brine. No blood. Just bruises the color of the night sky, covering his body like a dark sheet. He sat up and saw a rocky beach, and beyond it, a heath stretching to the horizon. Gravel crunched under his feet as he walked towards it, leaving behind wreckage and pain and a love turned to ashes before it could be truly enkindled.

XI. A new life in the monastery, devoting himself completely to the goddess that rescued him. She was a harsh mistress, but not uncaring; her voice a soothing song at night when the memories became too much to bear. The death of his crew, and his past, and everything he had thought well and truly his turned into a price he paid willingly for her good graces. He learned to fight and to kill, to call upon the waves and wield lightning like a spear. When he left, she was with him, guiding his every step; murmuring promises of a greater destiny whenever doubt snuck into his mind like a thief.

XII. He sits at the water’s edge, tracing patterns in the sand while her voice calls him from beneath the waves. Do not mourn the life you left behind, my champion. I chose you from the dead to rise from troubled waters, to be my hand in the realms beyond the shore. We still have so much more to do until you reach your destiny. He closes his eyes, breathing out a command, and lightning heeds his call, streaking from the sky into his waiting fingers. Ready when you are, my lady. The sea churns, and he grins. Let the past rest beneath the waters; he has a lady to please.

#my writing #d&d #oc: teivo stormblessed #this hurt while writing it and still hurts more than a year later #long post #okay to reblog

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infragalaxia · 7 years ago

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Stormblessed

I. Memories. He has never been fond of them, the way they crawl under his skin, haunting him, invisible but there, right within his bloodflow, passing through every inch of his body and his heart, ripping, until all he could taste is the bitter iron of despair. It makes him hurt in ways never known; the longing for all the things he had lost, or rather, let himself lose. Precious cargo at the bottom of the sea.

II. But sitting on the shore, moon alight on the waves in silver crests, wind in his face with the rage of dying summer, he can not help but pull at the scars, pull them open until he’s bleeding with wonder: Has he chosen wisely? Or is he just a sailor abandoning course at the siren’s call, never realizing his mistake until it is far too late? His shadow is deep crimson at his heels, dripping with the evidence of sins he could not scrub off no matter how much he scrubbed with brine and trembling fingers. It spews forth images, a steady haunting, his own personal hell; acts of a life far away from salvation.

VI. Weeks spent at sea. The crashing of waves, the cries of seagulls, the distant shimmer of a lighthouse. Salt and Kelp adorning vessel and sailor alike, the unsettling art of nature untamed. Never did freedom live in his heart like this before, nor would it ever again; he could taste it in the winds, see it in the shape of the clouds and the dance of fish beneath the waves. The city and its wonders fixed what it could, but even the gentlest lover’s touch could not heal old scars, nor prevent the skin from tearing again. Returning home would always come at the price of trauma repeating itself like the tides, burrowing ever deeper.

VII. He found the weather changed when he came back. Mother was not sitting on the porch anymore, her wool scattered to the winds, her needles broken, grandma’s rocking chair smashed against the stair like driftwood swept in by the sea. Low ceiling, small windows, chimney dark with smoke – familiar sights turned into nightmares within a single heartbeat. Mother begged him to let it go, to not ruin what she had preserved so painstakingly at the cost of her own life, and for a moment he thought he could conquer the storm within his heart. But then the fire illuminated his brother’s twisted shape, his sister’s hand tainted by grey scales, and he could not see past the anger coloring his vision red. If he could not be the sandbag, he would become the waves, cleansing the world from those who would challenge them with force unfathomed like the depths of the sea.

VIII. They searched high and low on the beach, poking through driftwood and kelp and fish too slow to escape back into the sea before the ebb took hold. Eventually they found their quarry: A body blue from cold, mangled and twisted, missing the hands that had wrought so much misery upon their house. An accident, they said. A terrible misjudgement of time that found him left out during the storm until his boat capsized and the ocean swallowed him whole, returning only broken bones back to the shore. Little did they know that the wrath of the tempest had come in the shape of the young man now kissing his sister and mother goodbye, leaving a harbor that had never been safe for his troubled mind.

IX. Thunder, lightning, crashing waves. The sickening crunch of wood and bones intermingling with cries and dying breath while treasured crewmates were pulled under. Here, the first mate, trying in vain to steer the ship to safety while the captain clutches at the railing, legs smashed by ship parts come loose in the tempest. There, the pretty ship-boy he had kissed just the night before, impaled on the splinters of a broken mast, blood washed away before it could settle on his shattered chest. He wanted to mourn, but the sea seized him violently, pulling him overboard like a giant throwing a puppet through the air. The darkness swallowed him, and he closed his eyes, awaiting judgement.

XII. He sits at the water’s edge, tracing patterns in the sand while her voice called him from beneath the waves. Do not mourn the life you left behind, my champion. I chose you from the dead to rise from troubled waters, to be my hand in the realms beyond the shore. We still have so much more to do until you reach your destiny. He closes his eyes, breathing out a command, and lightning heeds his call, streaking from the sky into his waiting fingers. Ready when you are, my lady. The sea churns, and he grins. Let the past rest beneath the waters; he has a lady to please.

#hey look i wrote a thing #i hate this but whatever #i spent way too much time on this crap to not put it out here #i'd say enjoy it but you probably won't because it's terrible and that's ok #my writing #oc fic #teivo stormblessed

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lakritzwolf · 8 years ago

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I’m not scared anymore

WinterFRE2017

Prompt 147: Young Iolaus is in trouble. He’s held prisoner in a galley, condemned to row to exhaustion every day. Next to him, a wild mysterious brunet is also chained. Will they be able to team up and escape?

Pairing: Young Iolaus/Luke Garroway

Going for digital and physical prizes.

Living as a galley slave is no fun. I tried to keep this as non-graphic as possible. There is some angst, and there is also a pointer at dub-con, although that happens completely off-screen.

Read it on AO3 (might be better because this is long)

When I'm lying in the arms of the man I love I'm completely at peace with the world And the dark clouds around me that often surround me Just fall away into the night, I'm not scared anymore^

When I can't sleep at night and I just stare at the moon Listening to your beating heart To know that you're with me, and the love that you give me Keeps me from falling apart, I'm not scared anymore

When I think about the ways of the other world And all the ones who've gone before Well I believe they can see us, believe they are with us Hear every word that we speak, I'm not scared anymore

The water splashed into his face, cold and merciless, but before he could even utter a sound of protest, another load of ice cold water washed over him. Quite a bit of it ended up in his already open mouth, and he almost choked on the ice-cold brine. He coughed and gasped, and the salty water also burned in his eyes when he tried to open them. He blinked into a bright sun and could make out some shadowed forms outlined against the sharp light.

Then several other sensations reached his still somewhat addled brain. He was lying on his back. The figures were looking down at him. There was wood under him. And he knew that because he could feel the coarse wood grain against the skin of his back.

But the worst feeling was that his hands were shackled together.

Before Iolaus could even make sense of any of this, a rough hand dug into his hair and jerked, and with a yelp of pain he sat up and, because he had no choice, let himself be hauled onto his feet.

He still had no idea what had happened and what was happening to him, but his mind registered a few more details around him now. He was on a ship. The rigging creaked and the deck below him rocked which meant they were at sea.

The men standing around him, all of them sailors, were giving him greedy, cruel looks and he looked down at himself in shock. His clothes were gone, but he was – barely decently – covered with a loincloth. His stomach turned at that realisation. How had he ended up naked on a ship somewhere out at sea?

“Where...” A slap right across his face made his cheek sting and his eyes water. “Silence.” The man who had spoken was a burly man with greying hair and one blind eye. “You only speak when spoken to.” “But...”

The slap that he got this time had him reel backwards.

“I said you only speak when spoken to. One more time and my lady will kiss you.”

Everyone around him chuckled, and Iolaus did not need to be a clairvoyant to know that whoever his lady was, he would not want to be kissed by her. So he only nodded.

“So listen here, pretty boy, because I will say all of this only once.”

The one-eyed man took a step forward, invading Iolaus’ personal space, and stood so close Iolaus could not only smell his foul breath but also see the fine web of scars across his blind eye.

“Whoever you think you are, whatever you think you are, you can forget about it. Because from now on, you are no one. You will do as you are told, or you will regret the day you were born. Understood?” Iolaus nodded, too afraid to do anything else. “You will not speak. To no one. Unless we ask you. Understood?” He nodded again. “Good. And just so you know what we are talking about, this here is my lady.”

Iolaus wasn’t really surprised that he produced a three-tailed whip. He was about to nod when the sailor lashed out and struck him right across the chest. He staggered back with a grunt of pain and surprise.

“So. This time she blew you a little peck. To welcome you, so to say. When she kisses you, then everyone is going to hear you moan and scream.”

His skin was tingling as if he had touched nettles, but he knew it would get worse in a few minutes. So he just bit his tongue.

After stuffing the whip into his belt, the one-eyed sailor grabbed his arm and dragged him along across the deck and towards a hatch down into the hull. Iolaus balked; he didn’t want to go down there because he knew once this ship had swallowed him, he would never see daylight again. But the sailor, having anticipated resistance, simply kicked him into the back of his knees. With his legs folding away under him and his hands in shackles Iolaus lost his balance and went down the hatch in a flurry of limbs, and he landed very painfully on the rough wooden boards of the hull.

The sailor was chuckling as he climbed down the ladder.

Iolaus had hit his head on a beam when going through the hatch, and he was still seeing stars when the sailor grabbed his hair again to haul him onto his feet. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, and his heart almost stopped for a moment.

Rows of oars, each pulled by two slaves shackled to the benches upon which they sat. The ship wasn’t huge, eight pairs of oars, and Iolaus was pushed forward past the rows of slaves, most of which didn’t even look up at him. Towards the prow of the ship was an oar where only one man sat, and the sailor pushed him onto the bench next to him, knelt down and with a few quick, practices moves, shackled Iolaus’ ankles to the bench.

“This is your life now,” the sailor said to him. “You row from sunrise to sundown. You get water and food as and when we see fit. Twice a day we pass a bucket and if you have to piss more than that, that’s not our problem. You row all you can. If I see you slacking, my lady will kiss you. If you talk to any of the others, my lady will kiss you and the man you spoke to. Now, row.”

He left, and somewhere above a drum started beating. As one, the slaves around him started pulling their oars, and Iolaus took the one before him. He cast a quick look at the other man who was sitting close to the hull while he himself had the seat close to the keel. He was taller than Iolaus and dark-haired; he also had dark eyes and impressive eyebrows.

Had things been different Iolaus would have found him quite handsome, but only one angry look cast at him out of dark hazel eyes reminded him of his fate, and he closed his eyes and pulled.

Iolaus was used to physical exertion. But none of his strength and dexterity he had worked so hard to build in the academy helped him here at the oar. It was sheer physical force, just pulling with all your strength and full weight, and by the time the sun went down he was so exhausted and in so much pain he could hardly move anymore. And he hadn’t even been at the oar for a full day.

The slaves were unchained, under the watchful eyes of the one-eyed sailor and a few others bearing spiked clubs and fierce scowls. Towards the stern was a barred-off partition in the hold into which the slaves were now herded, and after a chain was pulled through the manacles at their ankles, the door was locked.

Iolaus dropped his head against the wall. The coarse wood grain was chafing his back, but the sensation vanished in comparison to how much the muscles in his back and his arms were burning. And his hands...

He looked down at his hands that were lying palm up in his lap. It was already dark down here, what little daylight there was left that fell through the small portholes only created a murky twilight. But he could see the raw and bleeding skin well enough. Tomorrow would be torture.

His throat constricted, and for a moment Iolaus had to fight the urge to bawl like a baby and cry for his mama. He still had no idea how he had gotten here. The last thing he was sure of was coming to Athens with Hercules and Jason and browsing the stalls at the marketplace. They had lost each other and Iolaus had gone back to the inn.

He had met a few men who had invited him for a drink.

And the next thing he remembered was waking up with a bucket of seawater in his face.

Hercules. Jason. They had no idea where he was. What had happened to him. Or would they? They would have realised at one point they had been separated. They would go back to the inn. They would find out he had been drinking with strangers and vanished after that, wouldn’t they?

They would start looking for him.

Wouldn’t they?

They had to. They had to realise what had happened. They had to find him. They had to get him out of here!

Despite his exhaustion, Iolaus hardly found any rest. The tall and dark-haired stranger next to him seemed to sleep, but it was hard to tell in the darkness. Iolaus pulled up his legs, making the chains rattle, and the chains rattled again as he lifted his arms to sling them around his knees. He dropped his head onto his forearms and begged Zeus to give his son a sign.

Towards mid-morning, blood was dripping down Iolaus’ wrists and fingers. By that time he had also been kissed twice by the one-eyed sailor’s lady. He had heard him being called Kleitos by the other sailors, and he promised himself that he would wipe that grin clean off his face one day. He would get rid of these chains, and he would push that cursed whip so far up his ass that he could pull it out again through his nose.

Angry thoughts about freedom and revenge had vanished by noontime however, evaporated like snow in the sunshine. The made a pause for the slaves to drink, but not more than one scoop each, and the bucket made the round after that. No one seemed to care, and no one looked at him when Iolaus used it, shame burning his face. His silent companion looked pointedly away; the only thing he could do. It was more than nothing, and Iolaus was grateful for the tiny bit of dignity it left him. At least he hadn’t been forced to piss himself; he was sweating too much for that.

Kleitos smeared some stinking brown paste onto his hands before they started rowing again. It burned like fire and made it even worse, but after a while the pain receded. It didn’t help anything against his screaming muscles, and the next time they came with water Iolaus simply couldn’t lift his arms anymore.

Kleitos quickly made him realise that he could lift his arms, after all.

He could feel the oar move as he closed his hands around it, but he could hardly move his arms. But the oar moved anyway, and then he realised that his dark companion was pulling it harder than before. Muscles bunched and bulged as he rowed, and he kept staring straight ahead.

Iolaus wondered how long he had been here. But before he could think any further Kleitos re-appeared in his view, and he did all he could to at least look like he was rowing. Thanks to the nameless man next to him the overseer didn’t look at him twice, and this time passed him by without using his whip.

That evening, as they were herded towards the stern to be chained there for the night, Iolaus could hear a few of the sailors make joking bets about him and wonder if he was going to make it. They called him a pretty boy and one of them said he was going to feed the fish within the next three to four days.

His whole body was one fiery pain as he curled up in the hold after being chained to the wall. He would most certainly feed the fish within a few days. He had no idea how he could even lift his arms tomorrow, he had no idea how he would be able to even lift his head. Kleitos would take immense pleasure out of taking the skin off his back, and then they would throw him overboard.

Even if Hercules had any idea where he was, even if Jason would take his father’s entire fleet to come after him... they would come too late.

He curled up as much as the chains would allow him to and with the pain and exhaustion being stronger than him, he couldn’t stop the tears.

“Two days,” one of the other slaves whispered into the darkness and spat out. “Three. Then we’ll all be doing the work for one more again.”

“Silence.”

The word was a harsh growl, almost feral, and it came from directly next to him. Iolaus couldn’t care less, however. The slave was right; he would be dead within a day or two.

“He won’t hold for more...” “Even if he does, it is none of your business.” It was Greek, but it sounded strange and stilted, and he had a terrible accent. “I pull his oar, not you.”

Iolaus wanted to feel grateful for it, but the truth was, there was no need to defend him. He fought to remain silent as he shouldn’t make any noise to keep the others awake, but he didn’t stop his tears.

A hand rested on his shoulder.

“Fight,” the low voice said in its terrible accent. “Do not give up.” “But I...” Iolaus lifted his head again and looked at the dark-haired stranger. “We all were like that when we came here. No one is born a galley slave.” “But I can’t...” “You can, and you will. You will row, and you will grow stronger, and one day...” “Shut up!” Another slave hissed. “Talk like that is dangerous! Even thinking about it is dangerous!”

“I am the most dangerous thing on this cursed ship,” the dark haired stranger snarled. “And if not for these shackles we would all be free by now.” As if in demonstration he tore at the chains holding his hands together, but it was solid forged iron.

“Sure,” another voice sounded from the dark. “Tell them that, why don’t you.”

The only answer was a feral snarl.

“You have to fight,” the foreigner then said to Iolaus. “We will be free again. All I need is one moment of weakness.” “It’s not going to happen,” Iolaus whispered back. “We’re too heavily watched.” “Maybe. But everyone has a weakness.” “Yes, but we can’t make use of any.”

This time there was no answer.

“How long does it take to die if I just...” “Stop drinking? They will not let you.” The dark-haired man looked down at him. “They cannot easily replace a rower. They will force-feed you, and punish you for it. They will use every cruelty they can think of to break you to make you row. Do not let them.”

Iolaus stared at his raw and bleeding hands.

“Strength,” the stranger said. “All our hands looked like that. We are all still alive. Just row. Just live.” “What for?” The dark eyes came to rest on him. “Life.”

Iolaus stared straight ahead. There was no hope, so why would he want to live like this just to be alive? He just wanted to be dead already.

But he was still alive with sunrise. Iolaus stared out of the porthole as the slaves were unshackled and watched a seagull swoop past. Kleitos found his tear incredibly amusing but Iolaus was beyond caring at that point. The barely scabbed skin on his palms was rubbed raw again within moments after he had started rowing, and the tears just rolled down his cheeks as the blood dripped down his fingers.

He could feel the dark-haired foreigner pull the oar for him all day. Kleitos didn’t notice he wasn’t rowing.

The urge to just be able to die to have this over with battled with the urge to live and find a way out of here, and every time Kleitos walked past Iolaus kept eying the large key ring hanging from the overseer’s belt. It just dangled there right within his reach, but even if his hands hadn’t been shackled, he couldn’t have taken it. Sometimes he felt Kleitos was parading the keys there in front of everyone’s nose on purpose.

The nameless stranger next to him pulled the oar, and Iolaus could only hang on. But he did hang on.

He had starved on the streets as a child, he had learned to steal and how to fight (and worse) to survive. And that small spark if iron will that had made him hang on when all hope had seemed lost now showed itself again. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, and kept thinking of ways to get out of here.

...if not for these shackles we would all be free by now...

What was there really to the dark stranger’s words? He would likely never find out. He had inspected the locks; they were solid forged iron but large and crude, and he would have picked them with his eyes closed if he had had a lock pick. Or a small knife. As it was, he didn’t even have a wooden splint and the locks might as well have been made from a titan’s bones locked by three divine spells.

All he needed was a small metal pin, really. Not longer than his little finger.

He might as well wish for the moon to sail down and carry him home.

The stranger pulled his oar, and Iolaus kept his eyes on the back of the man before him. He had been flogged more than once, and not just to make a point. Iolaus had felt the whip a few times but it had never broken his skin, while the back before him was crisscrossed with dark pink lines. Sometimes he couldn’t stand the sight and looked down; sometimes he intentionally kept his eyes there, telling himself over and over again that this would never be him.

With the stranger next to him pulling the oar, Iolaus’ hands got a chance to heal. Slowly, bit by bit, but at one point they stopped bleeding and didn’t start again. Iolaus had lost count of the days by then.

During that time they had been docked twice, but every night in port they had not only been shackled down in the hold but also been guarded by several armed sailors. There was no escaping that ship.

Iolaus had no idea what harbour it was this time, and the thought that Hercules or Jason might walk right past the ship without knowing he was inside drove him mad. He could see the light in the window of a building when looking out of the small porthole. There were people there. Families. Friends. Comrades. They were laughing, eating, drinking, singing songs, telling stories...

“Do not look,” the dark, low voice next to him whispered. “Do not listen.” “They are people,” Iolaus whispered back, his voice thick and clogged and shaky. “They are allowed to be people and laugh and sing and have names.”

A few howling drunks staggered past outside, singing and yowling at the top of their lungs. A jug fell onto the cobblestones and shattered. Iolaus thought of Cara’s inn and tried to swallow a sob.

“Luke.”

He wasn’t sure he had really heard it and lifted his head again. In the darkness, the stranger’s eyes reflected a bit of the light falling through the tiny porthole.

“What?” “Luke.” “What does that mean?” There was a huff of breath that could have been a chuckle. “It is my name.” “Oh.”

And then it hit him.

“Iolaus,” he whispered back.

It felt so strange, all of a sudden. He hadn’t heard his name in so long. It might have just been a week, or two weeks, or a month. But he had a name. And the stranger – Luke – had reminded him of it. They had names, they were persons. And that was the last bit the slavers could not take away from them.

They crossed in fair winds for the next days, and the galley slaves were brought on deck in small groups to work up there. Swabbing the deck, repairing nets and cloth, and also cleaning a load of fish that the sailors hauled on board.

After so long a time in the murky twilight of the hull the sun burned his eyes, and because of the shackles he couldn’t just shield them. It took Iolaus a while to get used to sunlight and once he could, he stared across the deck and over the railing. There was water as far as the eye could see. So even if he would manage to escape the guards and jump overboard, he would never be able to reach land, shackles or no shackles.

He and Luke were kneeling next to each other repairing knots in a net when someone behind them said: “Where did we pick that one up?”

It was Kleitos who replied. “Athens, Lord Gaios.” “Who sold him?” “Eukleides, Lord.” “Hmm.”

Footsteps came closer and a pair of expensive red shoes appeared in Iolaus’ view.

“You.” One of the shoes nudged him. “Get up.”

Swallowing hard, Iolaus got to his feet, a gut-wrenching terror fighting with a ridiculous sliver of hope for a moment. The man, fat and richly and tastelessly dressed and bearing a large pendant proclaiming him a member of a merchant’s guild, looked him up and down for a moment.

“Show me your hands.”

Iolaus held out his hands, and the merchant took one and inspected his palms. Then he dropped the hand and took a few strands of Iolaus’ hair.

“Eukleides, you say?” “Yes, Lord.” “The old stuttering idiot has no idea of the value of anything.” The merchant gave Iolaus an oily smile and looked at Kleitos again. “This one here. Don’t damage him. If you have to discipline him, don’t break the skin.”

Technically, Iolaus should have felt joy and relief. Looking at the merchant, who had to be the owner of the galley, these words only made his terror worse.

“Yes, Lord Gaios,” Kleitos said grumpily. “So you are selling him again?” “Eukleides is an idiot,” the merchant Gaios said. “Look at him. Look at that hair, like gold. Those blue eyes. I can get a fortune for him in Cairo.” “Cairo?” “Yes, Cairo. Any brothel keeper in the palace quarter will beg me to take his gold.” The merchant tugged at a strand of Iolaus’ hair, ignoring the look of abject horror. “Set course south. This one alone will be worth the journey.”

He let go of Iolaus’ hair and left, but Kleitos didn’t have to push him down again. Iolaus slowly sank to his knees and stared straight ahead.

“Work,” Kleitos said gruffly.

Iolaus picked up the net again, but his fingers were frozen.

“Do as I say,” the overseer growled and towered over him. “I know a hundred ways to let you feel pain without leaving any trace on your soft and precious skin. I can give your perky ass to every single man on this ship if I feel like it.”

It wasn’t the thread that did it but the nudge of an elbow into his arm that tore Iolaus out of his stupor. He forced his fingers to obey him, and watched them tie knots together as if they belonged to someone else.

They were fed and watered on deck that day before being locked away down in the hold again. Until then, Iolaus had somehow managed to keep himself upright and do as he was told, but now, as the gate was locked and the hatch to the deck above fell shut, he broke.

He was long past the point of being ashamed of tears by then, and he didn’t care if he sounded like a lost little boy. He didn’t care about the others and their snide remarks.

“Will you just stop,” Luke snarled at one point, and the way he said it made everyone shut up very quickly. “I want to see your faces upon being told you will be sold into a brothel in Cairo.” “A brothel?” One of the slaves snorted. “Is that all?” “All?” Luke shifted, and Iolaus could feel a warm and large hand rest on his upper arm. “Luke,” he whispered hoarsely. “Let them...” “All?” Luke went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “To be forced to live...” “Warm, dry, well fed and without hard work?” The other slaves snapped back. “Just take it up my ass a few times a day for nothing?” “I see you have no idea what a brothel is, then.” “Why, you little...”

The chains rattled and clanked as Luke quite apparently meant to jump at the other man but couldn’t. “You have no idea about his fate!” He snarled, and his voice had a low, dangerous growling undertone that made the other man shut up. “ Being warm, fed and dry? These places starve their whores so they keep their shape! Is that a fair return for being raped each and every day?” “And they also give them opium to smoke so they don’t care,” someone else said. It was almost gentle, and clearly directed at Iolaus. “Believe me, you won’t care about anything.”

Iolaus couldn’t draw any comfort from those words. He only wished, desperately so, that he had taken his chance to jump overboard. He would be caught in Poseidon’s net by now, but he wouldn’t end his life a whore. Not only would he never see any of his friends again and never be free again, he wouldn’t even own his body anymore.

The hand that had been resting on his arm moved up and towards his back and rested between his shoulders. Long, strong fingers dug into the back of his neck. It was a weak attempt of comfort, but it was a comfort. Just a friendly touch. Just someone who actually cared. Despite himself, Iolaus crawled a little closer.

And then the arm closed around him and pulled, and suddenly he found himself enveloped by two strong and muscular arms, held against a broad, furred chest.

Luke smelled like any man unwashed for too long, strong and sharp and salty, but underlying that was something earthy and musky and feral that made Iolaus think of the fur of a wolf he had once touched on a market.

The hatch opened and Luke quickly pushed him off again. It was Kleitos, and he unlocked the gate, came in and unlocked Iolaus’ ankles.

“Get up,” he said.

Iolaus cast one last desperate glance at Luke. He turned away however before he could see his hazel eyes flash to amber for the duration of a heartbeat.

Iolaus had no choice but to follow, and once up on deck, Kleitos grabbed the chain that bound his hands together and dragged him along until they reached the captain’s cabin. He knocked, and Gaios opened the door.

“Ah, yes. Bring him in.”

Iolaus had no idea why he was here, but he was sure that the table laid with food had nothing to do with it. Kleitos pushed him into a corner and exchanged a few words with Gaios that were too low for Iolaus to understand. But after another nod, he walked over to Iolaus again, hauled him onto his feet and unlocked the manacles around his wrists.

“Now,” Gaios said. “There is only one door, and it leads straight onto the deck. There are several men out there who stand guard and listen for any suspicious sound. So do not get any funny ideas.”

Iolaus shook his head.

“You might think that you could take me with you, but you are only one, and I am armed as well. Plus, a rebellious slave will be keelhauled and I know from experience that Kleitos likes to do it fast, so he can do it several times until you are finally dead. So you better behave.”

Iolaus nodded and lowered his eyes.

Gaios closed the door after ushering Kleitos outside and smiled.

“Now, I am sure you are asking yourself why I summoned you.” Iolaus nodded. “Well, you are neither deaf nor dumb, so you know I have plans to sell you in Cairo.” Iolaus gritted his teeth and nodded again.

“So my dear boy...” Now Gaios stepped closer and took a strand of Iolaus’ hair again to inspect it. “I will do so, but I intend to... sample the wares, if you will.”

So that was it. He should have known. Just a taste of what his life would be. Just get his body taken from him. Completely, and forever.

Gaios was either oblivious or, more likely, completely indifferent to Iolaus and his anguish. He walked over to the table and took an apple, then took a small knife from his belt and carved the apple into slices.

After weeks of nothing but smoked, salted fish and hard tack the sight of a slice of apple made Iolaus drool like a dog. With his eyes glued to the slice of white, crispy, sweet and juicy apple that vanished behind the merchant’s fleshy lips he felt like an animal already.

“You want a piece of apple?” Gaios asked benevolently and held another slice out to him.

Iolaus was trying to hang on to what remained of his pride, but only until the smell of the apple hit his nostrils. Then he nodded and Gaios held the slice out to him so Iolaus could eat it from his fingers. The taste of the apple, tart and sweet and fresh, was better than any orgasm he had ever had. Apparently his facial expression had betrayed him as Gaios chuckled fondly.

“So... I promise you a whole apple. If you are... a good boy.”

Iolaus eyed the table and then he looked back at Gaios. He knew exactly what was happening and what Gaios was trying to do to him. And he also knew that he had little means to resist. And after all, once he was in the hands of a brothel owner, there was no resistance left anyway. This wasn’t about choice. It was letting them break him or going down on his own. He could stop resisting now, or be broken later. Let them break you or break yourself.

A choice between pest and cholera.

It was then that his eyes fell onto the waistcoat that encased the merchant’s prominent stomach, held together by a large, thick brooch. Not gold, he wasn’t wealthy enough by far, but not brass, either. Iolaus’ eyes, trained by being a thief and pickpocket for so long, recognised solid bronze when he saw it.

He eyed the large brooch and the pin that was almost as long as his little finger with a dry throat and a racing heart.

Then he looked up at Gaios and lowered his eyelids.

“I am a very good boy, Master,” he said in a meek voice. “I know how to please a man.” “Do you, now...” Gaios hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Really?” “Yes,” Iolaus said eagerly and nodded, licking his lips. “I have served men before to earn my keep, I know how to please a man. I really do.” “Well...” The fat merchant adjusted his crotch.

Then Iolaus stepped closer, suppressed a shudder and ran his hands slowly down the merchant’s chest.

“I know how to please you, Master,” he whispered, and lowered himself onto his knees.

The slaves sat and waited in silence, and no one spoke.

It was one thing to talk about brothels and the prospect of food and a bed when you were locked up here, and quite another to see one of their ranks being taken away to get used for the master’s pleasure.

Luke had strained against his chains until his wrists were bleeding, and by now he was sitting back against the wall, his hands hanging limply down.

All eyes wandered towards the hatch as it opened, and they all silently stared at Iolaus who was dragged along again by Kleitos. He unlocked the gate, pushed Iolaus down and shackled him against the wall.

“My turn next,” he said with an unpleasant grin and left them again.

Iolaus sat still and didn’t move until well after the hatch had closed again. Then he slowly bent forward as if he meant to heave, but instead he just opened his mouth and something large and heavy hit the wooden boards with a dull clatter.

He took a few deep breaths, fighting the urge to hurl the contents of his stomach as far away as he could, but managed to keep himself together. The heaving subsided and he reached out and took the brooch.

“Luke,” he whispered. “Yes.”

He shuffled closer, and he could see Luke’s eyes shine in the darkness when realisation sunk in.

It wasn’t the best of tools. It had the wrong shape and not really the right size, and it was awkward to use because he couldn’t remove the pin from the ungainly brooch. It wasn’t iron either, and since bronze is softer than iron he had to be very careful as he had to pick more than one lock to free Luke from his shackles.

He started on Luke’s left ankle. In addition to the less than optimal tool he was also hampered by his own shackles, and a few times he was close to breaking the pin, and his face was wet with sweat when the lock finally gave.

Click

A gasp of relief escaped both him and Luke and they shuffled around so Iolaus could reach his right ankle too.

The angle was more difficult and the lock almost jammed. Only a lot of careful wriggling got the pin loose again. Then it caught and Iolaus held his breath.

Click

Luke had quickly shaken the manacles off and now held out his hands to him.

This should be easier; the locks were smaller and Luke’s wrists easier to reach.

He inserted the pin and pushed. The lock refused to give. He pushed a bit harder, and nothing happened. He took the pin out again and wiped his hand on the sparse fabric of his loincloth. He inserted it again and it got stuck.

“Slow,” Luke whispered. “Take a few breaths and calm down.”

Iolaus did so and took a few very deep breaths.

Then he took the brooch in a different angle and pulled, infinitely slow, carefully and with bated breath to keep his fingers steady. The pin came free, and his breath escaped him in a huff. He inserted it again.

Click

“Last one,” Luke whispered. “Do not let your nerves get the better of you.”

Iolaus nodded and took several more deep breaths to calm himself. He inserted the pin. But he realised at that moment that after fighting against iron for so long, the bronze pin was beginning to give. It was already a little bit bent. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead and he had to repeatedly blink it out of his eyes.

The pin got stuck again, and it bent further when Iolaus tried to wriggle it free.

“Not now,” he whispered and tears forced themselves out of his eyes. “Not now... please, not now...” “Calm,” Luke whispered back and reached out to brush a few locks of hair from Iolaus’ cheeks. “Calm.”

Iolaus went still and tried to calm his breathing. Tried to stop thinking. No thinking. His fingers knew their job. His fingers didn’t know this was his last chance. So he closed his eyes and let his instincts take over.

The pin bent. It wedged itself a bit more. It bent. It slipped....

Click

He dropped the brooch with a sob and fell forward, barely catching himself on his hands. Next to him, Luke jumped up with a triumphant growl.

“So,” one of the other slaves said in a shaky voice. “What now? What are you going to do? How are you going to free us?”

Luke had just stepped free of the tattered loincloth and looked back over his shoulder. His eyes were gleaming in the darkness.

“Black Magic,” he said. “I am a skin changer.”

In the darkness, Iolaus could hardly see anything. Luke’s form was barely outlined against the wan moonlight outside, and he could hear his growls and just could see how his outline bent over and changed its shape. Into what, he couldn’t say.

All of them jumped and almost screamed when whatever creature was now there in Luke’s place threw itself against the gate with a bellow. Metal groaned and screeched. He did it again, and again. The gate began to bulge outward, but they could also hear shouts of alarm coming from above.

The creature threw itself one last time at the gate and it finally broke in the hinges and the dark creature pushed it aside.

Alerted by the noise the sailors up on deck came running towards the hatch, but now the beast stood poised and ready. As soon as it opened the creature jumped and tore the first man’s throat out as it pushed through the hatch.

The slaves down in the hull huddled back in fear. They were chained to the walls in a confined space, and there was a monster out there. And it was after blood. None of them, Iolaus included, had any idea if there was enough of the man left inside the mind of the monster to keep it from killing them all.

A high-pitched scream of terror up on deck was cut short very abruptly and very finally. There were more than a dozen sailors up there, all of them armed, but all they could hear down here were screams. That, and the growls and howls of the beast. It was beyond imagination how terrible the creature had to be to take out so many armed men just like that.

Screams and footsteps and growls. And then... silence.

The hatch opened again and Luke hurried down the ladder, the overseer’s key ring in one hand and a burning torch in the other.

After hanging the torch into a ring on the wall he unchained them, one by one, and the men got up and stared at their bare wrists and ankles with either tears streaming down their cheeks or laughing in incredulous joy, mostly both.

They crawled up the ladder, cautiously and carefully, and they stood there not knowing what to say or to think. Dead, mangled bodies scattered the deck and there was blood everywhere.

“By the gods,” one of them finally whispered. “What kind of monster did this?” “The one that saved us all!” Iolaus snapped at him. “We were never in any danger!” “You were,” Luke said and knelt down next to one of the dead sailors to inspect his gear. “You were in grave danger.” “But not from you,” Iolaus replied. Luke looked up with a smile. “No. Not from me.”

None of the thirty-two slaves had anything more than a tattered loincloth, and there were only fourteen sailors. Some of them had spare shirts or breeches however, and those clothes were distributed as fairly as possible. But what the ship had was cloth and sewing tools, and so they could all cover themselves decently again, even if it wasn’t right now.

Iolaus, now wearing rough, homespun breeches but still barefoot and shirtless, had looked at the various dead sailors in distaste. It wasn’t so much the dead bodies that bothered him, nor were it the wounds that bespoke of their gruesome deaths. But he had hated those men when they were still alive. And while he normally hated killing, right now he was happy they were dead.

He found Kleitos, his chest torn open and his heart ripped out. Personally, Iolaus thought that he should have been strangled with his whip. He gave the dead body a nudge with his foot and hoped he would burn in Hades.

In the end, he realised that he hadn’t seen Gaios among the dead.

“He locked and barricaded himself into the cabin,” Luke said when he asked. “I wanted to leave him to you.”

Iolaus looked at the locked door for a long moment. But nothing he could do to Gaios would give anything of that back what he had taken. His death wouldn’t undo anything.

“Whoever wants to kill him...” Iolaus looked over his shoulder. “I won’t cry when he’s dead, but I don’t like killing. It won’t make a difference. It undoes nothing.”

One of the men, the one with the scarred back, now picked up a sword from the hand of a dead sailor and headed purposefully for the cabin. He hammered his fist on the door.

“Lord Gaios!” He yelled. “The beast is gone!”

Seconds later the door got unlocked and the moment it opened a crack, the man pushed inside and the scream of terror was cut off before it had fully emerged.

In grim satisfaction the former slaves then tossed the bodies of their former tormentors overboard and gathered together to plan how to proceed. Quite a few of the men were sailors themselves, captured and then sold into slavery by pirates, and so they would be able to head home to Greece.

“You,” the scarred man then said to Iolaus. “What was that thing you used to pick his locks?” “A brooch.” Iolaus crossed his arms. “A brooch?” The other man laughed and shook his head. “How on earth did you get that?”

Iolaus took a deep breath. “You know,” he said. “He wanted to sample the wares, as he said. He offered me an apple as reward, too. And then I saw the brooch on his waistcoat.” “And how did you get it?” “I’ve been living as a thief and pickpocket for most of my childhood,” Iolaus replied. “But...” “When I saw it I knew that was my only chance,” Iolaus went on, somewhat sharply. “So I just faced him and offered to... instead of taking it up my ass, I offered to take him into my mouth, so I could get close enough to take it.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then the scarred man bowed his head. “And your sacrifice has saved us all.”

Iolaus bit his lips, but then he nodded.

There was hardly any wind that night so they would have to go back to the oars, or some of them at least. But this time, they were doing it for themselves, and to get home. One of the sailors now found Gaios’s navigation equipment and they set course north-east towards the coast of Greece.

They made landfall at the first strip of coast they saw since they could hardly sail into a harbour like this, just a ragtag bunch of former slaves, clearly marked by their scarred wrists, on a merchant’s galley, and no captain to speak of.

The group of sailors set sail again after some of them had left the ship to sail on for Corinth, and the group now found the nearest road.

It was a two day’s march to Athens.

In their relief and joy they joked about each other; how they all looked like storks as they had become so accustomed to the weight of the manacles that they were all lifting their feet ridiculously high as they walked.

But then, shortly after noon on the second day, the walls of Athens came into view, and as one they went still, some of them crying in silent joy, Iolaus included.

After one last round of farewells the group of former slaves finally parted, all of them eager to make their way home, either because they lived in or close to Athens or because they had to hit the roads leading there.

Luke and Iolaus stayed together. They walked towards the lower marketplace, where Iolaus had met the people who had made him drunk enough they had been able to sell him. Maybe they had even slipped something into his drink. He had no idea how long he had been gone, but he was sure that Hercules and Jason were no longer around.

On their way there he deftly nicked three purses, and while Luke shot him some stern looks – very stern due to his impressive eyebrows – he didn’t say anything as he was fully aware that they needed money to eat and clothe themselves properly.

They bought used clothes at one stall and shoes at another. They also bought some simple pilaf with cooked peas and diced, cooked eggs which they ate very cautiously, as they had been half-starved for so long and had only eaten hard tack and smoked, dried fish. It tasted like manna and made both of them almost cry with pleasure.

Then they looked at each other and laughed.

Their laughter ebbed off and died when their eyes met. Luke was the first to look away and he cleared his throat before asking what they should do now.

“One thing,” Iolaus said and strode forward with the air of someone who had a clear purpose. “I will go to the nearest bathhouse and get properly clean again.” “You know, that sounds like the best idea I have heard in a long time.”

The nearest bathhouse was not so far away and Iolaus booked a whole tub in a separate room. They didn’t have the means to book two, but Luke assured him he didn’t mind sharing.

Having been in so close proximity to each other, living, eating, sleeping and even taking care of bodily functions cheek to jowl for so long a time, they were in no way uncomfortable in each other’s presence when naked. So they just undressed and Iolaus reached for a bucket and the soap and asked Luke if he should wash his hair.

Since Luke was taller by a good bit he turned around and knelt down, and Iolaus lathered the soap into the thick, dark, curly mane. Then he rinsed the soap out by the means of pouring a bucket of water over Luke’s head, and after that they exchanged positions for Luke to return the favour.

Then Iolaus took great pleasure to use the shaving equipment he had asked for to get rid of the terrible mat of hair on his face. Clean and shaven, he finally felt like himself again.

Sliding into the tub filled with hot water had both men moan ecstatically. For a moment they just sat there and soaked up the warmth, letting it seep into muscles that hadn’t been allowed to relax for so long, and they closed their eyes in bliss.

They hardly moved for a long time, but then Luke shifted, and their thighs brushed. Both men went very still at that sensation.

“Apologies,” Luke said softly and made an attempt to move away. “What?” Iolaus opened his eyes with a smile. “I cannot imagine you like to be touched right now.”

Iolaus’ smile widened. “I don’t mind. Not the touching bit. It’s who’s doing the touching, but I’ve always been a bit choosy about that.” Luke managed a smile. “But... I don’t mind you. At all.”

The two looked at each other.

“You clean up very nicely,” Iolaus said in an attempt to break the suddenly heavy silence. “You are beautiful,” Luke all but blurted out, and then looked as if he wanted nothing more than to stuff the words back into his mouth.

For a moment Iolaus wanted to feel that the blunder was funny, but could only think it endearing. And looking at him now, he realised he felt the same. Luke was a beautiful man, in a feral way. He wondered what the mane of curls would feel like when dry, and if the locks were as springy as they looked.

The hazel eyes were resting on him with a calm and slightly questioning glance. Beautiful eyes.

Neither of them made a conscious decision about closing his eyes and leaning forward.

Their lips touched in a shy, hesitant kiss, and again, soft and almost questioning. Then Iolaus lifted his hand and rested the tips of his fingers on Luke’s cheek, and one of Luke’s hands wandered up his arm to come to rest at the back of his neck. It stayed there for a moment, and Iolaus didn’t resist when that hand urged his head a little forward.

They kissed again, bolder this time, and with the next one, they opened their lips to each other. Iolaus ran one hand down the broad and furred chest as Luke pulled him closer, and the heat between them intensified, their breath mingling with soft, urgent moans.

They continued to kiss for a while, but their breaths came increasingly faster now and their hands trailed across each other’s bodies in firmer, more demanding touches.

Then Iolaus broke the kiss with a small gasp and straddled Luke’s thighs in one swift motion, making the water slosh gently around them. Slinging his arms around Luke’s neck he rested his forehead against the taller man’s, and after a moment, the latter unfroze and closed his arms around Iolaus in turn.

“This isn’t a bad thing where you come from?” Iolaus asked a little breathlessly. “No,” Luke replied with a soft smile and shook his head. “Good,” Iolaus said with a smile, and kissed him again.

With their bodies now touching as well their kisses quickly turned to passionate and as Iolaus moved closer, turned to hungry and almost needy. Hands were more groping now than roaming, fingers digging into skin, and with increasingly heavy moans they moved their bodies closer together so their cocks finally touched. Then Luke moved one hand down Iolaus’ back and across his hips to close it around both their cocks, and Iolaus broke the kiss and dropped his head onto Luke’s shoulder with a moan.

“Your hand,” Luke whispered, his lips grazing Iolaus’ ear, the hot breath grazing his cheek.

Iolaus nodded and moved one of his hands down to join Luke’s. It increased the tightness and friction and they both moved now, thrusting into their joined hands with urgent gasps and moans interspersed with hungry kisses.

They reached the point of no return almost at the same time and they came almost together too, Iolaus only a single heartbeat after Luke, and the white clouds billowed up and mingled in the water between them.

Their foreheads resting against each other they were breathing heavily with their eyes closed, until Iolaus suddenly said: “I think it’s time we get out of the water.”

They looked up and at each other, then burst out into shaky, joyful laughter. After sharing another kiss they climbed out of the tub, and rinsed off with another bucket of water.

They dried each other, hands moving gently across each other’s bodies, and after dressing they left the bathhouse again, walking so close their shoulders touched.

On their way to the inn where Iolaus had stayed that fateful day so long ago – how long he couldn’t even say – he nicked another two purses so they could book themselves a room for the night and an evening meal together with a breakfast. It wasn’t until after they had eaten and were up in their room in the bed together that they finally started talking.

Iolaus told him about the day he got captured, and the men who had made him drunk, or had maybe even drugged him. He also told him about his friends and the academy and that he had to go back there.

“And what about you?” Iolaus asked then. “You are not from here by the way you talk.” “No,” Luke answered slowly. “I am not. I am from far, far away...” He faltered. “And I cannot get home. When I was captured I lost... they took the artefact I need to return to... my realm, you could call it.”

Iolaus had no idea what to say. In the end, he could only ask: “So you will never be able to go home again?” “I do not know,” Luke replied. “Maybe I can find it again. Until then, I am stuck here.” “With me.” Iolaus said in an attempt to lighten the mood. It worked, and Luke’s dark and fierce scowl turned into as smile. “I could have done worse, you know.”

The smile softened, and he pulled Iolaus close into a kiss. They fell asleep in a tight embrace.

To be woken up with the door exploding into their room.

“IOLAUS!”

Iolaus shot upright and for a heartbeat he had no idea if he was still dreaming. Then Hercules had reached the bed and pulled him into an embrace as if he weighed nothing.

“Iolaus...” He whispered in a shaky voice. “By all the gods...” “Hercules...” Iolaus whispered back. “Gods, Iolaus... where have you been? Where have you been all the time? I just kept running to Athena’s shrine asking for a sign and then she suddenly tells me you’re on your way to where we lost you and…oh Iolaus!”

He almost squeezed all breath out of him until finally, almost unwillingly, Hercules let go. Only then did they noticed Jason who was staring at the bed, his swords extended before him.

“Iolaus...” He said in a low voice. “What is that?”

Iolaus followed his gaze and saw Luke who was growling at Jason, his eyes a bright amber and his canines long and sharp.

“That is Luke,” Iolaus said firmly and stepped between Luke and Jason’s blades. “And whatever else he is, he is also the one who saved me and brought me home.”

Jason lowered his blades again and after a moment, shoved them back into their sheaths on his back. Luke slowly relaxed as well; his canines shrunk back into his mouth and his eyes turned back to hazel.

“Iolaus...” Hercules closed both hands around his friend’s shoulders again. “Where have you been all that time?” “How long is... all that time?” Iolaus asked cautiously. “The better part of three months.” Hercules shook his head and wiped his eyes. “We found out that you had been drinking with strangers and that the men had dragged you away, and then the next day we found your clothes in one of the stalls in the marketplace...” He wiped his eyes again. “And we tried to find out anything else, but you were just... gone…”

“They sold me as a galley slave,” Iolaus said in a low voice. “I’ve been pulling oars until we managed to escape.” “A galley slave?” Hercules took one of his hands and looked at the heavy calluses on his palms. “I will kill them all.” “You’re too late,” Iolaus replied. “Luke already did that.”

Hercules looked up at Luke and took a deep breath. “I’m forever in your debt for saving my best friend. He is as close as a brother to me.” Luke nodded. “If I can repay you in any way...” “Maybe,” Luke said cautiously. “In what way?”

“Guys...” Iolaus interrupted them cautiously. “Can we discuss this... after breakfast, maybe?” “Iolaus...” Hercules shook his head with an affectionate if exasperated smile. “What? I’ve been living on smoked herring and hard tack for months!” “Can’t have that,” Jason said and slapped his back. “Let’s eat, and then we head home.”

“Home...” Iolaus whispered.

But then he blinked and looked at Luke who had left the bed and was staring out of the window as he buckled his belt. “

Luke,” he said softly and walked to his side. “I will not leave you.” “But you have a home here.” “It can be your home.” Luke turned around and raised his eyebrows. “Or at least until you find your way home.”

“We can’t just drag him into the academy,” Hercules said. “Chairon won’t be happy.” “I don’t care,” Iolaus said. “I go where he goes.” “Iolaus,” Luke began, but Iolaus spun around. “I owe you my life, and more than that. You kept me sane and enabled me to hold on to my will to survive. I will not abandon you. We will see you home, Luke.”

They looked at each other, hazel eyes into sapphire ones, and after a moment Luke smiled and closed his arms around Iolaus’ midriff.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Hercules and Jason exchanged a look that was more than baffled as the two leaned in towards each other, oblivious of anything else.

“Uhm... right,” Hercules said brightly and Luke and Iolaus jumped away from each other. “Breakfast and... ah... then we talk particulars.”

Luke and Iolaus looked at each other and nodded, then looked at Hercules and nodded again.

They left Athens before noon that day and headed north.

“But are you really sure it is a good idea to have Luke in the academy?” Jason asked. “He is a skin changer.” “So?” Iolaus bit into a peach he had plucked from a tree they had passed not so long ago. He would never in his life be able to eat another apple. “He turns into a huge wolf-like beast,” Jason went on, in the tone one uses to explain things to a child or a half-wit. “And Chairon is half horse.” “I don’t eat horses,” Luke said. “They taste dreadful.”

Three heads snapped around.

Luke hastily lifted his arms in defence. “Don’t tell him I said that!”

For a second all four of them just stared, then they burst out laughing.

#WinterFRE2017 #Lakritzwolf's writing #young iolaus #luke garroway

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pencil-or-ink-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Nereid and the Seachild

Day Two

The boy woke early the next morning, soaked to the bone, the pain in his ankle and side amplified from the cold and the wet. Shivering, he stood and limped his way back through the city, searching at every turn for a glimpse of the sea to guide him. As he grew close, he could hear the sound of bells from the docks, and he used that to lead his way like the point of a compass.

The bar was an old wooden structure that had stood in that location for over a century. The owner sometimes spoke of the grandeur of its early life, how his great-grandfather had created a warm and welcome atmosphere for all the rowdy sailors returning from long voyages and aching for a stiff drink, their pockets full of coin quickly burning a hole in the thin cloth.

Now, the wood was warped from a hundred years of saltwater wind and heavy rainfall. This close to the docks, none of the buildings fared well for long. And where it had once been a bustling first stop for many returning sailors, it was now mostly frequented by anyone who couldn’t afford the better bars that could be found both up and down the block.

Still, the boy looked on the place as a safe haven, the only real port he had in his messy life, and when he hobbled up to the groaning structure, he sighed in relief, pressing his hand against the wood, still saturated from last night’s storm, to reassure himself he wasn’t simply hallucinating.

The winds were beginning to pick up again, icy rain battering his face, so he settled himself beside the back entrance, sitting on an upturned bucket left out for the smokers on break, and hunkered down for three hours of waiting before the owner arrived and let him in. He slept sporadically, having slept very poorly the night before between his throbbing side, the sharp pains in his ankle, and the awful nightmares.

Occasionally something would pull him from his dreams and he’d look around – a particularly strong gust; shouting from the street; the bugle call announcing the arrival of The Commodore out in the port – but he always fell back asleep quickly. Once, he thought he saw the woman standing over him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, but when he looked again there was nothing there.

It must have been a dream.

Finally, a set of heavy footsteps dragged him from the last of his sleep, and he stood up and straightened his clothes as the owner pulled his keys from his pocket and nodded once at the boy. “You gonna be falling over again tonight, or are you gonna be alright?” the owner asked, and then, remembering the boy didn’t speak, he repeated only the last question: “You gonna be alright?”

The boy nodded quickly, and the owner grunted. “Well good. Tonight’s set to be a busy one. Got the new ship that just came in, so I expect you to be at the top of your game.” He pushed in the door and ushered the boy in first, quickly locking it up behind them.

There was a coat closet in the manager’s office. The owner had always been kind enough to allow the boy to keep his most important belongings hidden away there. He wouldn’t let the boy sleep in the bar at night, but the boy could store his clothes, his spare money, whatever he needed. He changed quickly in the bathroom, using soap and water to clean himself before getting right to work, pulling down chairs and bar stools and relining trash cans that had lain empty all night.

Silently, the owner and the boy went about their own business, each focused on their opening tasks. As the other employees trickled in, the boy gained the courage to put his coat in its spot in the back of the break room, beside the vending machine. As quickly as he slipped in, he slipped out again.

The ancient machine made him even more nervous, now. He didn’t want to be alone with it.

~*~

Every night, the boy worked for the bar from when it opened at one in the afternoon to when it closed at three in the evening. The extra-long shift made up for the fact that the owner paid him half what he paid the other employees. “Look, kid, there’s no way you’re legal. I could get in a lot of trouble hiring you like this. If anybody found out, I could lose my license. I’ll pay you under the table, but I get half your paycheck – you know, for all the risk I’m taking. You’ll get four bucks an hour. But, if you’re good, I’ll stack up your hours. It’ll even out. You’ll be fine.”

It seemed like a fair enough deal. The boy kept his head down and worked hard. He didn’t notice when the woman came in again, her long legs making slow, even strides down the concrete steps and sweeping across the cramped floor like a dancer. He didn’t notice as she settled into the same spot at the bar, sipping on another whiskey and coke as she watched him, this time with a look of finality in her eyes. She had made her decision.

The boy didn’t notice woman at all, until a drunk customer knocked into him as he was pushing his way through the crowd with a broom, heading for a mess at the table nearest the bathrooms. The customer laughed uproariously and weaved his way to the bar, but the woman caught the boy in her hands and helped right him. He came eye to eye with the wild horse fish on the woman’s arm, and slowly he lifted his gaze to her face. For a moment, the world stopped. He could hear the sounds of the ocean in his head, and her dark eyes seemed to hold the ferocity of a tumultuous sea.

The bartender’s voice broke through the cresting waves in his mind. “Hey, kid! You alright?”

He came to, looking up at the bartender before quickly nodding and pulling away. He tucked his head and got back to work, but the rest of the night he could feel her eyes on him. Every time he looked, there she was, sitting at that bar and watching him with the same intensity.

She stayed the entire night, and between her and the vending machine on his breaks, the boy barely got a moment to calm his mind and breathe. Somehow, he made it through his shift without the owner threatening to send him home, and when it was finally closing time and the woman was gone, leaving him alone with the bartender, the boy was able to finish his tasks in peace.

“Where are you going tonight?” the bartender asked when the boy was finally done, and the mop and broom were locked away in their closet once more. The boy shrugged by way of answer and disappeared down the hallway. He could hear the soft buzz of electricity running through the vending machine, and for a long moment he stood in the doorway, looking up at it and wishing he hadn’t left his coat in there.

It took him too long to garner the courage to rush in and grab it, but when he turned to run out again he nearly ran head first into the bartender, who was suddenly blocking the doorway.

The boy sucked in his breath, his heart jumping in his chest. He shot a quick look at the vending machine, his eyes wide, before turning back to the bartender’s tall form taking up the entire opening. He stepped back.

“Does it spook you?” the bartender asked, motioning with his head toward the unnerving object in the corner. The boy gave no answer, and the bartender sighed. “What’s your name, kid? How old are you? Where do you live? How did you end up in this job?”

The boy opened his mouth to speak, his lips forming the words, I don’t know…, but no sound came from his throat and he felt the panic rise through his body, up his limbs, through his throbbing ankle and aching side. Finally, the bartender nodded and stepped out of the boy’s way. After one more glance back at the vending machine, the boy slipped out of the room, giving the bartender a wide berth before taking the employee exit and running into the night, his heart racing in his chest.

He stopped against the wall of the building next door, leaning over and bracing with one hand against the bricks, his free hand covering his ribs. He breathed deeply, working the stress of being cornered by the bartender out of his system. Overhead, the black sky poured rain and hail onto him, and the wind picked up. His heart sank; another sleepless night awaited him, and tomorrow, he would wake with an empty stomach and another day yet to go before the owner paid him his share. The boy collapsed to his knees, the water soaking through his thin pant legs, and for a moment he let the panic rush over his body again. He couldn’t tread this, couldn’t stay afloat in his own life anymore, and he wasn’t sure where to turn for help.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and he jumped, looking up. The woman was crouching down beside him. She smelled of the ocean, of seaweed and brine, and he sniffed in hard and let her help him to his feet. Her hand brushed the wet hair from his face, and when he trembled from the cold and the uncertainty in his bones she simply nodded and pulled him into her chest, wrapping her arms around his back and embracing him.

At first, he didn’t know what to do with the motion. He hadn’t been held like this in longer than he could remember. Slowly, slowly, he lifted his hands to her sides, still tense and unsure. But the longer the woman held him, the calmer he felt, the easier it was for him to slip his arms around her back and hold her tightly in return.

This felt safe, and that wasn’t a feeling he had very often.

When she pulled away, it was too soon. He didn’t want to let go. But he tucked his arms around himself and looked at the ground, ducking his head and examining his feet carefully, focused on his old, grayish shoes with the holes that let the water in and kept him freezing on nights like this.

“Come on, then,” the woman said gently, and he looked up in time to catch her motion for him to follow. Swallowing hard and looking around, the boy obeyed.

~*~

They trailed through the winding backroads along the waterfront, away from the main nightlife filled with restaurants, bars, tattoo parlors, and convenience stores. They passed through the canneries, and up into the beachfront district. The winds swirled around them, but the gusts themselves never seemed to touch him; so long as he stayed close by her side, he could handle the cold.

The woman stopped at an old apartment complex, with peeling paint and wood warped from thirty years beside the saltwater, bearing the brunt of the storms that rolled in off the coast. It was pressed against the sea, its far edge touching the beach, with only a thin strip of land between it and the water. It lacked even the minimal protection from the sea the bar enjoyed, being set back from the docks by a few blocks of buildings.

She unlocked a door and led him up a steep, narrow staircase, to a creaking top floor. The wallpaper was peeling inside the dim hallway, the flowering pattern yellowed with time, and water damage seeped through the ceiling. The woman tugged lightly on his shirt, motioning him through a narrow doorway.

The woman lived in a large, comfortable studio, decorated with driftwood tied carefully to the walls and glass bowls and vases full of sea glass and shiny, polished stones. There was a main room with an enormous bed, sectioned off from everything else with light, gauze-like tapestries that hung from the ceiling, and to the side was a small bathroom. A raised platform in the distance held a kitchen that overlooked the beach. It was dark, but he could still make out the waves cresting on the sand as lightning struck and lit up the night sky.

He jerked back, hitting the wall behind him, his heart thumping in his chest. A roll of thunder came through and shook his bones, and his breathing grew unsteady.

The woman stopped halfway from the door to the kitchen, turning to face him. “It’s alright,” she said. “It can’t hurt you tonight. This room will protect you. Come in; take a seat. I’ll make us some dinner.”

Hesitantly, the boy pushed himself away from the wall. There was a small card table beside kitchen’s raised platform, with two folding wooden chairs, and he took a seat in one of the chairs and watched the woman as she moved about the elongated space with the strength and flexibility of a dancer, or perhaps a swimmer. He was entranced with her, his eyes unable to look away as she pulled two fish from a small icebox and prepared them on the counter with adept knife cuts. Each of these was pan fried with a few pinches of seasoning and some ripe, cut lemons. While the fish cooked itself in the pan, she deftly cut up vegetables, tossing them together for a quick salad. It took no more than fifteen minutes for everything to go from the ice box to the table, and the boy dug in greedily, his grateful stomach growling its impatience. A basket of flatbread was placed on the table between them, and the boy ate until his stomach was full to bursting, that sick, full feeling overtaking him a second time.

There was no more conversation between him and the woman. She snuffed out all of the lights and helped the boy to his feet, bringing his sore body to the bed and pulling off his coat, shoes, and socks. She tucked him in, stroking his hair and leaning over to kiss his forehead. “Sleep, and dream, child of the sea,” she whispered.

The familiar words jerked him awake, but she pushed him down lightly when he sat up, and soon the cocoon of warmth overtook him, and he drifted into an easy sleep. That night, his dark, surreal nightmares were replaced with vivid images of a group of fifty beautiful young women, swimming through the crystal blue waters of a distant land, riding steeds that were a mix of horse and fish beneath the watchful gaze of a shapeshifting figure who, at one point, seemed to turn to smile at the boy. Rest well, seachild.

#writing #fiction #short story #fairy tale #fairy tale retelling #little mermaid #nereid #greek mythology #fey

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