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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 · 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 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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pencil-or-ink-blog · 7 years ago

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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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