#You fear the wolves but you fear the man who has been keeping you captive more | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

copperbora · 1 year ago

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Ho boy.

Here's the thing - actual wolf scientists (like Dr. L. David Mech himself,) are saying "please don't call them alpha/beta/omega as those terms have been debunked." It doesn't 'woobify' (I assume you mean anthropomorphize) wolves to say that their families are much like ours. They are generally led by a mom and a dad (or breeding female and breeding male, if you prefer,) with the rest of the pack made up by siblings/littermates of the main mated pair, pups and older family (grandpa or grandma may even be present although not usually due to dispersal.) And just like human families some of them are screwed up and murder happens.

The reason the term 'alpha' is so bothersome and misleading is because it makes some people believe that wolves have military societies, like the alpha wolf is some cold heartless general or something who fought his way to the top, beating the crap out of every other wolf to get there then ruling their pack and keeping their position at the top of it through fear, ruling with an iron paw. In truth, wolves care about each other - they look after their injured/elderly, instruct their pups how to hunt (wolves possess generational knowledge which is evidence of their intelligence,) play together, groom, and they have even been known to mourn their dead. And yes sometimes they kill each other and are extremely territorial because life is hard and they only have finite super dangerous prey on their pretty finite land which can only be as large as that family of wolves can defend. You can't afford some stranger poking in your pantry.

And yeah, I'd kill my sister too if she was coming to kill my babies, that's what good moms do.

Photo by Blair Dudeck.

Another good example of wolf family structure and dynamics is in the Netflix documentary Island of the Sea Wolves, which I thoroughly recommend watching. It has a similar tale of two mama wolves but it was filmed on British Columbia's Vancouver Island which boasts a genetically distinct subspecies of C. lupus, the sea wolf.

Again, the term 'alpha wolf' has negative connotations because it makes them seem militant and to some people who hate wolves, reinforces that these animals are Other, or Not Like Us, not deserving of our sympathy or protection. It is important to point out how wolf families are like human families because this makes them more sympathetic to the masses, who instead might think "Hey maybe we shouldn't kill these wild doggos, they're really not doing any harm and are in fact highly beneficial to the environment."

The terms alpha, beta, omega sound like army ranks and are from outdated research of captive wolves - which means not relevant to wild ones. Animals behave differently in captivity than they do in the wild, away from human interference.

Another interesting account of wolf culture is the wonderful old book In the Shadow of a Rainbow by Robert Franklin Leslie which tells the remarkable story of a very large wolf pack that lived before wolves got super persecuted in British Columbia from the eyes of an indigenous man who managed to befriend its leader. It gives a heartwrenching account of the culture that wolves once had - back in the days when very big complex packs with multiple breeding pairs did still exist in places other than Yellowstone. (In general, our environment is no longer vibrant enough to support the great populations of prey needed to support such packs.) To quote wolf expert Oliver Starr, it's like wolves are a civilization that suffered genocide. And wolves did and still are suffering literal genocide.

To me, it sounds like you are defending these outdated 'rank' terms because you just really like them. That's okay that you like them - I used to really like them too - but these terms are falling out of scientific use because they unfortunately fuel/spread innaccurate perceptions of wolves. Just look at the (very fictional*) animated movie series Alpha & Omega, where the alpha wolves are portrayed almost as a ruling class with the omegas being dumb hippies. (Omega wolves don't exist, by the way.) Wolf scientists don't like these terms for the same reason why shark scientists no longer like the name 'great white shark,' instead simply calling those animals 'white sharks.' Removing the 'great' from the common species name drops the negative connotation brought on by Jaws (as well as Discovery's blasphemous trashfire Shark Week,) and makes white sharks seem less scary. (And they should be perceived this way because even mighty white sharks pose extremely little risk to humans.)

So please stop using the term 'alpha' - it hurts real wild wolves. There is a growing trend in science to recognize the ways that some animals are like us. For the longest time the scientific community was extremely against anthropomorphizing animals and indeed there is still an element of wrongness to anthropomorphizing animals, particularly when it comes to domesticated species like dogs (please let your chihuahua walk on its own four paws,) but there is also a wrongness to ignoring the miriad ways that some animal species are legitemately very much like us. Recognizing these things that these imperilled wild creatures share in common with us humanizes them, which helps more people like them and speak up against those barbaric humans who still think that the only good wolf is a dead one, that they like to, quote, "smoke a pack a day."

*Precious few fictional depictions of wolves have any basis whatsoever in what these animals are actually like. Most are wildly inaccurate with the so-called 'wolves' bearing very little resemblance in appearance or behaviour to real wolves.

Art by me, circa 2022.

So in the past few years I’ve seen so many videos / posts that are like:

“Actually wolves don’t have hierarchies! They live in family groups where the ‘alphas’ are mom and dad and the other wolves are their CHILDREN and offer their respect willingly! :D”

and I just have to say

how dare you try to make normative nuclear families out of wolves

Yes, a lot of the old “nature red in tooth and claw” stuff about wolves is nonsense. (Like anything from Jack London.) And anything ‘alpha’ you see sleazy men trying to relate to dating (yikes!) is especially nonsense.

But wolves are complex social creatures and they create complex social structures. Just as you can’t say “THIS is the way human society is structured. Just THIS single way and no other”, so too there is no single form for a wolf pack.

Some packs are a mom wolf and a dad wolf and their wolf children. Others are two small ragged packs that combine to form a large pack. Others are packs where a lone wolf joins and eventually becomes a leader. Others are packs where a grown child-wolf has pushed their parent out of the leadership role.

Speaking of the latter, let’s look at the tale of Wolf 40 and Wolf 42.

Wolf 40, Wolf 41, and Wolf 42 were wild Yellowstone wolves, daughters of the alphas. Their father was illegally killed by hunters and shortly after ambitious Wolf 40 ousted her mother, driving her out of the pack. Wolf 21 became the new alpha male, and 40′s mate.

Wolves have personalities, and Wolf 40′s personality was “volatile”. Imagine Scar from The Lion King combined with the boss from Office Space, and you have Wolf 40. She habitually bullied the other female wolves, attacking them until they expressed abject submission. And the wolves that got the worst of it were her sisters, Wolves 41 and 42.

Wolf 41 got tired of the bullying and left. Wolf 42 remained, perhaps because she was close to Wolf 21, the alpha male. Despite that, Wolf 21 did not interfere when his mate harassed Wolf 42.

Unlike 40, Wolf 42 got along well with the other female wolves, spending time grooming them and relaxing with them. Wolf 40 could have followed her sister’s example and built up positive social bonds. But she didn’t.

One day, Wolf 40 went out on an important task. She was going to kill another litter of her sister’s pups–having done the same in two previous years. This isn’t uncommon wolf behavior (but is not universal, as we will see.) Typically only the alphas breed.

However, Wolf 40 never returned from her important task because Wolf 42–who previously had submitted to her alpha and sister, who had allowed the killing of two previous litters of pups–had had enough. She fought back.

And the other female wolves jumped to aid her.

Collectively, they killed Wolf 40. Because “alpha” isn’t a magic cloak of protection, it doesn’t even mean “strongest wolf”, it’s just a job title.

The next day Wolf 42 carried her pups, one by one, to her sister’s den. She set her children among the pups of her dead sister and raised both litters together. And when another wolf in the pack had pups, Wolf 42 carried them to the den to be communally raised as well. She was the alpha female now and she made the rules, and the first rule was “we don’t hurt pups here.”

As for Wolf 21, he became the mate of Wolf 42. Maybe he understood that Wolf 40 had been riding for a fall.

As alpha female, Wolf 42 continued to be supportive and kind towards the other pack members. Wolves who had been nervous wrecks under Wolf 40 began to relax and come into their own; one of the former omega wolves gained self-confidence and became one of the best hunters.

“Alpha”, for wolves, just means leader. They might be good leaders, whom you respect, or they might be bad leaders, who fill you with dread. They might be your parents, or they might not. Even if they are your mother or father, wolves don’t contextualize those relationships the same way humans do.

But one thing wolves have in common with humans is that they have individual personalities and experiences, and their actions derive from those. There is no “typical wolf pack.” And I think that’s beautiful.

If you want to learn more about wild wolf dynamics, I recommend reading the annual Yellowstone Wolf Project Reports. Which are FASCINATING. There are also some good wildlife specials out there.

Wolves are my favorite animal. <3 It pains me to see them misunderstood as crazed bloodthirsty brutes, but it also pains me to see them woobified. They deserve better than that.

#wolves #wolf #yes wolf families are like human families #wolf family dynamics can be messy #the term alpha wolf has very negative connotations

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silverflameataraxia · 2 years ago

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When a Sansa stan makes the deranged claim that Sansa suffered worse than Arya, it makes me wonder if they even read the books or if they just skipped over Arya's sections because this nine-year-old has suffered in ways that her older sister couldn't even imagine.

Fear cuts deeper than swords, Arya would tell herself, but that did not make the fear go away. It was as much a part of her days as stale bread and the blisters on her toes after a long day of walking the hard, rutted road.

She had thought she had known what it meant to be afraid, but she learned better in that storehouse beside the Gods Eye. Eight days she had lingered there before the Mountain gave the command to march, and every day she had seen someone die.

By the time they marched, Arya knew she was no water dancer. Syrio Forel would never have let them knock him down and take his sword away, nor stood by when they killed Lommy Greenhands. Syrio would never have sat silent in that storehouse nor shuffled along meekly among the other captives. The direwolf was the sigil of the Stark's, but Arya felt more a lamb, surrounded by a herd of other sheep. She hated the villagers for their sheepishness, almost as much as she hated herself.

Their captors permitted no chatter. A broken lip taught Arya to hold her tongue. Others never learned at all. One boy of three would not stop calling for his father, so they smashed his face in with a spiked mace. Then the boy's mother started screaming and Raff the Sweetling killed her as well.

Arya glanced sidelong at Needle, sheathed at the hip of a black-bearded, balding man-at-arms called Polliver. It's good that they took it away, she thought. Otherwise she would have tried to stab Ser Gregor, and he would have cut her right in half, and the wolves would eat her too.

Polliver was not so bad as some of the others, even though he'd stolen Needle. The night she was caught, the Lannister men had been nameless strangers with faces as alike as their nasal helms, but she'd come to know them all. You had to know who was lazy and who was cruel, who was smart and who was stupid. You had to learn that even though the one they called Shitmouth had the foulest tongue she'd ever heard, he'd give you an extra piece of bread if you asked, while jolly old Chiswyck and soft-spoken Raff would just give you the back of their hand.

Goodwife Harra slapped her so hard that her swollen lip broke open all over again. "And keep that tongue to yourself or you'll get worse. No one asked your views."

- ACoK, Arya VI

#a song of ice and fire #anti sansa stans #anti sansa stark #arya #syrio forel #house stark #gregor clegane #house lannister #asoiaf #arya stark #a clash of kings #pro arya stark #acok #canonaryastark #george r.r. martin #canonarya

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sombreboy · 4 years ago

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the alpha⇢hybrid!pjm

⤍18+ ⤍pairing: wolf!hybrid Jimin x human!female reader ⤍genre: pwp smut, hybrid, stranger fuck ⤍word count: 8.5k ⤍warnings: sub!y/n, dom!pjm, profanity, drinking, blowjob, jimin’s compliment kink knows no bounds, he calls you little lamb a lot, degdrading names, unprotected sex, creampie/knotting, light impreg kink, mating, rough fucking, licking, torrential downpour of cum.

A/N: Co-written with lovely @ppersonna as an rp. ♡

So why were you dressed up like a bitch in heat, entering the exact club you tried so hard to avoid? Because, deep down, it’s all you wanted. You knew that deep down you desired someone strong and powerful, someone superior to you, to take and claim you as their own—their plaything.

The city never sleeps. A saying that has been true for the past century, and it remains true til this day, where humans and hybrids now coexist as equals. Well, as equal as it gets. Hybrids were a superior species with their mixed genetics, gaining attributes from said animals that they have in them. Whether it be stronger bodies, beautiful patterns and physical alterations– they were seen as the greater species. But yet humans managed to keep up, somewhat. It wasn’t that much different. Park Jimin is one of those hybrids. His genetics were intertwined with that of a white wolf, giving his hair a bright blonde color. However, he had it dyed not too long ago, so the color was instead a washed out purple mixed into his blonde curls. His irises were a bright orange, pupils as black as the leather jacket and pants he wore. One wouldn’t think he looked terribly intimidating at a first glance, but his stare could make anybody feel a shiver run down their spine from the sheer intensity of it.

He was the alpha, after all.

Jimin spent every single night at a nightclub that was famous specifically for being dominated by the predatory hybrids. Lions, tigers, snakes, foxes… Wolves. Jimin’s pack was the hybrids that people came for most of the time.For what, you may ask? To get thoroughly fucked without mercy, of course. But that was only possible if you caught their interest, or you’d have to settle for the snake.

Jimin’s pack consisted of three other wolf hybrids… Hoseok, the beta. Which practically means he’s one rank below Jimin, who is the leader. The other two hybrids are Namjoon and Yoongi, who are one rank below Hoseok, making them the deltas. They don’t care, they are content to just follow along with what their leader says, but are often given their own choice to do however they please either way. Together, they form quite the diverse group, and they were notorious and alluring for newcomers and common faces.

Jimin loved it, the dark, crowded underground venue, flashing lights, alcohol… And humans. More often than not, only hybrid women came by. Rich ones. Easy to spot. But what truly had the wolf riled up, was when a human would stumble in. Their scent was an entirely different game. He allowed his pack to separate, but never going too far as they headed to find their own prey for the night, while Jimin himself remained still, leaning against the bar counter with a pink, sugary drink in his hand, straw tightly pressed between his plushy, glossy lips.

It was time to hunt.

You weren’t sure what came over you—what drew you to the idea of leaving your cozy and safe, structured life and entering the dark unknown. The nightclub was somewhere you previously steered clear of, even crossed the street to avoid being next to it when walking by. It was decidedly not your scene, and the idea of the strong, intuitive hybrids sent a chill down your spine.

So why were you dressed up like a bitch in heat, entering the exact club you tried so hard to avoid? Because, deep down, it’s all you wanted. You stayed away from it like a drug. You knew the moment you gave in, you’d sink down the black hole into utter depravity. You knew that deep down you desired someone strong and powerful, someone superior to you, to take and claim you as their own—their plaything. It was hard to be confident in such a stifling environment. Your tight little crop top covered only the barest of your modesty, and the tight skirt accentuated your curves. The confidence you felt in the mirror of your apartment soon dissipated as you walked into the loud club. You could feel the hungry stares, the intense eyes of all the men and women in the place.

You didn’t know who or what you were looking for—rather, hoping they would find you instead. You craved the idea of giving up your power, your control to someone who could hold it over you and force you into submission. The thought made your core burn with need. The bartender slid your simple cocktail towards you with a wink as you settled into the stool awkwardly, trying to appear much stronger than the scared little human you were. You knew they all could smell it on you—the mixture of fear and arousal. So many of them approached you, attempted to charm their way inside you, but none of them felt right. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe you should have stayed home. You can’t help but feel a burn of shame and disappointment as you chug your drink as quickly as you can to make a desperate dash towards the door.

Your nervous eyes skittered around the room, watched as each ravenous alpha eye-fucked you. It was terrifying, intimidating. It cemented just how wrong you were to come here, until— he came into view. Your breath nearly collapsed in your lungs as you took in the vision of the lavender haired man. He was gorgeous. Not just attractive but ethereal in his visage. Your pupils dilated, heart rate increased as you stared at him. You were blatant in your gaze, unable to wrench your eyes elsewhere. He was simply the most captivating man you’ve ever seen in your life, and your body burned with desperate need for him. After moments of desperate staring, you finally shake yourself off and peer down at your empty drink. Was it him? What was so magnetic about the lithe man? Could he be the one to finally claim what you needed to give up? Your cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and need, hoping that he didn’t notice your blatant ogling. Fuck.

Jimin’s fiery gaze flickered to meet yours the very second he felt your eyes on him, straw still tightly sucked between his lips. He crooked a coy eyebrow at you as he pushed himself up from his leaning position to stand upright, no hesitation in his bones in the way he slowly sauntered over to you. His hips swayed in a light strut, mesmerizing in every sense of the word; the predatory genes within giving him these very traits to be alluring for it’s prey. And it seemed to be working, with the way your eyes were glued on him. He stopped when he was right in front of you, giving just enough space for him to be able to observe your fit from top to bottom, but close enough for you to smell his distinct scent. Sweet, calming– arousing. His natural pheromones didn’t leave anybody unaffected, even turning heads on his way, eyes wide with both surprise and envy that the alpha had approached… well, you. “How refreshing with a new face.” Jimin’s canary voice was sweet, yet it had an undertone of a light growl. His canines poked out as he smiled, plush upper lip curling up to showcase his pearly whites further.

Your blush furthered a deeper shade of rose as he approached. Fuck. He definitely saw you staring. The power in his gaze and strut over to you screamed alpha. Hopefully he wasn’t the kind to bite and then ask questions. You’d unfortunately run into that type before.

The blood in your veins pulsed hard, skyrocketing your nerves. He looked so good. It was almost unfair that someone so fucking beautiful existed. You felt small and plain in comparison to the gorgeous man. His whole being exuded sultry command. You nibbled at your bottom lip as he sauntered up to you. Your body was reacting already to his presence, his voice. The entire club was staring at you, curious of the exchange that would happen between the exquisite man and you, the nervous little human. “I-,” you struggled to answer. If he wasn’t aware of how nervous you were before, he would be now—surely. “I don’t really come to these types of places.”

Try as you might, you couldn’t stop staring at the man’s gorgeous pout and terrifyingly attractive teeth. Your heart beat pounded hard in your head, overpowering the loud beat of music.

“D-do you come here often?” You asked, hoping to be polite despite the pooling arousal and growing fear.

Jimin’s smile slowly morphed into a wolfish grin, the apple of his cheeks puffing up until his eyes were shaped like small crescent moons. He almost looked harmless and inviting. “Cute…” he mused under his breath before he took a daring step closer to you, his hand reaching out to gently run his fingers through the piece of stray hair that had fallen forward over your face. He brought the locks to his nose, inhaling deeply. A low rumble vibrated in his chest.. You smelled divine. Even through the shampoo and possible product, he could smell your scent behind it all. “Yeah, I come here, every. single. night…” Jimin winked before withdrawing his hand to let it settle on his hip, his stance powerful and graceful. His dark pupils quivered when he raked down your body for a second time, the wolf ears sticking out from his hair flickering with curiosity. “Why are you here, little lamb?” He cooes at you, licking his upper teeth as he steps closer. He had no problem hearing you through the booming music, but how would you know? It gave him more of an excuse to get closer. “Looking like that?” Of course he knew why. He could smell why. But it was of no news that Jimin loved to play with his prey, ramp up the anxiety until he could practically taste it on his tongue.

Your heart thumped so loud in your chest you were sure all of the club could hear it. If they couldn’t, they definitely could smell the thrum of anxiety pulsing through you. His voice sizzled in your veins, erupting into flames as it enveloped you. Then, he touched you. The simple act of moving your hair had your mind reeling. You could smell him—he was so close you wanted to bury your face in his chest and breathe deeply. His question caught you off guard. Why were you here? Did you even know the answer to that? Your cherry cheeks flushed and you ducked your head, trying to avoid his sultry and tempting gaze. He continued to get closer and it made you tremble with a mix of fright and need. His power was overwhelming, and all you wanted to do was kneel for him.

“I’m—…not quite sure,” you spoke truthfully as you took another sip of your rapidly melting drink. “I’ve never been here before. I think I wanted something… scary.” Your big doe eyes sought out his, so mystifying with their exotic color and shape. He was truly so gorgeous it made your mouth salivate. You squirmed in your seat, suddenly feeling self conscious of your outfit. “My friend told me I should wear something sexy.” Your cheeks were so hot, so embarrassed by how easily you wanted to give into the terrifyingly attractive alpha. “I’m wondering if maybe this was a bad idea…”

Although the music around them was blaring, it felt like a long moment of silence dragged on between the two when Jimin didn’t answer for a hot second. He kept his stare fixed on your face, the small expressions of embarrassment, curiosity, and purity drew him in. He’s truly never encountered a human like you before. One that dared to come here despite being so… weak. It was like you were begging to be eaten, dangling like a fresh piece of the finest meat in front of all these hungry predators. Jimin could hear it, the rumbling growls and groans of men in the room, hoping that the alpha wolf would lose interest and leave a piece for them to get a taste.

“Scary?” He suddenly chirped, his smile more of a smirk at this point as he placed his drink on the bar counter, ice jumping in the glass from the harsh clonk. He bent forward to shamelessly brush his cheek against yours, a subtle way of rubbing his scent off on your skin, knowing it’d avert some of the attention around him– he’s already begun to claim you for himself. His hot breath fanned your ear as he spoke.

“I can smell your lust for fear, little lamb… Do I scare you?” Jimin’s hand softly snaked down the curve of your hip, smoothing his ring-clad fingers down your thigh until he was greeted by your scorching skin. He squeezed the flesh between his digits, cold rings digging into your thigh as he exhaled another hot, quivering breath against your neck, loving the way your scent was slowly mixing with his own.

The man’s simple action of brushing his cheek against your own had your body seizing up. You could smell him as he rubbed his soft skin on yours—a heady mix of something fruity and something naturally luscious. It embarrassed you to know how arousing his simple act had been. You chided yourself internally for feeling your body heat at his gentle action. You licked your lips as he whispered hot words into your ear, making a tingle travel down your spine.

“Y-yes,” you murmured. “You scare me more than anyone h-here.” His hands gripping your thigh made a quiet moan escape your lips. It was desperate. You felt overstimulated and yet so desperate to be touched by the terrifying alpha. Suddenly feeling emboldened, your hands gripped at his sides, slipping under his expensive shirt to touch at the toned skin of his obliques and anchoring yourself to him there.

Jimin’s hand flew down to wrap his fingers around your small wrist, blunt nails digging into your soft skin. His hand on your thigh swiftly withdrew, and the loss of his warmth had you internally whining for more. “Did I say you could touch me?” His voice wasn’t hostile, yet it oozed with the asserting of his dominance. “You’re a daring girl.” He smiles at you, the contrast between his hungry gaze and his softly curved lips was confusing to say the least– but there was no doubt that he was not the kind to simply allow anything without permission.

The alpha’s sudden movement and grip on your hand made you squeal with fright—eyes widening and heart stopping its beat in your chest. Your mouth ran dry. Your terror coursed through you with the distinct tang of need. His dominance made you even more desperate. “I’m sorry,” you peeped quietly, itching to move your fingers away in case it angered him further but also needing to feel his tender skin underneath you once more. “I didn’t mean—..” you stuttered as you felt brave enough to peer up in his enchanting eyes. His smile was comforting but the hungry gaze in his stare had you trembling. Jimin cupped your cheek, hushing you with reassurance– although he seemed way too amused with the way you were practically shaking underneath his touch.

“Breathe. We’re all here to have a good time.” He smoothed the pad of his thumb across your lower lip, noting just how dry it had become. He decided to order another set of drinks, handing one to you that was the same pink shade as the one he got for himself. “Drink.” He didn’t ask, but he commanded you to accept his offer.

You were powerless to deny any demand the man made. Even if he had asked, you’d still be eating out of the palm of his hand like a terrified and starved pet. His thumb on your lips made you ache to open and accept his digit in your mouth, swirl your tongue around it teasingly. Your eyes sought his—hoping you could portray some of the arousal you felt over your innocent fright. You took a sip—a large one in hopes of lowering your frightened inhibitions to open up more to the beautiful man. “Mmm—,” you hummed as your eyes fluttered to close. “This is delicious.” It was sweet on your tongue, but not cloyingly. It warmed you and made your body loose.

“It’s my favorite.” Jimin agreed, already half way through his own. The entire time he kept his eyes trained on your lips, the darkening color on your cheeks from the heat that both alcohol and his proximity provided. When finished, he stretched his back with a light pop, the shirt he’s wearing underneath the jacket lifting just enough for the prominent V-line that snaked down his pants teasingly on display. His visuals were unmatched. He took off his jacket, leaving it unattended by the counter. No one would dare to touch it anyway, the leather oozing of his distinct scent. Only somebody with a death wish would. He combed his fingers through his hair, licking his lower lip clean form the residue sugar from this drink. His ears perked up when the lights dimmed further, and a new song came into play, booming through the speakers that caused a pleasant vibration to pulse through the building.

“I love this song.” Jimin reached for your arm to tug you out of the chair with him towards the crowded dance floor. As per usual, there was no question of whether you wanted to or not, but with a few drinks, and his intoxicating presence, it didn’t seem too bad. For Jimin, this was just part of his foreplay. He brought you into the crowd, tightly packed with all kinds of scents and musks. But the only one he could smell was yours, slowly morphing with his own as he placed his hands on your hips from behind, nose brushing against your neck as he inhaled. “Feel that? The beat?” He growled into your ear, swaying his hips along with the way he moved yours back and forth.

The music, once quiet and unassuming to you, now became loud and matched the beat of your heart. The alpha was dragging you towards the dance floor and in the midst of the hungry crowd, staring at you from where they rubbed up against each other. Just as you were trying to understand where to move, how to adjust your body to the dance, he pressed himself up behind you and gripped your hips. You could feel your pulse running through your veins and the way his touch electrified your skin. “Y-yeah,” you murmured as your hips began to move without thought. They easily swayed with the man’s guidance and you shivered as his nose pressed into your neck. It was like he couldn’t get enough of your scent, your being. The man’s hyper fixation on you had your core drenched—and you knew he could likely smell just how aroused for him you were. You let your eyes close and follow his guiding hold on your body, your ass pressing back against him to rub and grind along his length. It seemed the alphas drink was bringing you ever so gently out of your shell. “Mmm, I feel the beat right here.”

“Fuck, you smell good…” Jimin growled into your ear, his claw-like grip on your hips tightening to keep you in place as he pressed his hips right back against your ass, his cock prominent through the thin layer of his leather pants. It pulsed with every beat of his heart, it was driving him near insanity to practically taste your arousal on his tongue along with the overwhelming smell. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?” He huffed, tastefully biting your earlobe as one hand smoothed down your thigh to tug at the hem of your dress, unbothered to the fact that other hybrids were spying on them. He wanted them to see the way he got to have you, and they don’t. The way you were oozing with lust for the alpha, the pungent arousal of yours surely drove not just Jimin feral, but every single hybrid in the venue. And no one could say a fucking thing.

It was hard to hold back the peeps of surprise and arousal as you felt the alpha’s growing cock against you. Your body instinctively continued to rub and further agitate the hardening length to fully erect. When you felt his hands on you, your body reacted. You knew your cunt was oozing, likely soaking the satin panties underneath your tight skirt and soon to drip down your leg in a sign of utter submission and need to the alpha behind you. “Y-yes,” you whined. “I n-need you.” The admittance was shameless–the alcohol and lowered inhibitions making it easier for you to admit your desires to the man without regret. You could sense that he was showing you off and you complied, allowed the man to present you to everyone in the club who stared with bloodlust for you. “Please,” you gasped, not quite sure of what you were asking for other than him–more him. “Please, take me.”

Jimins wolfish grin grew against your skin before he swiftly grabbed you by your wrist to pull you with him, guiding the two of you towards privacy. Normally, he’d take his prey to the back, or even home… but there was an urgency within him that was too strong to ignore, there was no time– he needed to claim you now. So he pulled you into the bathroom close by, slamming your back against the wall with a thud the moment the door closed behind you. His heavy breaths were laced with small grunts as he crashed his pillowy lips against yours, hands greedily peeling the skirt of your dress up to expose your ass for him to harshly grab onto, squeezing the soft flesh between his ring clad fingers until it protruded between his digits, sharp nails digging into your delicate skin. “Fuck, you drive me crazy, little lamb.” Jimin hisses between hot kisses, the vibrating growl in his chest growing louder as he bites down on your lower lip to draw more innocent whines from your sweet throat. “Every single male in there wishes they could mate with you, shit… the male pheromones were off the roof, they’re all gonna jerk off to the memory of this–” one of his hands cupped your pussy through your soaked panties, dragging his palm to feel the damp fabric stain his skin. “Of how delicious your cunt smells… it’s like a fucking drug.”

Your eyes widened as the strong and sensual man dragged you from the dance floor to the bathroom. The same terror that once pulled through you now flooded every sense. Had you done something wrong? Was he going to harm you? Your worries were sucked up the second he pressed his lips to yours hungrily. Kissing him was like standing too close to a fire. He was hot, so hot, and before you knew it, you’d be engulfed in his hot, licking flames. His hands felt like palpable sin in your flesh and you needed more. “Please,” you whimpered as his hands cupped at your core. You knew you were a mess—dripping with shameless need for the alpha. The kisses turned deeper as you allowed his tongue entrance into your mouth and sought purchase in his own. Your hands stayed by your sides, itching to touch him but remembering his previous warning. “Please, let me touch you. Anywhere.” It felt like you were dying and the only cure was him—any bit of him on you and underneath your fingertips. “Ahh—,” you whined as his hand continued his assault on your cunt. “It’s a-all for you. I don’t want anyone else, only you.”

Jimin’s auburn gaze glowed as he pulled back from the kiss, his pointy canines poking out as he smiled. “You want to touch me?” He purred as he pressed your body harder back against the wall with his own, gliding the pads of his fingers up and down your clothed slit until he feels the swell of your clit through your panties, only to give it extra attention by circling his digits with just enough pressure. Not enough to satisfy, but not enough to not drive you crazy. “You don’t get to touch me until I say so… But don’t worry, good behavior will be rewarded.” Jimin added with his lighter tone of voice, leaning in to nudge your chin to the side with his nose– like a dog would. He softly grazes the skin of your neck with his nose, lips; a deep inhale through his nostrils triggered a vibrating rumble in his throat, and a prominent, heavy throb in his pants. “We’re not in a rush.” He whispered against your neck before placing open mouthed kisses down your skin until he reached the slope of your neck, feeling as his cock grew harder– the more aggressive his kisses became. From soft pecks, to messy sucking, surely painting your delicate skin with splashes of purple.

Feeling the man all over your body and being denied to touch was maddening, but deliciously so. His fingers dipped into your slit and teased so delicately that you thought you might cry if he didn’t give you something soon. Your moans turned into desperate whines and gasps as you allowed him to continue his thorough torture of your clit. Kissing him felt like sin, like heaven and hell. He was everything you wanted—everything you sought after when you stepped foot into the very club you now were being thoroughly debauched in. His cock felt heavy and thick against you and it made you whisper against his lips in arousal and desperation. He trailed down your body and you let out a shaky moan as you felt his sharp incisors suckle and nip at the delicate skin. “Use me,” you begged gently. “P-Please, make me yours.”

Your hips ground against his, rubbing against his hardened length as much as you could to alleviate the burn between your thighs. “Fuck, I want you so bad, please sir.”

“Such a good girl, asking so nicely.” Jimin’s low voice resembled a mix between his natural voice and a growl, the raspyness of it forcing a chill running down your spine, reminding you that he was indeed not human, but a hungry predator. Which is exactly what he was– well, it’s a part of him he only indulges in on nights like these, in a place like this. Who he was outside of these walls, nobody truly knew. His fingers curled around the fabrics of your panties to swiftly rip them off, carelessly discarding them to the dirty floor. Now exposed, your scent was stronger than ever. He shamelessly inhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering in pleasure, feeling the droplets of precum staining his swollen tip underneath the restraining pants.

“Still reconsidering whether coming here was a good or bad idea?” He asks through his breathy voice as he pulled back to look at your needy expression, all while his hands casually reach down to undo his pants, slowly peeling the leather down his hips. His cock sprung up proudly, drooling with arousal down his glistening skin, a content sigh pushing past his plushy lips. “Hm? You like it?” Jimin’s piercing gaze flickered between his cock and your face, grabbing the shaft with his hand. “Want a taste? All you have to do is drop to your knees on the filthy floor…”

Everything about the man radiated power. He mystified you. He even looked beautiful, gorgeous rather, under the harsh fluorescent lights. You were sure you would follow him off the edge of a cliff if he told you to. You didn’t know his name but you didn’t need to, he had you between his delicate fingers. Your breath hitched as he ripped your soaked panties off your body. The cool air of the bathroom was startling against your heated cunt. It made you gasp out loud. “I-I think it was a good idea,” you gulped. Your eyes were big, pleading and needy as you peered into his own. He had you completely under his spell.

Your mouth watered as the man pushed his skintight pants down and exposed his length to you. It was perfect. Thick and long and curved just right that made your core ache for him. You dropped to your knees without hesitation, ignoring the way the wet floor felt against your body. The floor was disgusting but nothing would stop you from pleasing the alpha. You shimmied your skirt up your body, allowing your bare ass and cunt to be exposed to the open air as you knelt before him.

“Please.” The word was becoming your prayer, repeated to the god above you to grant you your blessings. You opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue—an obedient little dog in heat. You wanted nothing more than to take him in your mouth without warning but you knew now to wait. You wanted to please the alpha so badly.

Jimin’s eyes darkened immensely at the gorgeous view beneath him, the fiery color of his irises barely visible for they were practically blackened out. If there was something the alpha adored, it was to look down on his prey, being begged to use them as he pleased. You were the perfect plaything for him. “So pretty.” He cooed, a small smile curling up on his upper lip to expose his pointy teeth. He gave his cock a few lazy strokes, his other hand gently combing through your hair before he abruptly curls his fingers to tug at it. He drew you in closer to his red, dripping length as he kept stroking it, eyes not even blinking once as he stared down at you. “Can’t wait to pump you full of my cum… Fuck, such a slut for my cock already.” His words grew filthier the more aroused he became. His patience ran low, so he guided the tip of his drooling cock to your lips, tugging your hair to draw you even closer to take his length down your throat. “Only good girls can take it all. You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Come on…”

The intensity of the alphas gaze made you shiver on the sodden ground and you could tell your cunt was dripping, likely even dripping down onto the very same floor. The bite of pain in your hair stung as he gripped you, but it sizzled and burned until it added to the overall sensation and made your nipples harden in delight. You breathed in deep, steeling yourself as his length came closer. His salacious words made you tremble and ooze with excitement. You wanted nothing more than to be a vessel, a hole for him to wrench pleasure from. His length was warm and dripping with precum. It felt so thick and heavy on your tongue as he continued to push it in. You audibly moaned as you felt it push past your uvula. He was so thick and tasted like salt and sweetness. You let your lips close and wrap around him as you took him to the hilt. You flicked your eyes up to him, shining with tears of strain from the thickness choking your throat. You wanted to prove how good you were, how well you could take him.

After a moment of holding his length as deep as it could go, you pulled back slightly to begin a bobbing motion as you sucked greedily on his cock. Saliva pooled around your lips as you drew him in and out, and the sounds you made sucking could be heard over the thumping of the bar music. You wanted to prove yourself to the alpha, show him you could be more than just a one time type of girl. You wanted him to claim you forever.

“Oh, fuck yes…” Jimin’s pillowy lips parted in initial surprise, but quickly he bit back his low groan as it rumbled in his chest. He knew you were needy, but he didn’t expect you to be so greedy to suck him off. And being so good at it on top of being eager to please– it was oddly new. Normally, every past experience of his was not like this, but more like him doing every piece of the work for a ragdoll, so watching you work his cock so willingly, attentive to his own reactions and pleasure in a different way…. It hit something in him that only riled him up further than anybody had ever done previously.

“Deeper. Gag on it, make it messy.” His chest heaved up and down heavily, deep huffs through his nose displaying just how good he feels in between the low moans, no shame in showcasing how good it feels. He presses his back against the wall, craning his neck to get a good look of the way your lips stretched around his thick shaft. “I can hear your cunt dripping… Can scent it, god, it smells divine. Your insides must be aching for me.” He murmurs as he drives his hips forward a bit rougher to meet your movements, eager to feel your throat constrict around him when he hits too far down your throat. “Coat your fingers in your juices, little lamb. Show me.”

The praise made you preen, and even more desperate to prove your worth to the man. His cock was so big inside your mouth it was hard to keep yourself from gagging, but you worked against it and continued to suck and slurp down his length. You obeyed every order, and slicked him up until your mouth was squelching with saliva around him and it dripped from your face like a tap. You whined around his length as you obeyed, keeping up a pace as you buried a hand down to your exposed core. You nearly gasped at the feeling. You were absolutely soaked and dripping with anticipation. Your fingers swirled in the wetness and coated you easily. You desperately wanted to touch your clit and play with yourself to bring you to your own end but you knew now it was better to wait for his instruction.

While maintaining your eager pace and swirling tongue, you lifted your dripping fingers from your cunt and presented them to the man above you, eyes still trained on his own in utter submission.

Jimin’s eyes quivered at the sight, pupils shrinking as he zeroes in on the glossy sheen on your fingers. His cock twitched in your mouth once, twice before he decided that he’d been patient enough… He could not wait any longer to claim you as his own. He pushed his palm against your forehead until his length was ripped from your throat, drool and precum dribbling down your chin. A long string of the juices seeped down his cock, another piece of it connected to your lips. It was an absolute mess, just the way he liked it.

“Up.” He growled, but before you were even able to obey his orders on your own, he pulled you up by your wrist, bringing the very coated fingers of yours into his mouth. All while maintaining eye contact, his swollen, pink lips eagerly sucked your arousal clean from your digits, swirling his skillful, rough tongue. Around, in between… He refused to let a single drop go to waste. “Mm..” he hummed when he let go of your fingers with a pop of his lips, the small smirk in the corners of his mouth widening. A light thudding sound caught your attention from behind him, his fluffy, white tail wagging in excitement, hitting the wall with every whip. “It’s a bit hot… Take my jacket off.” He suddenly asks, but his sweet tone was deceptive with the underlying command luring in his predatory gaze. He turns around, lowering his shoulders to allow you to easily slide the leather off, his tail playfully brushing against your thighs.

You nearly whined as Jimin forced you away from his cock—not wanting to remove yourself from the thick length that fit so perfectly in your drooling mouth. But the whine is cut short by his demand to stand and as he sucks your fingers into his mouth you nearly forget everything else around you. “A-ah, fuck,” you breathed—pupils dilating at the sight of the gorgeous man sucking your juices off your delicate fingers. Your cunt pulsated around nothing, so desperate for his thick cock now that the arousal has dripped down the insides of your thighs. “Yes sir,” you whispered as your fingers found the edges of his jacket and pulled it off his body. His tail makes your eyes widen as the soft fur brushes against your legs. You’ve never been with a hybrid before, never been with an alpha hybrid at that, and you’re eager to learn just how he differs in other ways. You couldn’t help but marvel at the muscles on the lithe man. He’s thin, but built and you found you’re desperate to lick up the defined lines of his abs. “You’re so p-pretty,” you whispered without knowing it escaped you, marveling at the gorgeous man.

Jimin’s tail trembled with more excitement at the praise, oddly enough. He’s been called many things. Sexy, scary, hot, alluring… Pretty? He liked it.

“Yeah?” he breathes out a small chuckle through his nose, pressing his lips together in thought. He shook his head to get rid of his mind wandering too far, instead back to indulging in the moment– focused on the aching throb between his legs. Jimin pulls his shirt over his head to expose his full torso, the tattoo on his ribs on clear display along with the faded, scattered scars adorning his skin in the form of striped, claw like patterns. Now with his body freed from the cage that is fabrics, he didn’t waste another second to grab you by the hips, turn you around to face away from him, and immediately push you forward to force you to use the sink as leverage. The large, dirty mirror on the wall stared back at you, clear enough for you to see the two of you in this sinful moment.

“You’re pretty too. A pretty slut, about to get her pretty little cunt stretched so bad you’ll be ruined for any other male.” Jimin’s canine adorned smile grew as he stared you down through the reflection in the mirror, grasp on your hips moving to the flesh of your ass. His foot kicks your feet apart, forcing you to stand wider and spread for him. A quick glance down and he already sees just how wet and dripping your cunt was. He pushed the head of his cock against your slit, coating it with your juices before gently rocking forward, not going inside, instead just rubbing between your swollen lips.

“So pretty,” you murmured as your eyes washed over him. Your mouth ran dry as he pulled his shirt off and exposed himself to the hard light of the bathroom. He looked like sin incarnate and your body ached to touch. Your fingertips lightly trailed the skin of his abs, grazing over the tattoo with the faintest touch. The cold sink countertop felt like ice against your chest, still heaving with need as the man prepped your body for his entrance. “Please ruin me, alpha,” you begged, peering into his own gaze through the reflection of the mirror. Your knees and legs trembled as he teased his cock against your desperate slit. “Mark me as yours, please. I only want you.” His cock felt so thick even at the entrance, prodding and poking through your sodden folds. A moan wrenched through your lips as it pushed against your clit and slicked with your own arousal.

“Fuck me, please!” The teasing was near torture and you were desperate, pushing your hips back lightly to encourage the man to slip in and ruin you completely.

With lips closed, he smiled, eyebrows raising your desperation. It was almost mocking, yet pleased with just how desperate you were for him. Your initial fear seemed replaced with utter submission and desire to be his. “We’ve only been in here for minutes and you’re already pathetically wet.” As he spoke, his hips snapped forward to grant your one and only wish, filling your soppy hole with his fleshy, rigid cock. He had no desire to ease you into the stretch from his generous girth, immediately pulling back until merely the tip was engulfed by your cunt before drilling back into you with another squelching thrust. “Tight… no other cock must have ever stretched you this well, huh? Fuck..” He bites down his abused lower lip, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he had to gather himself. The scent you emitted was incredibly strong, intoxicating to his mind. It was like a high he’s never experienced before, and he knew he was already a lost cause to the addiction that is you.

The feeling of the alpha’s cock filling you completely was unparalleled. You’d never felt something within you so deep, never been stretched so far past your breaking point—and unable to care about the tearing pain. The pleasure outweighed the sizzling burn of pain. He was merciless and your whimpering moans echoed around the damp bathroom. “I—ohhhh fuck,” you gasped as he pushed into you yet again, spearing you nearly in half. It was as if you could feel him deep in your stomach, and you never wanted him to leave your soaked cunt. He was claiming his territory with each torturous thrust inside you that made your throat burn for more. “Only you,” you whimpered as his thrusts became merciless and powerful. “All y-yours now. Oh, god, so good,” you praised. You learned the beautiful man thrived on praise as much as you did on the dominant commands. Your hips moved in time with his powerful purses and the sound of skin slapping on skin filled the small room. “Oh my god, sir,” you cried as fat tears of pleasure rolled down your cheeks. “You make me feel so good. I only want your c-cock inside me forever.” You knew now you would be hopelessly tied to the man, and you desperately ached for him to claim you as his own. “P-please, mark me as yours, alpha.”

The low, vibrating growl that rumbled throughout Jimin’s body would have anybody’s fight or flight instincts kicking in– the latter the most logical response from anyone within their right mind. His powerful thrusts were beyond that of what a human was capable of, the skin on your ass bruising with every loud, harsh collision of your bodies. “Only me?” he snarled through a wolfish grin, lips parting in a moan when your cunt clenched around his length. His sharp, claw like nails drew blood as they dug deep into the fleshy part of your waistline, moving your body like a ragdoll to meet his thrusts, your own attempts at doing so barely noticeable. “You want to be my little cockwhore?” Jimin leaned forward, hovering above you as he pressed his chest against your back, the grip on your waist moving to wrap around your torso with one arm, the other clawing at your jaw, forcing you to stare into the reflection in front of you. He keeps you tightly in place, feeling the way your body jiggles and jolts while he fucked into you with insatiable greed. “The alpha’s bitch?” His fiery eyes meet yours through the reflection, his toothy smile growing. He inches closer to drag his flattened tongue up your cheek, a coating of messy saliva dripping down your sweaty skin. Claiming you in every sense of the word.

The man claimed you roughly, making your throat rip with a desperate and wanton moan. His cock was pushing into your cunt deeper than anyone’s ever gone before, harder and with purpose. It was as if the man wanted to fuse your bodies together, become one. You certainly wanted it. His hands on your skin felt hot, feverish. You wanted him to touch you everywhere, at any time he could. You were hopeless addicted now. “Please,” you cried as the tears of pleasure poured from your face. “Claim this cunt as yours. I’m only yours!” You could feel your bliss piquing, building up to the impossible precipice. You whined as you watched your reflection. Your makeup smeared down your face with your sweat and tears. His fingers held your jaw tightly and your cunt pulsed around his heavy cock at the sight. You could see his heavy and thick length spearing into you and retracting smeared in your juices. Something inside you tells you it’s what you want to see for the rest of your life—only his cock ruining you and coaxing torrential orgasms out of you. “Yes! Breed me like the bitch in heat I am!” You cried out loud, no longer caring about your volume. Everyone in the bar could hear your desperate screams for the alpha and it only made you wetter, more aching for the man. “Fill me up with your seed, alpha! I need it, please! Cum inside me!”

The perked wolf ears adorning Jimin’s head flickered with his excitement, pointed forward to make sure he soaks up every little sound you make for him. You were so loud, shamelessly letting every hybrid in the building know just how good the alpha makes you feel. ‘Breed me.’ The words stuck to him, replaying in his mind whilst stuffing you with his cock over and over, the mix of your arousal and his precum dripping down into a puddle at the filthy bathroom floor. He wrapped his arms around your torso, holding you close as his thrusts changed pace. Still filled with greed and force, but no longer pulling back as much, instead keeping his cock lodged deep inside of you whilst prodding as deep inside of you as he possibly can. Jimin’s cock was on the verge of bursting inside of you, and instinctively he possessively sunk his teeth into the tender skin of your shoulder, shutting his eyes harshly. But just as quickly, his eyes opened back up, staring with wide eyes into the mirror when something he did not expect happened. He knew this was it, there was no going back. With one last, harsh thrust, he stilled his movements abruptly, heavy breathing down your neck as he kept you tightly in place– in case you would panic. “Gonna fill you up with my cum.. Put my little pups inside of you- fuck…” He growled into your skin, gnashing his teeth together. His cock grew inside of you, and he was physically unable to remove himself.

Whether it was intentional or not.. His body had chosen to breed you– to mate with you. “Mine.” He whined, and with that, his cock began to desperately pulsate inside of you as he disposed of his warm cum in heavy, pattern-like gushes. Like a volcano erupting, it didn’t stop, but he kept cumming, holding his hands on your stomach as he felt it start to lightly bulge from the amounts he was able to offer. “Gah…. shit… Look at you.” He could barely hold his voice stable, legs quivering, body twitching with every throb of his rigid length, still snugly wrapped by your cum-stuffed flesh.

Nothing in the world, in your life, has ever felt better than the way the alpha felt as he fucked into you. You barely knew the man, and yet you wanted nothing more than to give yourself over to him for as long as he wanted. You found yourself wanting to surrender your life to him. You felt safe in the security of his arms. As if you were always meant to find him, to be here with him. It didn’t matter that he had you in a damp bathroom, you would have him anyway and place. Your orgasm quickly approached, winding up and throttling you over the edge as your cunt convulsed around him. Your channels tightened and milked him, and you sobbed at the wave of pleasure creating over you.

“Yours,” you whined as your bodies stilled. His cock enlarged inside you, making your eyes widen and whimper as your hands clutched at his arms wrapped around you. You needed to touch him, stabilize yourself as your core widens to accept him and your tummy bulges from the amount of cum he pulses into you. It’s hot, and warm and you can feel it coating your walls thick. Your breathing was rapid, coming down from your high and the minor fright from having his cock widen and remain locked within you as he came.

“So big,” you whispered as a tear rolled down your cheek. “H-hurts… But I can take it. I’ll take it for you.” Your head lolls back and rests on his shoulder, allowing your body to relax around the feeling of his swollen knot. “Anything for you,” you murmured, as if you were in a daze. Your hands held on to his slender arms for support and reassurance, hoping desperately you pleased the alpha enough to keep you forever. “D-did I do okay?” You asked once, quiet as a mouse. Your confidence was quickly diminishing now that your orgasm subsided and your anxieties returned.

Jimin takes a long moment to catch his breath and collect himself, still holding you in his arms as if he never wanted to let you go in the first place. And truthfully, he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t have to…

“You did so well, little lamb.” He purrs as he places a, surprisingly, gentle kiss with his pillowy lips against your clammy temple. His hands roam down to smooth his palms over the swell of your stomach, reassuring you that this indeed did please him to the max.

After another few minutes, his length finally went back to its original size, immediately feeling his cum seep out your hole. He pulls out, and the flood of his cum splattered against the floor. But it didn’t seem to faze him at all, instead his attention was set on you, feeling your stomach deflate with each passing second. He turned you around to face him, brushing the damp strand of hair away from your eyes as his features seemed to display nothing but gentle affection, his eyes almost disappearing into thin slits as he smiled. His tail wagged happily, and he decided to bring you in for a chaste kiss on the lips.

“My mate.” he breathes out as if it was a relief to finally have you. And it was, he’d been looking for somebody that would be his true mate for life, but believed he would simply be a lone wolf for eternity. But then you came along, as if destiny had thrown you (or rather, your friend threw you) into this place at this time, like a piece of meat for the alpha to claim.

#fic: the alpha #jimin smut #hybrid jimin #hybrid jimin smut #jimin x reader #jimin x female reader #jimin x you #jimin x yn #jimin x y/n #park jimin smut #bts smut #bts hybrid smut #sombreboy #ppersonna #hybridbtsnetwork

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iamafictionfreak · 4 years ago

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Listen...

Akatsuki no Yona/Yona of the Dawn’s 201st’s chapter is especially brilliant. Why? Well, we have the ever faithful bodyguard archetype and the former princess of the kingdom turned vigilantes... leaving their set paradigms behind and evolving into what promises to be well rounded characters that we’ll be jumping for joy about at the end.

This has nothing to do with whether you love Hak or Su Won.

It’s about a young girl becoming a woman by accepting her role to play in politics, by protecting those she loves through her position (dead father or no), by choosing to forsake revenge - because despite how much it hurt to loose her father, she’s seen that the devastation left behind in a kingdom ruled in the past by a family that let their fears and their rage govern their actions - and by falling in love.

Hak says to her, ‘so I heard that you no longer need a bodyguard’ before kissing her senseless. He isn’t reprimanding her, isn’t forcing her into a corner by confronting her with a painful lie, isn’t making fun of her.

‘You don’t need to protect me’

He’s simultaneously acknowledging that he knows she no longer needs him as a bodyguard (not in the truest sense) and that his purpose has changed - he no longer fits that role. She’s grown enough - has faced her demons - that he’s forced to see how little he’s managed to confront his own.

The author can’t place every character front and centre: it was made clear that Yona was the main character from the start, with Su Won and Hak being a close second. We needed to see the past in prior chapters before the present could pave way to the future: Yona now understands what Su Won is doing. Does it mean she forgives him? Psh, NO. It just means that she’s reached a level of enlightenment that I for one am in awe over.

Since moving back into the palace, she’s been threatened, locked up, blackmailed and has been forced to play the royal game to GREAT aplomb. She chose not to include her dragons, to keep them safe and cut Hak off from his primary duty in life because she was genuinely scared, with good reason, that he’d be killed off for knowing that the king is dying. EVERYONE knows that his loyalty is to her and only her and that he’s the most terrifying man in the palace.

Now, I bet most of you were thinking, ‘but Hak’s a beast. he can’t be beat’.

True. BUT. The way to rule a kingdom CANNOT be founded upon bloodshed and ashes. If Hak starts a fight in the middle of the palace, the dragon’s will get involved and everyone opposing them will likely perish. Maybe the dragons would take a loss too. Are there any good guys or bad guys here? It’s not the best way to start the rule of Yona, who doesn’t even want to rule. But that’s her choice: either tell him the truth or keep him safe. Start a battle that will end more lives for a thrown she doesn’t care for or play the game.

And Hak...

He’s playing a game of his own, and it was a smart one, save for how most know he’s lying through his teeth. But he's likeable and charismatic and the soldiers love him, so he has a form of leverage there.

Long story short, he wanted IN. He doesn’t want protection, he wants to be with her on the front lines of every battle, be he a slave, a solider, a commander... a prince? Who knows. But it’s not just about being with Yona; it’s about coming to terms with what happened to the country and loves and reconciling his rage with his need to keep it safe.

He’s finally choosing a path of his own and it’s no surprise that it still leads down the same path as her, with one fundamental difference.

He’ll be her partner this time, in all the ways she needs him to be and vice versa. It’s not bodyguard and ex-princess anymore. It’s captive princess and solider. Soon it’ll be something else once more. He’s finding his place in her world, in THEIR world.

He does this by fighting for a country he believes in and cares for - volunteering to fight on the front lines AGAIN - how he faces his own rage, a rage he can’t let go of, how he’ll confront Su Won and how he’ll, one day, feel worthy of standing by the side of Yona.

That’s a powerful presence. Whether he’ll succeed is a different kettle of fish. But he’s in it now, happily. Do I think he TRULY lost that fight?

No. No I think he was taken by surprise by a supreme fighter and rolled with it, recognising that the fight confirmed his suspicions.

So what happens now?

Not sure: Su Won still hasn't revealed how he truly feels about all of this, save the indication that he expects to die and soon, serving the country. His life isn’t his own, which is incredibly sad really. The biggest criticism for the character isn’t that he killed the king, it’s that he befriended two people he knew he’d betray and threw them to the wolves.

He should never have had them care for him, should never have spent so much time cultivating a friendship he knew he’d destroy, hearts he’d step on.

But what’s done is done and Yona is greatly changed.

It’s growing ever more fascinating.

#akatsuki no yona #Hak #Yona #hakyona

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potted-dandelions · 3 years ago

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If you cook a man a steak you feed him for a day, but if you teach a man to raise cattle you create civilization.

We think of farm animals and pets as species that we domesticated, but it would be equally true to say that they domesticated us. The co-evolution of humans and dogs has been well documented, but given that dogs made humans better hunters, how did we ever manage to domesticate prey animals like cattle, and how did they civilize us?

Modern domestic cattle and zebus are both descended from wild aurochs which went extinct only 400 years ago. Cattle, however, are among the most populous animals on the planet, so you could say that aurochs have gained a degree of immortality. It's no wonder the Hindus revere them as reincarnated souls.

And after all, why not? If you were alive 10,000 years ago and you observed a local herd of aurochs that tended to follow your nomadic band of hunters around, that would pique your Cro-Mangon curiosity. Why does your food keep you within eyeshot but just out of reach?

The carrion feeders you understand: they eat the garbage you leave behind like the fabled first dogs who were said to be a pack of hungry, curious wolves. But aurochs don't eat carrion, they feed on grass. And like other herd animals they're vulnerable to your group hunting tactics so aurochs are understandably skittish. But these particular ones are behaving predictably for some reason, and they're the only herd animals you've ever seen behave predictably. With a little planning, your tribe could wipe them out in a day and feast for a year.

There are really only three ways to interpret such behavior. Either you see their stupidity as your good fortune so you hunt the herd and their behavior to extinction. Then every new herd of aurochs you encounter will retreat out of sight, and the hunt will never match that one glorious day when you killed that stupid bull that led his herd into your trap.

Or you might come to see the herd as your kindred spirits, perhaps the reincarnated souls of your fallen tribesmen watching over you from afar. Or you may simply recognize the practical benefits of maintaining a breeding population of aurochs nearby, slaughtering only the older ones or those that leave the herd on their own. Either way, you'll soon put it together that this irrational behavior breeds true, and then your ancestors will learn to exploit that trait to domesticate the herd.

And irrational though it may seem to you, from the aurochs' perspective it makes perfect sense to stay close to a dangerous yet benign pack of violent ape-men. They're a menace to predators and prey alike, making loud and unpleasant noises, starting fires on purpose like maniacs, and killing anything that gets too close. So the aurochs who are lucky enough to range near a tribe with enough sense not to hunt them to extinction will be safe from wolves, tigers and bears, and they won't have to compete with mammoths or buffalo for food.

It is believed that all 1.5 billion of today's Taurine cattle descended from just 80 aurochs tamed in Turkey sometime around 10,500 years ago. It couldn't have been easy to domesticate that herd, what with the inevitable interbreeding with wild herds making it difficult to keep track of which offspring carry the recessive don't-fear-humans trait.

It would have taken a few human lifetimes to solidify that tamable aurochs trait, mostly by spreading it to the surrounding wild herds. The interbreeding they thought was working against them actually worked for them: it wasn't until the surrounding wild herds inherited the tamable trait that the captive herd was finally domesticated.

Before getting to that point, humans would've needed some way to corral and tag the animals so somebody had to invent fences and writing. But to make that possible, they had to invent civilization first. As it happened, both civilization and cattle domestication occurred together. Indeed, neither was possible without the other.

So it was that when the tribes of Isreal recently freed from their bondage in Egypt reverted to the pagan ways of their ancestors, they chose a golden calf to worship. Their choice of idol was no idle choice: their ancestors revered the calf as the seed from which civilization sprang forth. It was an all too common example of a decadent society turning its collective back on God to worship itself instead, which is why it brought the wrath of Moses down upon the Israelites when he returned from Mount Sinai.

The domestication of cattle is a human achievement, yes, but we do not deserve all or even most of the credit. Just remember the brutes we were before we had herds to shepherd. Whether you believe chance favored a prepared mind or divine intervention brought man and cow together—and why couldn't it be both?—aurochs could not become cattle until mankind became civilized. We owe our modern maturity to our fellow beasts and their willingness to put up with us.

#cattle #ranching #food #history #civilization #evolution #coevolution #domestication #animal husbandry #Cro-Magnon #dogs #wolves #aurochs

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margridarnauds · 4 years ago

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St. Patrick and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Douchebag

(as suggested by @fallenidol-453)

St. Patrick’s Day, for me, means that it’s time for my yearly rereading of Patrick’s Confessio, his autobiographical justification for his time in Ireland. The work is, essentially, a masterwork of rhetoric and theology, held together with, perhaps, a touch of whingeing and pious self-deprecation, and, given its age and how many works didn’t survive, it’s a miracle that it’s survived as long as it has, and it’s a testament to the bravery and courage of the man who set the stage for Ireland to become a hub of learning and literacy during the Middle Ages. Patrick, in later texts, is often referred to with epithets such as “Patrick of the Clear Pen” and, as critical as I can be of the impact of Christianity on mythological narratives (and as critical as I can be of the modern church’s actions in Ireland), the simple truth is that, without literacy, without Patrick (or someone like him), none of the texts I study would have been written down.

What’s lesser known is that, actually, there was a second work from Patrick’s pen that survived: Patrick’s letter to Coroticus, a warlord (popularly believed to be British, due to an account in Muirchu’s Life of Patrick, though recently doubt has been put on this by Patrician scholars Dumville and Thompson, the latter of whom notes that Muirchu’s Life of Patrick also says that Coroticus ended his days as a fox. Yes. A fox.) who, while he had formally adopted Christianity, continued to enslave and kill Christian converts with his band of warriors that consisted of Scots and Pictish mercenaries. Unlike his usual image of a meek and mild “good shepherd”, Patrick, here, shows his clear (justified!!) anger at Coroticus’ actions, showing a human side that is often missing in retellings of Patrick’s life that present him as invariably mild and even tempered, alternating between sharply criticizing him and his men while also begging for the return of the captives:

For this reason, let every God-fearing person know that those people are alien to me and to Christ my God, for whom I am an ambassador: father-slayers, brother-slayers, they are savage wolves devouring the people of God as they would bread for food. It is just as it is said: ‘The wicked have routed your law, O Lord’ – the very law which in recent times he so graciously planted in Ireland and, with God's help, has taken root.

Of particular worry to Patrick was that the local population continued to have positive dealings with Coroticus’ men. He returns, repeatedly, to the idea that the Christians of Ireland should have no dealings with him, they should not “fawn on such people, nor even share food or drink with them, nor accept their alms.” Clearly, Coroticus and his soldiers were quite popular, far from any idea of him as a roving, barbarian warlord whose favorite hobbies included murder, murder, and tossing the bones of his victims to his dogs. He was a douchebag, but he was a douchebag who was smart enough to know how to get people on his side.

As noted by Thompson, it was very common practice to kill slaves that were not sellable, and this was a clear concern of Patrick’s, his anxiety edging its way into the epistle: “That is why I will cry aloud with sadness and grief: O my fairest and most loving brothers and sisters whom I begot without number in Christ, what am I to do for you? I am not worthy to come to the aid either of God or of human beings. The evil of evil people has prevailed over us.” To Patrick, enslaved in his youth and sent off to Ireland, this must have had a personal touch to it, though he does not directly say so, rather focusing on his sacrifice in (voluntarily) leaving his home for Ireland later in life rather than his earlier ordeal.

(This sympathy shouldn’t be pressed too far, however: Roy Flechner’s suggested that Patrick attained the wealth he needed to settle in Ireland by selling off his family’s slaves which, as a noble Romano-British family, they certainly would have had. Furthermore, as noted by Flechner, Patrick’s primary offense comes from Coroticus enslaving Christians, not that he took part in the slave trade at all.)

In typical Patrician form, this letter, far from being intended to be read by just an audience of one or two people (which, indeed, wouldn’t be very much in keeping with the Roman epistolary tradition), was actually intended to be an open letter. “I ask insistently whatever servant of God is courageous enough to be a bearer of these messages, that it in no way be withdrawn or hidden from any person. Quite the opposite – let it be read before all the people, especially in the presence of Coroticus himself.” He wanted Coroticus to know he fucked up, but he also wanted the rest of Ireland to know that Coroticus fucked up and, possibly, as suggested by Dumville, he wanted people even outside of Ireland to know that Coroticus fucked up. Given that, while less popular than the Confessio, this letter is still widely studied, read, and analyzed, both by Patrician scholars and laypeople alike, it’s clear that he got his wish. Long after Coroticus’ name has disappeared past the point of being discernable, not being mentioned (to anyone’s knowledge) in any annals or literature, the world knows Coroticus as a Class A Douchebag.

Now, let this be a lesson: Make sure to leave out cookies for Patrick on St. Patrick’s Day, or else get turned into a fox.

Works Cited:

David Dumville, “Coroticus”.

David Dumville, “Verba militibus mittenda Corotici: an analysis of St. Patrick’s tract on the crimes of Coroticus”.

Roy Flechner, “Patrick’s Reasons for Leaving Britain”.

E. A Thompson, “St. Patrick and Coroticus”.

The edition/translation of the epistle used here is taken from the one used on Confessio.ie. I highly, highly recommend a trip to that site, both for the letter itself and the other materials on Patrick that are available.

#st. patrick #coroticus #irish history #celtic studies #st. patrick's day #long post #medieval ireland

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blackjack-15 · 4 years ago

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No, the Creature’s name is Fraulein’s Monster — Thoughts on: The Captive Curse (CAP)

Previous Metas: SCK/SCK2, STFD, MHM, TRT, FIN, SSH, DOG, CAR, DDI, SHA, CUR, CLK, TRN, DAN, CRE, ICE, CRY, VEN, HAU, RAN, WAC, TOT, SAW

Hello and welcome to a Nancy Drew meta series! 30 metas, 30 Nancy Drew Games that I’m comfortable with doing meta about. Hot takes, cold takes, and just Takes will abound, but one thing’s for sure: they’ll all be longer than I mean them to be.

Each meta will have different distinct sections: an Introduction, an exploration of the Title, an explanation of the Mystery, a run-through of the Suspects. Then, I’ll tackle some of my favorite and least favorite things about the game, and finish it off with ideas on how to improve it.

If any game requires an extra section or two, they’ll be listed in the paragraphs above, along with my list of previous metas.

These metas are not spoiler free, though I’ll list any games/media that they might spoil here: CAP, mentions of SAW, mentions of ASH.

The Intro:

The obvious Frankenstein reference in the title of this meta is the only one I make in the whole meta, I swear. It was a mistake to make the monster look like Frankenstein’s Monster, but I’m not gonna drag you guys or the meta down with that.

We’re professionals here.

This is a game with rather big shoes to fill, to be honest — it’s our first game in Germany, comes right after a very well-received “haunting” game and has shades of being a “haunting” game itself, its (small bit of) marketing played off Grimm’s Tales, and Savannah’s comment about staying in a castle where she discovered that the real monster was human cruelty is directly pointing towards it. CAP and its story could have crumpled under the weight of high expectations like MED, MID, and (in a slightly more controversial opinion) SEA did, but instead it did the opposite: in nearly every way, it improved on the Faerietale Formula that SAW inspired, and added to it.

Rather than a spooky haunted faerietale with a Hidden Villain, we have instead a monster — out in the open, even — as our main villain. The difference between ghosts and monsters isn’t really important in, say, a “Scary Stories to Tell In The Dark” or “Goosebumps” book, but it’s fairly important in a mystery, and even more in a Nancy Drew mystery.

As I’ve said a few dozen times in this series — and if you’re not tired of it yet, you will be soon — ghosts are a Reality in the Nancy Drew universe; they exist, they cause trouble, and they sometimes even help the living (or at least coexist with the living).

Monsters, on the other hand, never really exist — not banshees, not werewolves, not malicious wolves with opposable thumbs and the ability to cook poisoned foods, and certainly not monsters that in no way resemble the main villain from a Universal classic horror flick. Monster in the Nancy Drew universe is a Title, not a type of creature. Whenever there’s a monster on the loose, it’s a sure sign that there’s a bitter individual somewhere looking to hurt someone — usually for a personal grudge.

Which, as it happens, is exactly what happened here.

We’re still firmly in a Faerietale game — the ‘Nancy’ games start with ASH — but I do think it’s important to note here that the girls in this game (the victims of the monster, Renate, Anja) are all shadows of Nancy. The previous victims, sharing the designation of the Girl in the Dress with Nancy, are shadows of what could happen to Nancy if she doesn’t change the fate that’s been designated for her — down to the red hair of the original Girl.

Renate is a type of detective, trying to solve the mystery of the tragedies that strike the castle through the actions of the past. And Anja — well, let’s just say that Anja and Nancy have a lot more between then than the first glance might show.

The two women are foiled, especially with their love lives. Nancy’s dating a good man — despite the obvious, glaring problems in the relationship — and so their argument (and her own selfish behavior) isn’t the end of the world, nor the end of the relationship. They stop, they assess, and — with a little help from Anja — Nancy’s determined to try a little harder, leading us straight into ASH. The big thesis statement of the game is delivered, like last game, by our villain — “There’s nothing like love to bring order to a scattered world”. Anja gives Nancy good advice: communicate, and work for what you want.

Anja, however, was not dating a good man; she encouraged him, much like Ned does with Nancy, to be better, to try harder, to really reach for what he could be — only to be cast aside as soon as all the hard work that she had put in to supporting him led to good results. Her world was not scattered before — but after Markus, there was nothing that could put it back together again.

There’s nothing like love, indeed, but when it’s the wrong kind of person…well, the message that Anja took out of it was that somebody, somewhere, should care about her. And if they weren’t going to…well, a tragedy necessitates the force of Fate, and we know what Renate says about fate:

“Fate has a habit of digging in its claws when tempted.”

The last thing I want to touch on in this introduction — which I realize is a bit heavy on themes, but so is the game — is the importance of Titles within this game. The Bürgermeister, The Castellan, The Monster, The Girl in the Dress — this game operates a lot on character tropes, like any self-respecting faerietale, and the titles go a long way to showing who each character is. Karl feels dwarfed and inadequate next to his title; Anja wanted hers so badly that she was willing to lie; the title of Monster strikes fear into the heart of the vast majority of our cast.

And the Girl? The Girl in the Dress is a symbol of helpless fate, a sacrifice to propel the narrative forward. Remember what Renate tells Nancy? “The monster, he is here for you.”

Tellingly, it’s Nancy’s changing of what exactly it means to be The Girl in the Dress that allows our faerietale to meet with a happy ending, rather than a tragedy (the ending normally brought about by Fate, in Renate’s words). In keeping the title but changing the scope of the title, Nancy figuratively beats the Monster, and saves the memory all the Girls that came before.

The Title:

The Captive Curse is, as far as titles go, a masterclass. Nearly all the titles of the 20+ numbers are fabulous, but CAP’s title is a shining star even among them. Let’s talk about the important word in the title — “Captive”.

There are a lot of things that are “captive” in this game. We have the captives of the monster, to start off with, but there’s a lot more where that came from. The residents of the Castle and the castle’s town are also captive — they’re held captive by fear, as evidenced by the doors that refuse to open even when Nancy begs them to.

Shrugging off the idea of keeping this meta even a little bit spoiler-free, I’d also add that Markus is a sort of captive of Anja — there under false pretenses, drawing a web around him to finish him off — and equally that Anja is a captive of Markus’ — the shadow of her dick ex-boyfriend hanging over her dream job, watching him profit off of being a truly terrible person.

Renate and Nancy get in on the action, too. Renate is a captive of guilt, returning to the castle to try to prevent further deaths, haunted by her sister’s early death. She’s also a storyteller — a profession famed for having a “captive audience”. Lastly, Nancy is forced into the costume rather than her own clothes — a captive of the tale that’s being spun by our major players.

The Faerietale

In SAW’s faerietale, Nancy was the visiting prince, the Knight in Shining Armor to look after and save the kingdom. In CAP’s faerietale, however, her role gets changed around — not the least of which because we discover what an actual Knight in Shining Armor really is, courtesy of Renate:

“A knight in shining armor never did nothing for nobody. He never fought. A knight in dented, scraped armor - now that’s what you want.”

This isn’t the cynical take that some might spin it into — the Nancy Drew universe is not and has never been a Nolan-style grimdark-fest, skeptical of any good deed or honest inclination — but instead a declaration that it’s what people do that makes them heroes, that makes them good, that makes them who they are, not what they are (or what they seem to be).

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that, in a game exploring what good a Knight in Shining Armor might be, that the series’ resident Knight appears within the context of his fight with Nancy.

Ned in the video games series is the closest to a Knight that we really get; he doesn’t make mistakes, he’s always patient and kind and understanding, and helps out the best he can without being actually on the scene. In other words, his armor has no dents, nor scrapes, not so much by his choice (excepting possibly CRY), but by Nancy’s. By constantly leaving him behind, she’s cast in him his role as Knight in Shining Armor — but, as Renate points out, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Ned has the potential to be and do more — as ASH will show us.

And yes, there’s someone in the series that fits the knight in dented, scraped armor, but this is not the time for a Francy meta. If ever there is a time for Francy meta.

The biggest thing that changes from SAW to CAP is that Nancy’s learned from last time, and starts trying to figure out the faerietale she’s in the minute it starts in earnest. When she hears Renate’s tale, she’s sure she’s figured it out — guessing it was about Renate’s sister — but we’re shown that her perception is a little off (as the girl was Renate, not her sister). This shifting up of the roles is crucial thematically to our ending, where Nancy gleefully assumes the role of the Girl in the Dress as the hero of the piece, rather than the victim that the Girl had always been.

What Nancy happens upon here I’ll cheerfully call the Power of the Storyteller. All faerietales shift and change depending on who’s telling the story — look at the thousands of versions of Cinderella had all over the world, all too old to just be a knockoff of their geographical neighbor’s story or (yes, I’ve heard this) based off the Disney property.

With Anja telling the story for the majority of the game, it’s a tale about how sometimes the “monster” (and her version of a monster, specifically) wins — and how sometimes they deserve to win, to perpetuate the faerietale as it always has been; as Renate reminds us, “when death goes to take a ride, he follows the road that serves him best.” In Anja’s mind, there must always be a Monster, and there must always be a Girl in the Dress. With Nancy taking over the story, however, it’s about how the victim doesn’t have to be the victim, and that they have the power to assume their own destiny.

In other words, they’re playing out the central conflict that Renate outlines in her first discussion with Nancy: “If our time together is a comedy, then I was brought here by coincidence. If our time is a tragedy, then it must be fate.”

Coincidence and fate are also, coincidentally (heh) the driving forces in a faerietale — except that fate is also a driving force for romance. And because romance is our Chief Concern in CAP’s story, a lot of the story is about fighting against fate. In the end, it’s a coincidence that Nancy arrives, but Anja tries to spin it into fate by making her the Girl in the Dress. It’s only when Nancy takes charge, not letting fate have its say, that she arrives at the ending and is able to best Anja.

One of the great questions that this faerietale presents is about the Monster is whether or not it ever existed. In a Faerietale, the Monster nearly always exists in some form or another, needing to be drawn out and killed by our hero(es) before the day can be saved.

Indeed, in Anja’s modern-day retelling of the faerietale, the monster doesn’t exist — at least, not in its Monstrous form. In her story, Markus is the monster, and she must put on the guise of a monster in order to defeat him — in other words, if a monster is going to win, it’s going to be her.

To quote Ned’s astute observation, “[Castle Finster] has too many monsters.”

But it’s Savannah’s words that we should look to, as she’s a Storyteller just as much as Renate is. Savannah, heavily implied to be speaking of Castle Finster, says that the monster she found wasn’t a ghost — it was human cruelty that made the castle and its history so terrifying.

So we’re faced with the question: did the monster ever exist, or was it solely bad people, stealing cattle and sheep and young girls away for their own wicked purposes? Was there truly an amorphous being roaming the countryside, or was it just a clever way to shift blame from those who would do evil unto others? Remember what Renate tells us about monsters:

“The worst monsters are self-made. They are people like you and me, but they have taken a terrible turn. They let everything awful, everything sad, take up all the breathing room in their hearts, until all they know is revenge.”

The answer I would give is that, for this faerietale, it doesn’t matter if the Monster is real or not. The concern is not the nature of the monster, it’s the people’s reaction to the idea of a monster, real or imagined, that sets off our faerietale and provides the stakes. The fear is real and palpable, and the ends of our villain, while understandable and perhaps even praiseworthy, require some downright dastardly means.

The Mystery:

We open first on a look back at a young girl in an Era Past being captured by an unseen monster in the woods near a castle…only to have Nancy drive up on the Castle Finster itself in the modern day. Nancy’s been called in by the owner of the castle, Markus, who wants any troubles with the legendary monster cleaned up before he and his Rich Investor Friends arrive.

Rather than a welcoming piece of history, Nancy is greeted with a scared, unwelcoming town, the fear of the monster looming large and cutting deep — and that’s before the Curse itself turns its eyes on Nancy, forcing her to play along as the Girl in the Red Dress, the favored victim of the monster. Those in the castle are kinder than those outside of it, but there’s still the sneaking suspicion that someone is up to no good, using the guise of the monster to wreak a little havoc of their own invention — and time is running out before the monster claims yet another victim…

As far as the mystery goes…I don’t like to use words like “spectacular” because let’s face it, every game has its holes, but honestly CAP’s mystery is pretty spectacular. Attention-catching, a bit sad, a bit horrific, and loaded with faerietale tropes, subversions, and themes — there’s honestly just not much wrong here, especially given the limitations of, well, making a Nancy Drew game in the first place. The writing does a masterful job at hinting at horrors that, given the rating, they can’t say out loud, while still telling a fully cohesive story that even the young players will be able to grab at and understand (if not to quite the same extent)

The Suspects:

The game begins with Lukas Mittelmeier, so perhaps we should too. Lukas is the rather precocious son of the head of security of Castle Finster, as well as being Anja’s nephew. Bright, mischievous, and a huge fan of games and pranks, Lukas makes the castle a little more interesting — as well as making Karl’s life a bit more hellish.

Unlike another youth living in a castle (coughJanecough), Lukas is bright enough to be a competent culprit…he just isn’t malicious enough. Sure, he’ll play dress-up, spook Karl a bit, and stall Nancy outside the gates of the castle, but that’s really as far as he goes. He would have been an especially poor culprit, thematically speaking, and so it’s a good thing that the game never really attempts to lead you there. Even his dressing up as the monster is more meant to lull the player (and Nancy) into letting down their guard so that the real monster is a bit scarier.

Next up is the Bürgermeister and bad-luck-magnet himself, Karl Weschler. Having encountered his doppelganger as a small child, Karl has expected — and received — bad luck for the rest of his life, and lives in fear of being the cause of unhappiness to those around him. He’s also a board game enthusiast, having developed the (incredibly fun, it should be noted) board game Raid! and enlists Nancy to help him polish it while she solves the “huge monster problem” that Markus hired her for.

As a culprit, Karl would have been interesting, but thematically a little off. It would have had to be a situation where enough bad things happened around him at the castle to make him want to shift the blame, dressing up as the monster in order to throw the punishment off of himself and onto a nebulous force. An interesting plot to be sure, but not one that fits the more sinister nature of the game.

Our charming castellan and cunning culprit, Anja Mittelmeier is next on the docket. Incredibly good at her job, polished, polite, and fiendishly dedicated, Anja keeps the castle in good running order, gives Nancy advice, and is a doting aunt — all while secretly sabotaging Markus by acting as the monster.

I have a lot to say about how good a character Anja is — which I’ll cover more in the next section — but she’s also the perfect villain. All the information you need to figure out who she is happens to be presented to Nancy pretty quickly, but none of it is in the proper context to make it obvious. Even her line — “there’s nothing like love to bring order to a scattered world” — is sweet and romantic at the time, and rather chilling and menacing when you have the whole context of exactly what Anja is doing to ‘bring order to a scattered world’.

It seems only fitting that after Anja should come Markus Boehm, the owner of the castle and the ex-boyfriend that Anja is working for revenge against. Markus is snappish, short-tempered, obnoxious about his money, and rather boorish — though he has some of the funniest lines in any Nancy Drew game — and is guilty of a lot, though not of haunting his own castle.

Casting Markus as the villain would have made this game an entirely different faerietale, one that would have necessitated Anja becoming The Girl in the Dress rather than Nancy. It might have been a more stereotypical Nancy Drew story, but it also would have been weaker – after all, a lot of the horror in this faerietale comes from the curse having its eyes firmly on Nancy, rather than on her watching it unfold.

Finally, our most divisive character is probably Renate Stoller, a cake-loving storyteller bound to Castle Finster by a mixture of fate and history. Personally speaking, I’m a total fan of Renate; she has a lot of freedom to liken the situation to stories and to spell out the fact that all stories are ambiguous without being morally relativist or faux-deep.

As a villain, Renate would have been interesting — set to haunt the castle that has haunted her for so long and caused her pain — but it would have removed the Storyteller archetype from the game, causing the player (and Nancy) to doubt everything she’s said, which would have been a shame.

The Favorite:

There’s a lot to love in CAP, both big and small, so I’ll try to tackle this section with some sort of organization, rather than just gushing from point to random point.

My favorite moment in the game is (in a stunning change from 90% of Nancy Drew Games) tied between the beginning and the final confrontation. The old-time film style beginning (a great example of a “cold open” of a type of horror totally distinct from SAW’s brand of horror) through Nancy’s first discussion with Karl is tightly paced and incredibly well done, introducing our main problems, a few characters, and how Nancy is stepping into this faerietale that’s been all but prepared for her. Special shout out to Karl’s “huge monster problem” dialogue, and Lukas’ getting caught at the castle’s gates — just some really great, distinct character writing that we normally don’t get this soon into a game.

The confrontation, which is normally somewhat cheesy, sometimes awful, and nearly always ill-supported (HAU being the best/worst example of this) in a Nancy Drew game, here instead shows off Nancy’s quick thinking and almost triumphant, smug nature when she figures it all out and traps the villain. The games coming up, as I’ve mentioned above, I refer to as “the Nancy games”, as they give us a lot of insight into who Nancy Drew actually is, aside from an amateur/burgeoning professional detective, but SAW and (to a larger extent) CAP really start giving us peeks at Nancy’s character — not as an infallible main character, but as a girl with an actual personality.

My favorite puzzle in the game — and I realize that it barely counts — is quite honestly Raid. Normally, the games that HER comes up with as minigames within their games are lackluster at best and criminally annoying at worst, but Raid (along with the games in ASH which are particularly enjoyable) is fabulous; it gives us more of that faerietale vibe that the game runs on, brings in Germany’s well-deserved reputation of being the King of Board Games, and actually contains a few moments of good characterization for Karl as well.

And I’m a sucker for getting to create your own card for the game. That’s just stupid cool.

One of the things that CAP does particularly well is its characters, so let’s talk a bit about them here.

Renate, a common favorite, mostly lives up to her hype, due to her storyteller’s dialogue, status as a Sage (slightly different from the usual Sage in a Nancy Drew game, due to her backstory), and intense relatability with falling asleep after eating cake.

Lukas is one of the few child characters in the ND games that actually feels like a child, so he gets points there automatically, even without noting how charming he is. Having Nancy talk to him under the table is also gold, even with the sense that she’s just humoring him, and having him dress up as a monster in a fake out that fools nobody (and even better, is not meant from a writing standpoint to fool anyone) feels perfectly in character for a relatively unsupervised rapscallion like Lukas.

Last on the favorite character list is Anja, a character done To Perfection. It breaks my heart sometimes that she’s the villain, but her character also wouldn’t be complete without being the villain — nor would I love her so much. Anja is patient, loving, a great aunt, friendly, gregarious — and a villain. Her line when she’s talking to Nancy about how she was honest and worked hard every day, and no one cared hits me every time. Anja’s a perfect example of a character who is intensely sympathetic and quite relatable without ever having the thought that her scheme involving Nancy was even a little bit okay. She’s a villain that I’d love to have come back, whether as a villain again or as a begrudging helper.

Finally, let’s get down to the miscellany.

The dialogue in CAP is pitch-perfect, from the distinct way of talking that each suspect has, to Markus’ insults, to the one-off phone call with the pamphlet company. The game in part is so fun because the dialogue is so fun, walking the line between faerietale-style narration (Anja, Renate) and almost Buffy-speak modernity (Karl, Lukas, Markus).

The last thing I want to touch on it — yes, you knew it was coming — the fight between Ned and Nancy. Yes, I’m a Francy shipper, and I do love that Frank is the one Nancy turns to for help with the fight, but that’s not what this part is about.

First off, I love that problems that would /necessarily/ come up in a relationship like Ned and Nancy’s are brought up here; Nancy’s constant jet-setting, while a common side effect of the job she does, is also something that would cause tension — especially considering that Nancy doesn’t really tell him when she sets off for another state/country at a moment’s notice.

A thing that has become Increasingly obvious over the entire series is that Nancy is, let’s face it, not gonna win any awards for Girlfriend of the Year, and in fact might win the opposite award. Ned is constantly giving her attention, validation, helping out when she calls him, and is understanding when she cancels; for her to not give the same amount of care to him (in different ways, as everyone needs different things, of course) becomes more and more glaring as time goes on.

My firm stance on being a bit anti-Nedcy comes from the belief that Ned deserves to get as much out of a relationship as he puts in, and Nancy, as the person she is and even as the best person that she can be, just can’t provide that. Their needs as people are just too different for a relationship to be fair for either person – and, as this game demonstrates, though Ned has the shorter end of the stick, it’s not fair for either one of them.

The Un-Favorite:

There’s not a lot that goes into this section, to be perfectly honest.

The forest is probably my least favorite section of the game — the part that I consider before starting a new game over — but besides tweaking it slightly to help navigation not be quite so frustrating (see below), even the forest is a pretty good puzzle.

The bag puzzle — especially if you, like me, forget every time that you can rotate the objects in Renate’s purse — is the only other annoyance in the game, and ranks as my least favorite puzzle over the forest simply for the fact that you can use a walkthrough to navigate the forest, while you can’t use a walkthrough to do the bag puzzle for you.

Other than that, CAP is just a wholly solid game — no least favorite dialogue, no awkward moment, no point where I turn down my brightness to make it seem like This Isn’t Happening.

The Fix:

So how would I fix The Captive Curse?

Honestly, the first and only change I would make is to fix the forest just slightly. I get that it’s a puzzle, but it’s not quite visually distinct enough to make it feasible for a lot of players to learn how to navigate. To fix this, I wouldn’t take out the forest, I would just make each piece of it a little more visually distinct, with more markers so that players couldn’t lose their place as easily.

There’s nothing other than that worth fixing. Even my dislike of the bag puzzle isn’t strong enough to suggest scrapping it, and it’s a type of puzzle that many people like and are quite good at — not to mention the fact that it’s not at all gamebreaking in its difficulty.

The Captive Curse is often sort of a “top middle” or just “middle” ranking for a lot of players due to the fact that it’s not quite as showy as a lot of “favorite” games, and thus can get lost in the fandom shuffle. But looking at it as both pieces and as a whole proves that this game is one of the most solid in the series sporting a great mystery, fantastic characters, and more than a little faerietale wisdom to carry to the next story.

#nancy drew #nancy drew games #clue crew #CAP #the captive curse #nancy drew meta #my meta #video games #long post

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ad1thi · 4 years ago

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@starklysteve rhae asked for some winteriron recs (read: i volunteered to spam rhae w buckytony fics because i adore them), so in no particular order, and based on my memory alone, here are some of my favourite buckytony fics!!

(please remember to leave kudos and comments!!)

American Memorial: @/spqr

“Pick up the shield,” Tony said. Understandably, Bucky told him to go fuck himself

Losing You (Is My Supervillain Origin Story): @amethystinawrites

There are a lot of things that Bucky regrets. The list is, quite frankly, longer than he can handle on most days and, right at the very top, is lying to Tony about who killed his parents. Bucky has known even from before they started dating, but he simply can't bring himself to say anything — to ruin one of the few good things he has in his life. It's selfish and wrong, but Bucky just doesn't know how to tell Tony that he is the one responsible for Howard and Maria Stark's deaths.

So when he starts receiving anonymous emails, threatening to expose the truth to Tony and the rest of the world, Bucky is desperate enough to agree to the blackmailer's terms, even if it means breaking up with Tony. Bucky cannot, under any circumstances, let Tony find out about his parents from anyone but Bucky himself.

Too late Bucky realizes that there is much more to the blackmailer's scheme than just having Bucky break Tony's heart. Too late Bucky realizes that despite his best intentions, he will still end up losing everything — in a much more permanent way than he could ever have imagined.

Hindsight: @amethystinawrites

Ever since he was a little boy, Bucky has dreamed of becoming an astronaut together with Steve, and he can hardly believe their luck when both of them are picked for the Ares 3 crew — the third expedition sent to explore Mars. It is, quite literally, a dream come true.

Things get complicated when Bucky finds himself inconveniently attracted to their mechanical engineer, however. Tony Stark is funny, competent, and absolutely captivating, but considering NASA's strict non-fraternization policy, Bucky knows it's better to keep his interest to himself — at least until they return to Earth. He can wait.

Not once does Bucky consider the possibility that all of them might not make it back alive, or just how much he'll come to regret not acting when he had the chance.

Arsenal: @tangodancer91 (part of a series) (also my all time favourite buckytony series ever)

Two years after the Civil War that tore apart everything she’d bled to build, Toni Stark sacrificed herself for her newly-reinstated teammates and ended up stranded in the past. Freed of her name, her fortune, and her hostile ex-teammates, she built herself a life as an agent for the OSS, the American secret service, and, having nothing to lose, accepted a mission to infiltrate the newest player in the war: an organization that call themselves HYDRA.

Then, she met a young draftee with a dreadfully familiar face, and they clicked like she had never clicked with anyone before. By the time she realized she’d fallen for the man who’d cost her everything, it was too late, but she’d always been an all or nothing type of girl, and if she was damning herself, well then…might as well go all the way.

Yield: @aurumacadicus (this is an a/b/o verse fic)

All Bucky has ever wanted was to win the contest for Tony's hand in marriage. It's a bit harder now that he's down to one arm, but luckily his friends are willing to help make up the difference.

Barnes Family Motors Inc: @phlintandsteel-ao3 (this is an a/b/o verse fic)

In a world where alphas legally own omegas, Bucky is just a small time mechanic from Brooklyn who gets lucky in a poker game. Tony is an omega whose life is fraught with abuse, until his luck suddenly takes a turn for the better.

In the grand scheme of things they may only be able to make little differences in the lives of those around them, but that doesn't mean it's not worth making them. After all, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

The Long Con (don’t kid yourself): @phlintandsteel-ao3

When Tony finds out that Howard is thinking about changing the terms of Tony’s trust fund, he embarks on a not-so-elaborate scheme to prove that he’s totally settling down and not in continued need of Howard’s “guidance” until 25 instead of 21. Step 1: Get a fiance Step 2: ??? Step 3: Profit (Finally be free of Howard)

Unfortunately, Tony Stark is the worst con-artist ever, and may only be kidding himself..

Hot Mess: @/niki

“Would serve him right if we had the world's most ill-advised one night stand.”

Imperceptions and Assumptions: @/NarutoRox

Afterward, Bucky would look back on their first meeting with fondness and a healthy dose of amusement. At the time, though, he’d mostly been confused - and more than a little embarrassed.

Bucky hadn’t paid much attention to the media in his early days, and hadn’t bothered really reading up on the team or anything, either, so when Steve had said ‘Tony Stark’, Bucky had just assumed.

The same way he’d looked at the three people who’d walked through the door - an imposing redhead in heels, a bored-looking brunette who dimpled when she saw him and Steve, and a sturdy-looking man wearing a slight glower - locked eyes on the man, and assumed him to be the infamous Tony Stark Steve wouldn’t shut up about.

It was Bucky’s first lesson when it came to Natasha Antonia ‘Toni’ Stark - never assume.

In which Tony Stark is actually Natasha Antonia 'Toni' Stark (which everyone knows) as well as Iron Man (which everyone does not know), assumptions are made, and there are misunderstandings.

From this prompt: How about a cross between my two favorite tropes? Nobody knows who iron man is other than Natasha/Antonia Stark's bodyguard but Bucky is in love with one or both of them

i know, you know (that i’m not telling the truth) : @imposter-human

psychic tony stark is called to work a routine case with detective bucky barnes; only, he seems to be more connected to the case than anyone thought

or, a psych au!!

the new romeo and juliet: @imposter-human

Bucky and Tony weren’t dating, because a firefighter and a detective couldn’t date (never mind that Tony hadn’t slept with anyone else since their thing had started, and he and Bucky hung out with an alarming frequency, and the whole precinct thought that they were an item). It didn't matter how many nights they spent together, how Bucky had a drawer of Tony's things and vice versa, they just couldn't.

It was a classic Romeo and Juliet situation, if Romeo and Juliet actively disliked each other on top of everything.

if found, please return to: @capnshellhead

Tony Stark shows up at Bucky's bar after a really tough break up and Bucky decides to look after him

gods of carnage: @deathsweetqueen (part of a series)

On May 29, 1970, the Winter Soldier feels a burning sensation and looks down at his wrist to find a single name written in enduring ink: Antonia Margaret Stark.

HYDRA, fearing the defiance of their greatest asset due to a bond that cannot and will not be denied its due, immediately dispatches the Soldier, to locate, collect and deliver this newborn girl to HYDRA, which will become her new home, her new family and her entire world - to be raised as another one of HYDRA’s great warriors: their Engineer.

But the Engineer is a faulty asset. She thinks things that may get her killed one day. She wants things that she shouldn’t, that are not hers to want. She has a mind and body that belong more to herself than any handler, than any commander she may have.

And if she cuts her strings, when she cuts her strings, well, when you put sheep next to wolves, you ask for a bloodbath.

where i walk, you follow (where i burn, you burn): @deathsweetqueen

At his father's command, Anthony Stark trades in his northern keep for a southern crown, wedded and bedded by Alexander of House Pierce, First of His Name.

Tony does his duty, becomes a wolf in name only, toothless and clawless, and a dark, gleaming ornament for the King, even if he would make himself a widower a hundred times over.

Honour demanded it of him, and so he did.

But it is Ser James Barnes, named the Kingslayer for his sins during the Rebellion, that draws his eye, gives him comfort in this pit of liars and monsters

So, what is honour compared to a good man's love? They are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love.

[Fic by deathsweetqueen, Art by MassiveSpaceWren]

Cat Parenting (And Other Meet Cutes): @singingwithoutwords (this is an a/b/o verse fic)

Of all the ways Bucky could have finally gotten a chance to speak to his crush, why did it have to be his cat getting Tony's cat pregnant?

Codename Heartbreaker: @rinnwrites (part of a series)

Today was a day that, contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark had most certainly not been looking forward to. It was election day, or election night, rather, and the polls were closed, the results were in; Howard Stark was the next President of the United States of America.

Tony Stark Bingo - R3: Election Day

Fate Strings Not Required: @akira-of-the-twilight

“Hey doll,” a new voice said from Tony’s side.

Tony glanced at the person approaching.

Someone was working the rugged, bad boy look. The new guy rocked a leather jacket and blue jeans.

His blue eyes lit up with joy as he approached Tony. “Something wrong here?” The new guy gave the first guy--the one insisting he was Tony's soul mate--a once over then turned his full attention on Tony. “You’re looking a little stressed, anything I can do?”

Tony took the hint.

Tony wrapped his hand around the new guy’s elbow. He kept his touch light and breakable in case he’d misread the cue.

“Just some guy claiming to be my soul mate, babe.”

The new guy’s eyebrows rose to his hairline in surprise. He chuckled and gave the first guy a smirk. “Strange. Last time I checked we were soul mates.”

Siren’s Treasure: @akira-of-the-twilight

Prompt: I really love the idea of playboy!Bucky flirt of the seven seas first-mate to Captain Rogers, falling completely overboard in love with our Blacksmith-Inventor Inexperienced!Tony who goes from confident captive to shy woe-begone man in the presence of Bucky's fierce affections. Virgin!Tony wonders what a siren like Bucky could possibly want with him. Bucky wants to know what the fuck Logan thinks he's doing flirting with the man who stole his heart like sunken treasures. Happy ending please?

“Sirens killed your crew?” Steve repeated.

The dark haired man nodded. Just an hour ago the Avenger crew had found the man clinging to driftwood in the middle of the ocean. Now he clutched the flask of rum Bucky had given him like it was all that kept him buoyant during these tumultuous times.

The man—Tony—had already downed more than half the flask and was still sober. “Not exactly my crew, but close enough. Yeah.” Tony uncapped the flask and threw back a mouthful.

Steve frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

Tony shrugged. “I wasn’t captain of the ship.”

“So what were you?” Steve pressed.

Road hazards: @riotwritesthings

Steve and Bucky's BFF road trip is not going well. For starters, Steve couldn't even make it, and for some bizarre reason asked Tony to take his place. The fact that it’s only a couple days before someone is trying to kill them isn’t nearly as stressful as the fact that Bucky and Tony have never really had an actual conversation.

It’s hard to avoid someone when stuck in a car with them though, and if they manage to stay alive they just might learn a thing or two.

Once Upon a Wintertime: @iam93percentstardust (this is an a/b/o verse fic)

Look, Bucky knows that he’s fulfilling every cliché in the book right now. He knows that, as a bodyguard, he’s not supposed to fall in love with his client. But Tony’s good and sweet and so, so lonely and how could Bucky not? He thinks he’s got a shot after Tony breaks up with his boyfriend but on a trip across the country, he finds out that Tony needs a bondmate or the board will steal SI—and Ty’s already said yes.

little bird: @thxngam

Bucky laughs, and it’s loud and unbidden, a way he hadn’t laughed for years before, tugging his giggling omega into his lap. Tony quiets and nestles into Bucky’s chest like he was made to belong there, and Bucky has noticed several times that Tony is much smaller than he is, but he never quite noticed how Tony always seemed to curl into him as a reason for his size.

Tony nestles like a little bird.

Teenage Dream: @anthonyed

Tony Stark develops a crush on the school's bad boy who is too cool to hang out with anyone. At least, it's what Tony thinks. He never considered that James Barnes is probably as lonely as he is.

(in the process of editing)

The Best Laid Plans (of Mice and Men): @arboreal-elm-ash-oak

His Dark Materials AU

It was Annalise who noticed their small visitor first.

“Tony,” the spider daemon said softly, skittering up the collar of his dress shirt, two of her eight legs resting delicately against his cheek, “Don’t startle them, but I believe we have a guest. Look, by the coffee table.”

A Kitten and a Soldier: @/ThatDamnKennedyKid

Bucky hadn't heard from Rumlow in years - since the whole Winter Soldier fiasco in Siberia. They've been discharged for nearly six years, but when he gets a message that only says "I need your help" , he grabs his jacket and keys.

The Prince’s Bride: @hddnone

After Tony loses the love of his life to pirates on the high sea, not much matters to him. He agrees to wed Prince Justin Hammer to gain access to vibranium and shut himself away in his workshop until the end of time, but a group of ruffians kidnap Tony to take him to Hydra.

Tony's rescue takes on an unlikely form - the Dread Pirate Rogers, who killed the love of his life five years ago.

A Princess Bride AU

A Kind of Destiny: @weethreequarter

A chance meeting at a wedding brings together an American war veteran and the Prince of Wales. Little do they know, the wheels have been set in motion for a relationship which will change not only their lives, but the monarchy itself. Bucky and Tony strike up a friendship at Steve and Peggy’s wedding, a friendship that soon develops into more. But it’s not so simple: Tony is the Prince of Wales, and heir to the throne of Great Britain and the United Kingdom. Any relationship is played out in the press and public eye, and then there's that pesky issue of succession to consider too. But Bucky is no coward, and when he finds something he wants, he’s prepared to fight for it. And fight he will, at Tony's side, for their very own fairy tale ending.

#adi's rec list #buckytony #winteriron #bucky barnes/tony stark #bucky barnes x tony stark #bucky/tony #bucky x tony #i should create a tag for fic rec lists #this got sort of long so ive hidden some of them under a read more #that doesn't mean they're any less good though!!

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starshipsofstarlord · 4 years ago

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That Pizza Place | Nolan Holloway AU (Set in S3A)

Your brother would disapprove, like he did of most things if he found out. But you should have suspected him to find out about your little secret one day. Apparently, the time had come for that to happen, because apparently, a certain someone could not help but blabber.

“She’s got another date tonight, that’s why she doesn’t want to come on look out with us.” At Isaac’s words, Derek froze, becoming as still as a statue, The only parts of him that indicated any life were the tenseness in his arms, the veins flexed as though he was preparing to kill someone, and knowing him he was. Also his nostrils were flared, almost exhaling smoke, and his eyes were rabid, dancing over you with offense.

“We’ve just got Cora back, lost Erica and Boyd, and that is your main concern?” From Isaac’s expression, you could recognise the regret that had just formed after his explicit slip up. But that didn’t matter as you gulped and your outline was burnt by Derek’s disappointed glare.

That wasn’t true at all though, you just needed a distraction. And the boy you were currently spending your time with did a good job at that. He was different from all of the other guys that you sometimes felt like you were forced to spend your time with.

Nolan Holloway was one of a kind. Similar to Boyd, at school he was mostly by himself, but there was a twist. Your late friend and pack mate clearly liked the isolation from people, and often got annoyed, for which you couldn’t blame him, when Scott and Stiles came by to ask him for a favour. However, Nolan wanted to know people, his anxiety just usually held him back, so in your friendship, you made the first move.

There were times that he reminded you of Stiles, there was a trait they shared. Knowledge. Each was a well of it, but mostly in different sections. The abominable snowman was focused on history and mythology, whereas Nolan excelled in science. Other than that, Nolan was much quieter, even when it was just the pair of you. But you didn’t mind it if a conversation went silent, it was still comfortable, and you could sense that he felt that too.

Like Scott, Nolan cared about people, although in his case those numbers were lower than the werewolf’s. And that was the main thing - werewolves, kanimas, hunters. He knew nothing, his mind was clear from the curses, and he wasn’t looking for a secret, so it was unlikely that he would find out the fact that you weren’t human.

Sure he was curious and all, but he had yet to grow into his boots of courage and go out and investigate. He said he liked finding new things out about you, but surely it couldn’t hurt if you left the whole full moon quadrant out of the equation. If anything, it could be seen as self preservation, the less people that knew, the less people would discover the cold hard facts of your life.

“Don’t you dare pull that card on me.” It came out as a growl, aimed at your sibling. You had every right to be offended by his statement, and you sure as hell were. “Of course I’m pleased that Cora is back, and sad that two of my friends are dead, I just need a break. I’m a kid! The innocence of it was taken from you, don’t take it from me.”

He was uncertain of how to respond to your outburst, but you didn’t give him the chance. You walked in a quick pace to leave the loft, and the two wolves remaining behind. Taking your phone out, you looked at your contacts, scrolling down until you saw that you had no messages. Good, he didn’t cancel.

Isaac became incredibly nervous under the tension that was still filling the room even after you had happily left. “Should we go after her?” He asked, genuinely worried, although he suspected you were meeting up with that quiet guy from school as you had originally arranged to.

Sighing, Derek lowered his head. This was definitely not his first argument with you, you’d always been a bit of a pain as a kid, especially when Peter used to sneak you into the high school as a teenager, but this was different. He had pulled the guilt card, all because he thought he’d need another pair of hands if push came to shove.

But he wanted you to be prepared and alert for anything that came your way, otherwise he feared that you would end up like Erica and Boyd. And he had lost enough family, he had thought Cora was gone up until recently, but instead, she had been used as a pawn. A captive by the Alpha Pack.

“No.” The man answered his beta, knowing how much his words had stung you. “She needs her time, we’ll see her whenever she comes back.” Of course a part of him was paranoid that you wouldn’t, that one of the rogue alphas would snatch you up and keep you prisoner, or even kill you but he had to have some faith.

You had made it to the pizza joint, and walked in, quickly finding the one that you had arranged this so called ‘date’ as Isaac had described it. You knew the pair were vaguely familiar with each other, Nolan had just joined the lacrosse team and really wasn’t doing half bad considering he was playing on the same side as a couple of werewolves.

“Hi.” You sat opposite him, dropping your phone on the table, relieved that you hadn’t been notified about your big brother trying to contact you. He must have known that he had struck a nerve, and that was probably the reason that he was leaving you be, which you weren’t mad for.

“Hey.” He smiled, all to aware and wary of his surroundings. It wasn’t the busiest of places during this time, but it wasn’t quiet either. There was a baby crying in the far right corner, wanting attention and nurturing from their parents, and then a couple of guys from your biology class by the window, discussing the newest assignment.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You asked him, smelling the confusion and hint of hope that rolled off of his shoulders. It was awkward for him to see people from school, which he could considering the side of the table he was seated at. Too many people judged him for being introverted, the comments had just begun to die down only because of his choice of joining a sports team.

As for you, everyone knew you as a Hale. When Scott was first bit and he was untrusting of Derek, you spied on him around school, keeping an eye on the boy, following the orders given by your brother.

But other than that, it was no secret about what happened to your family, especially when the truth about Kate and her actions were unveiled. The fire of the old Hale has was an infamous piece of knowledge if you lived in Beacon Hills. Some people, those who had not lived here all of their lives were occasionally impartial to knowing the information, but others let them in, telling them about how children were turned to a crisp, and the fact that there were few survivors.

It had never bought you any friends, just pity. And then those pitying folk would go on to say that it will be okay, or that their cat got ran over last week. The worst thing actually was, they didn’t know why the majority of your family were charred to ashes, some people supposed there were faulty wires or so on.

But this was why you wouldn’t allow Nolan to know the truth. Because of what you are, it even cost the lives of your human family members, to that bitch of a hunter though, that didn’t matter. It was a sacrifice for the greater good in her eyes, she had deserved worse than death itself. As much as you liked him and appreciated his presence, there was no one that you could trust with that intel, he’d either think you were bonkers or run away screaming, only to return with an onslaught of werewolf killing methods.

“You only just got here.” He answered, although he was leaning forward to agreeing. A smile perked up on your face, nothing too flashy, enough to convince him otherwise though.

“I want to show you something.” Jumping up from your seat, Nolan was inclined to follow your actions, and also you. It was something personal, something that you liked to keep private, and if your brother knew, he would surely threaten to rip your throat out.

But in all fairness, it was a part of both of you, the stem of the Hales that had fortunate escapes, whether you thought of them as that or not. History one could say, the place that tied you to Beacon Hills. The Nemeton.

A/N: Probably be doing a part 2, hope you enjoyed it xx

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simeramise · 4 years ago

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Every moon in the stars

This is a winter gift for @myidlehand , you know why my dear.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was Yule night, the winter solstice, the longest night of all. Her silent and heavy cape of cold and snow, dark blue and soft, is draped upon every creek and hollow, mountain and meadow of the land.

It was Yule night, the winter solstice, the longest night of all and in her arms slept a lost keep, its grey stoned walls, old and tired somewhere in a mountain.

It was Yule night, the winter solstice, the longest night of all and in this keep, entwined, warmed by a low fire, laid two men. Shining with love and sweat, their dark hair are drawing a halo on the pale pillows. The feather-like fingers of the musician are tracing the scars of his lover’s face, the ones deforming every smile and laugh, every eye wrinkle. The ones born from love, hatred, cowardice, and bravery. The testimony of the man’s life and heart. The moon and her stars were shining bright, their cristal laughs carried away by the wind of the Yule night.

It was Yule night, the winter solstice, the longest night of all, and a bard loved a witcher. He sang and hummed while his caresses were drawing unknown letters on the witcher’s scarred skin.

Can you hear the mad wind, jealous lover, riding the Earth endlessly, mmm, mmmm mmmmmm mmm....

The witcher is a man of impressive build, hard muscles hidden under a soft and protective layer of fat. He might look like a bear but his school is the one of the wolves roaming the lands. He’s one of the very last wolves of Kaer Morhen, fierce, reliable, fast, silent. His medallion is resting on his dark chest. His strong arms are wrapped around the sturdy waist of his singing lover...

Can you hear the mad wind, jealous lover, mmmm, mmm...

He tightened his hold around him a bit more and hid his face in his neck, nuzzling the soft skin of his underjaw just here. It’s been a long time since they last saw each other.

“Jaskier,… what about Geralt ?”

“What about him ?” yawned the bard.

A silence. “Eskel, what about him?”

“You’re singing about the jealous wind in love, mad with it. I know he loves you, his fire for you is steady and strong, Jaskier. He has never loved so before. I know it, I know him. Does, does he know you... Did you tell him, about you and me, that we... I mean...” A shaky breath, eyes closed “Jaskier, does he know?”

He scrunched his nose, and straightened up, gently pulling himself out of Eskel’s embrace, his hair almost golden in the fire glow.

“Eskel… open your eyes for me, my love. My love, don't you know?”

He peered into those dark, dark yellow eyes almost brown in the low light and studied the frown disappearing into the soft brown hair.

“Don’t you know Eskel, how much Geralt feels for you?”

“He loves you Jaskier. He does. So much. And his stories about you, the light in him because of you, well, it made me fall for you, in a way...”

“Eskel, and he made me fall for you too. His stories about you, the light in him when speaking of you. My poet. I knew you before knowing you.”

The bard grabbed the paw-like hand of his fragile and strong lover and interlaced their fingers.

“Eskel, he has loved you for so much longer than I have loved him.” A kiss on the thick knuckles. “And I have loved him for so much longer than I have loved you. But it doesn't matter.”

He settled his hand carefully on the witcher’s chest, flat and smooth despite the lute callous and exactly above his heart that beats slowly, so slowly... And the wind is still howling outside. It’s Yule night, the longest of all.

“Love is what counts, Witcher... Love is the only thing that matters. Are my feelings any different than if I’ve known you for centuries? They’re not. Love is I’ve known you for all my life, for centuries and eternity. Love is I’ve been waiting for you, walking the Earth unknowingly to find you someday... Love is eternity. You’re part of my Path, part of my life, part of my soul. You are. And he is. Both of you in a completely different and yet the same way. He knows that. He does Eskel. And he feels the same.”

And slowly Jaskier settled back between the witcher’s arms. Resting his head on his heart. Like he belonged there.

“ Don't you feel how our energies are beating in harmony ?”

“ I do. I do. I thought… I thought it was just me, that I was imagining it. I saw you and Geralt. Geralt, my wolf, my brother, my…” He could feel his hand bruising the soft flesh of his bard’s hip and tried to relax it...

“Yours. Yours, Eskel. I know how you love him. There’s no need to hide your heart from me, my love. I know its truth. Yours.”

“Yes…” he whispered, “Mine. For so long it was just the two of us, you know. Before the trials, the older witchers couldn't tell us apart. We were... one.

And then, then,... there had been life and an ocean of silence and looks and misplaced anger and hurt in between. I was afraid, Jaskier, so. I had no right to love him. And, and...”

“It’s okay, my darling, it’s okay...” and he placed a butterfly kiss on his chin, and another at the corner of his mouth “it’s okay, take your time.”

“And I pushed him away every time I saw myself quiver under his silent concern and his soft worry. And when the world definitively turned against him after Blaviken, I was unable to reach him through the walls he had build around himself. Geralt… He has always been quiet even when he was younger. He’s so much with his whines, grand philosophical opinions, and loud dreams and hopes and yet… so, so quiet in a way? But it was not just that anymore. It was carefully build walls, thick and dark, so dark... And I was helpless at their foot. And then you came, young frivolous man out of nowhere, fresh like a bead of rose… and you broke down these walls, brick by brick, blowing on the dusty cement. And he was almost here again. When he came back for winter he had this lightness in his steps, this lightning in his smiles and jokes. He was as well-fed as one on the road could be, soft white silvery hair, soft tired smile. He was... beautiful.”

“He is...” breathed the bard, curling closer into his lover's warm body...

“Do you know Jaskier how I hated you for that? For making him happy as I could never, for making his heart warm, his smile bright and his swords precise and assured? But I loved you so at the same time for these exact reasons... And I thought let him go. Now, see how himself he almost is again. Hear the tunes hummed under his breath, hear how he speaks of him, see how happiness suits him... Forget your heart. That’s what I thought, that’s what I kept repeating to myself winter after winter, but...”

“You love him.”

“I do. And he, loves you.”

“He does.”

“And you love him.”

“I do.”

“We met and… “

“And my perfect body, angelic voice, and dark eyelash made it for you, is that it?”

“What? No! What are talking abo... Oh no, no stop that, Jaskier, stop” but the bard was cruelly ignoring him, tickling the tender spot above his right hip, and everywhere he could reach, giggling lightly at how the fierce hunter was wiggling in vain between his thighs “would you stop that now, you stupid bard, stop I said. Since when do you giggle like a brainless maiden, ngh, stop, you heartless idiot” and at last Eskel managed to grab the strong wrists and held them captive above his own head, high on the pillows.

Chest to chest, honey eyes in sea blue ones, humid heavy breaths shared in the small space between their smiles and the bard flopping dark hair.

They stayed here for a long time, as long as a Yule night.

“Stop it Jaskier,... I was serious”

And Jaskier, he closed his eyes and kissed his witcher slowly, softly, like the most fragile secret laid bare, let his lips linger and as slowly, detached them from his...

“I know you are. You love him Eskel. And I love you Eskel. Don't ever forget that.”

“I’m not the White Wolf, Jaskier. I’m just a witcher. But I thought I could be him, a bit, for you. I wanted to have you like he had. I wanted to be loved by you like he had. And I felt miserable for that... It was the furthest thing I wanted. I wanted you to love me, for me, for who I was…”

“I know. And you’re so very much like him. Scarred by life and combats, by yourself. Scared of yourself. Feeling so much and far too intelligent for your own good. Soft under all these hard muscles. Connected to animals and nature... Even some of your mimics are the same. You’re two sides of the same coin. Your souls are the same. And he’s so much more than you... and you’re so much more than him.

Your lives are different, your feelings are different, your hearts are... your hopes and desires, your fears, your favorite sword moves, everything and anything in you both is so unique to cherish and so beautifully you...

Eskel, when we met, when I met you, you were the one I wanted, the one I needed, without knowing it. Not Geralt. Not anyone else. It was you. I had a void inside me that I didn't know you fit perfectly. I don’t love you because I love him, but you, you are the one I missed… I knew it was you that I‘ve been missing all along... and I learned to love you for more than Geralt’s tales about you. And it was you. Only you.

My sweet brave witcher you’re not the White Wolf. You’re not Geralt, and you’ll never be. And I never ever want you to be. Each life, each beat of heart is so unique. Geralt is my first true love but my heart is big enough for more than one. Your flame is burning so high and so proud, how could anyone, how could I want you to be someone else. You’re you with all your flaws and with all your virtues. And that’s why I love you.

Oh no my darling, chase those tears from your eyes, I do.”

Freed from his lover’s grasp, his fingers were caressing his rough cheeks, his brow, smoothing back the straight and silky strands of hair.

“You’re mine, the both of you. I will never love you like I love him, Eskel. And I will never love him like I love you. Do you, do you understand ?”

“I do. I do.”

“You’re you and he’s him. Every love is different, every life, every person, every joy, every cry, every shout, every voice, every music is different. Every shining sun, every storm. The stars who made us are different. I love him and I love you. I know it can seem strange but my heart beats for you both, do you understand? Do you? My love is endless. Eskel, do you know how much I hurt and burn for you both? Please, my love, say some- humpf...”

For as long as time has existed, for as long as a Yule night can be, there had never been a better or more efficient way to reduce a loved one to silence than a stolen kiss. Hot, desperate, fierce and tender were the lips of Eskel on his bard’s, his strong nose digging into Jaskiers’s pale cheek, his hands tugging sharply where they were buried in the short wavy brand strand of hair.

He kissed him, again and again, pouring his heart in every nip and bite, every caress of his tongue, every breath shared... He kissed him.

“I do. I do. I do.”

He kissed him.

“I feel it too, Jaskier. You and Geralt, souls of my soul, lights of my life, I understand, I know. I feel it too.

I love you and I love him Jaskier”

“I love you and I love him Eskel...”

A shared smile. “... and he loves us both. No, don’t hide, come, come, my dear, the sun will not wake up soon, we have eternity for us, I have something to show you, come on...”

He jumped out of the bed, gathering clumsily the clothes they had discarded when the Yule night was young and feverish. Hair wild, pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, bright red hoses on, a long white nightdress hastily covered by a deep blue woolen doublet, Jaskier was a sight Eskel was unable to resist to.

He shook his head fondly and with much more care and method, the witcher dressed up, putting a plain green shirt on, with a thick darker vest over slack brown pants and his faithful leather boots. The last loop passed, and the last string tied Jaskier grabbed his wrist tightly and pulled him out of the bedroom, along the cold corridor. Across stairs and empty halls full of night he urged him, until they arrived into the courtyard covered in snow and stars, their hot breath swirling white around them.

The stable was lit, torches and lanterns projecting a warm light into the doorway.

The witcher halted, easily stoping the bard’s attempt to drag him closer to the low building. He turned his wrist to squeeze his hand gently.

“What the... No Jaskier, we can’t go out in this weather, it would be too dangerous both for us and for the horses. The night is too dark even with the Moon, later maybe, Jaskier, not now.” He cliqued his tongue “Since when are the candles burning inside? Did you lit them before coming to me? You know they’re precious, we can't waste wax like that, the winter is just beginning... who is here! Show your face!”

A happy laugh resonated in the night and the bard pressed a small kiss on the scarres marring his witcher’s face.

“Shhh, Eskel, it’s your surprise. Close your eyes for me, love, please? There you are, my dear. I know, I know, you don't like surprises, stop mumbling for a minute, right? You will like this one! Or I hope so... Don't cheat! Keep your eyes closed!

Geralt, Geralt my wolf, we’re here!”

The bard’s excitement was palpable in the cold air, filling it with a buzzing energy, almost sparkly on his tongue. Eskel licked his lips and shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest, waiting, eyes closed.

There were hushed whispers and soon he heard the recognizable step of the White Wolf, sure, light despite his weight and imperceptibly favoring his left side, clear in the night. And following, other steps, unsure, clicking on the old stones of the keep.

A gruff voice, that had always send chills down his spine. Geralt. “You can open your eyes, Eskel”

And he did.

“We discovered her during one of our journeys, the merchant said it’s an alpaca? Or something like that... Anyways, he said he didn't want her anymore, said she was too stubborn, so we brought her back here. For you. Geralt thought that you’d like her... Right, Geralt?”

“She’s very gentle, curious, and attentive. She’s very strong headed and smart.” The deep voice became hesitant here “She, well, she looks a bit like you… She could keep company to your goat? You... you can touch her if you want, her muzzle is very soft."

“More than Roach's?”

“Wha..? Shut up Jask!”

“My darling wolf. Don't worry I know Roach is the only true one in that heart of yours."

But Eskel was no longer listening to them, his full concentration on the strange creature in front of him. She had very thin legs firmly planted in the ground and a long elegant neck. A thick chocolate fur covered her entire body except for her head on top of which it ended in a wild fuzzy mop. The creature would have looked ridiculous but the big black eyes lined with soft, long eyelashes were hiding a rare intelligence and infinite wisdom.

A trembling breath left him as he tentatively extended his hand in front of him, palm open, offered, and the alpaca stretched out her neck gently to sniff it curiously, her deep eyes not leaving his. Then, as delicately as a snowflake landing on a rosy cheek, she placed her muzzle against the open palm and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

A smile bloomed on his torn lips and he sniffed, trying to blink away the blur in his eyes. He met the warm yellow of Geralt’s, and Jaskier’s, shining bright blue with hope. The two of them were huddled against each other, Geralt’s arm around the bard waist.

He took a step back as the alpaca turned around, back into the warm stable.

There was no amount of stars in the night that could compete with the love he felt on this winter night. He was so full of it he thought he couldn't feel more than the one beating furiously in his chest, tearing at his seams.

Until he saw their open arms.

And he found himself falling in, closing their embrace and burying his face in the long white hair and wild brown curls of the two men his heart was beating for, deeply breathing their scent in.

After a moment, Geralt broke their warm hug and slipped a hand on his jaw, tenderly. He drew closer and placed a gentle cold kiss at the corner of his mouth, then after a breath of hesitation, another one... He withdrew a bit awkwardly offering a small sheepish smile:

“ Merry Yule Eskel, and happy birthday...”

And Jaskier tightened his hold around his two wolves, shielding them from the outside world, listening to the mad wind, jealous lover of the Yule night, riding every creek and hollow, mountain and meadow of the land...

It was Yule night, the winter solstice, the longest night of all and in a courtyard of an old keep, lost somewhere in a mountain, under the starry vault of the night sky, three men, a wild spirit and two wolf-hearted warriors loved each other.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

(Can you hear the mad wind, jealous lover, riding the Earth endlessly, is an old french winter lullaby)

#the witcher #the witcher fic #the witcher fic rec #jaskier #eskel #geralt #jaskier/eskel/geralt #geraskel #jaskier/geralt #geraskier #jaskier/eskel #jeskel #eskel/geralt #geskel #polyamory #my writing #my blabla #every moon in the stars

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agentrouka-blog · 4 years ago

Note

Can you please give your opinion on Dany n missendei relationship in books? It's much more complicated than show n both characters are young.

So, Missandei. I don’t think about her a LOT but there was a connection to a theme that struck me when I compared her to the Stark sisters and it points to a relationship that is, let’s say, very different from what the tv show chose to do.

Long. Many quotes.

Preface: The talking bird – a lady’s armor – “Valar Morghulis”

I am always specifically reminded of Missandei when I read this Sansa passage.

Sansa could not bear the sight of him, he frightened her so, yet she had been raised in all the ways of courtesy. A true lady would not notice his face, she told herself. “You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she made herself say.

(…)

He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie.

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite." (AGOT; Sansa II)

A bird from the Summer Isles, repeating words.

The concept of courtesy is a lady’s armor is tied to the idea of the talking bird. (Leaving out the obvious talking raven at the Wall for this, because I don’t see Missandei tied to the magical arc. I see her tied to the political one.)

The phrase “courtesy is a lady’s armor” shows up four times:

Sansa felt that she ought to say something. What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord." (ACOK, Sansa I)

and

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. "I do not know Ser Willas. I have never had the pleasure, my lady. Is he . . . is he as great a knight as his brothers?" (ASOS, Sansa I)

and

“How old are you, Sansa?” asked Tyrion, after a moment. “Thirteen,” she said, “when the moon turns.” “Gods have mercy.” The dwarf took another swallow of wine. “Well, talk won’t make you older. Shall we get on with this, my lady? If it please you?” “It will please me to please my lord husband.” That seemed to anger him. “You hide behind courtesy as if it were a castle wall.” “Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that. “I am your husband. You can take off your armor now.” “And my clothing?” “That too.” He waved his wine cup at her. “My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage.” (ASOS, Sansa III)

and

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry. "As you wish, ser. And now if you will excuse me, Littlefinger's bastard must find her lord father and let him know that you have come, so we can begin the tourney on the morrow." And may your horse stumble, Harry the Heir, so you fall on your stupid head in your first tilt. She showed the Waynwoods a stone face as they blurted out awkward apologies for their companion. When they were done she turned and fled. (TWOW, Alayne)

So here we have a theme that ties the talking bird to something you were taught by a mentor, to lying, flattering, evading offense in a situation of powerlessness. To evading harm by hiding your true emotions.

So keep that theme of the lady’s armor in mind before we get to Missandei herself.

But there is another pattern of repeated words, and another Stark Sister with clear parallels to Missandei.

"As well ask what good is life, what good is death? If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him—valar morghulis."

"Valar morghulis," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. Across the yard, she could hear men dying. "Please don't go, Jaqen."

"Jaqen is as dead as Arry," he said sadly, "and I have promises to keep. Valar morghulis, Arya Stark. Say it again."

"Valar morghulis," she said once more, and the stranger in Jaqen's clothes bowed to her and stalked off through the darkness, cloak swirling. She was alone with the dead men. They deserved to die, Arya told herself, remembering all those Ser Amory Lorch had killed at the holdfast by the lake.

The cellars under Kingspyre were empty when she returned to her bed of straw. She whispered her names to her pillow, and when she was done she added, "Valar morghulis," in a small soft voice, wondering what it meant. (ACOK, Arya IX)

Words by a mentor. The phrase becomes a mantra, it is repeatedly tied to her revenge name list and Jaqen’s iron coin and being unafraid. But she never learns what it means until Braavos. She is merely repeating the words, devoid of meaning. Parroting, the same way Sandor accuses Sansa of doing. But like with Sansa, the action serves to strengthen her.

"Valar morghulis," she told the old gods of the north. She liked how the words sounded when she said them. (ACOK, Arya X)

And..

She was only ten, a skinny girl on a stolen horse with a dark forest ahead of her and men behind who would gladly cut off her feet. Yet somehow she felt calmer than she ever had in Harrenhal. The rain had washed the guard's blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she whispered under her breath, the words that Syrio Forel had taught her, and Jaqen's words too, valar morghulis. (ASOS, Arya I)

And..

The captain turned it over and blinked at it, then looked at her again. "This . . . how . . . ?"

Jaqen said to say the words too. Arya crossed her arms against her chest. "Valar morghulis," she said, as loud as if she'd known what it meant. (ASOS, Arya XIII)

In Braavos, Arya begins to learn Braavosi, a variant of Valyrian. She becomes a multi-lingual servant in the House of Black and White, tasked with becoming no one, but always secretly being Arya Stark inside. A different kind of armor, a different kind of flying creature. Always playing a role.

Not Randomly:

Archmaester Ebrose, who has made a study of all known accounts of the affliction, believes that it is spread by the butterflies that the Peaceful People revere. For this reason, the disease is oft called butterfly fever. Some believe the fever is carried only by one particular sort of butterfly (a large black-and-white variety with wings as big as a man's hand is favored by Ebrose), but this remains conjecture.

Whether the butterflies of Naath are true handmaids of the Lord of Harmony, or no more than common insects like their cousins in the Seven Kingdoms, it may well be that the Naathi are not wrong in regarding them as guardians. (The World of Ice and Fire – Beyond the Free Cities: Naath)

So we have a connection to a lovely but deadly creature of black and white and Naath. A handmaid. A guardian. Let us keep that in mind, also.

Now let us look at Dany and Missandei directly.

This is how Missandei is introduced to us in ASOS, Daenerys II, when she negotiates for the Unsullied.

“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”

Kraznys’s High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said.

“The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks. “Tell me of their training.”

“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” the translator told her master. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”

Missandei of Naath, a pretty bird from the Summer Isles, repeating the words they tell her. But she, too, does more than that. She translates and manipulates at the same time, conveying intentions, hiding discourtesy. A diplomat, wrapped in lady’s armor. A girl of ten. With eyes as golden as Nymeria’s. She is, and the text doesn’t emphasize this enough, extremely intelligent. She doesn’t know Dany but she is able to read her reasonably well, while translating literally and figuratively, simultaneously. She is basically playing a Game of Faces, reading, translating, lying, repeating… She is basically a character that connects Arya and Sansa on the concept of lying and truth.

His girl conveyed the essence of his speech, more politely. (…)

“Tell her how pretty the pyramids are at night,” the slaver growled. “Tell her I will lick honey off her breasts, or allow her to lick honey off mine if she prefers.”

“Astapor is most beautiful at dusk, Your Grace,” said the slave girl. “The Good Masters light silk lanterns on every terrace, so all the pyramids glow with colored lights. Pleasure barges ply the Worm, playing soft music and calling at the little islands for food and wine and other delights.”

Missandei is a poet. She also echoes another poet.

She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya. (ASOS, Sansa II)

Brothers and dreams. Let us keep that in mind, as well.

In ASOS, Daenerys III, Dany acquires the Unsullied at the “price” of a dragon, and gets Missandei tossed in as a bonus.

“Done,” the slave girl translated, “and done, and done, eight times done.”

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough,” added Kraznys mo Nakloz, when all the arrangements had been made, “but until such time you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you, a token of a bargain well struck.”

“I shall,” said Dany.

The slave girl rendered his words to her, and hers to him. If she had feelings about being given for a token, she took care not to let them show. (…)

Dany turned away from him, to the slave girl standing meekly beside her litter. “Do you have a name, or must you draw a new one every day from some barrel?”

“That is only for Unsullied,” the girl said. Then she realized the question had been asked in High Valyrian. Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“Your name is Oh?”

“No. Your Grace, forgive this one her outburst. Your slave’s name is Missandei, but …”

“Missandei is no longer a slave. I free you, from this instant. Come ride with me in the litter, I wish to talk.” Rakharo helped them in, and Dany drew the curtains shut against the dust and heat. “If you stay with me you will serve as one of my handmaids,” she said as they set off. “I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave my service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to.”

“This one will stay,” the girl said. “This one … I … there is no place for me to go. This … I will serve you, gladly.”

"I can give you freedom, but not safety," Dany warned. "I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed."

"Valar morghulis," said Missandei, in High Valyrian.

"All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray." She leaned back on the pillows and took the girl's hand. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

Does she have a name. Still careful to guard her words. She will speak for Dany like she did for Kraznys. (Dany = Kraznys.) She has no other place to go. Valar morghulis.

Honestly, I wonder if Missandei truly did not know that Dany could speak Valyrian, or if the wide eyes and “Oh!” reaction were an act.

Have two Arya parallels:

"You are," he said, "but the House of Black and White is no place for Arya, of House Stark."

"Please," she said. "I have no place to go." (AFFC, Arya I)

We know how deeply genuine Arya’s devotion to the Faceless Men is…

And bilingual fun.

She said a silent Prayer to the god of many faces, slipped out of her alcove, and flounced up to the guardsmen. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. "My lords," she said, "do you speak Braavosi? Oh, please, tell me you do." The two guardsmen exchanged a look. "What's this Thing going on about?" the older one asked. "Who is she?" "One of the mummers," said the pretty one. He pushed his fair hair back off his brow and smiled at her. "Sorry, sweetling, we don't speak your gibble-gabble." Fuss and feathers, Mercy thought, they only know the Common Tongue. That was no good. Give it up or go ahead. She could not give it up. She wanted him so bad. "I know your tongue, a little," she lied, with Mercy's sweetest smile. "You are lords of Westeros, my friend said." (TWOW, Mercy)

Dany uses the chance to grill Missandei on the loyalty of the Unsullied.

“If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.” She looked troubled. “When you are … when you are done with them … Your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?”

“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

Dany squeezed her hand. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

“This one does not … I … Your Grace …”

“Tell me.”

The girl lowered her eyes. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Then I hope your brothers are as brave and clever as you. (ASOS, Daenerys III)

What other reason does Missandei have to not want to leave? Because she has THREE brothers within the ranks of the Unsullied. Brothers who have been harmed, twisted, enslaved. Brothers she may want to guard, like the butterflies of Naath.

From the moment we meet her, and certainly after she is handed over to Dany, Missandei serves as a tie to the human suffering on Display with the Unsullied. She explains the gruesome “training". She reveals having brothers among them when faced with the possibility that Dany might order their suicide.

But she also serves to comfort Dany numerous times in a way that Irri (her “not a sex slave”) cannot.

She sings.

The hours crept by on turtle feet. Even after Jhiqui rubbed the knots from her shoulders, Dany was too restless for sleep. Missandei offered to sing her a lullaby of the Peaceful People, but Dany shook her head. “Bring me Arstan,” she said. (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

She tells her stories of her home.

Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely. Missandei had told her of the Lord of Harmony, worshiped by the Peaceful People of Naath; he was the only true god, her little scribe said, the god who always was and always would be, who made the moon and stars and earth, and all the creatures that dwelt upon them. Poor Lord of Harmony. Dany pitied him. It must be terrible to be alone for all time, attended by hordes of butterfly women you could make or unmake at a word. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Who else serves a “one true God”? Arya, with the many-faced god. With his servants in black-and-white. Dany hears a lot about the culture of the Peaceful People from Missandei. She seems to find it relaxing.

“Are there many flies on Naath, Missandei?”

“On Naath there are butterflies,” the scribe responded in the Common Tongue. “More wine?”

“No. I must hold court soon.” Dany had grown very fond of Missandei. The little scribe with the big golden eyes was wise beyond her years. She is brave as well. She had to be, to survive the life she’s lived. One day she hoped to see this fabled isle of Naath. Missandei said the Peaceful People made music instead of war. They did not kill, not even animals; they ate only fruit and never flesh. The butterfly spirits sacred to their Lord of Harmony protected their isle against those who would do them harm. Many conquerors had sailed on Naath to blood their swords, only to sicken and die. The butterflies do not help them when the slave ships come raiding, though. “I am going to take you home one day, Missandei,” Dany promised. If I had made the same promise to Jorah, would he still have sold me? “I swear it.”

“This one is content to stay with you, Your Grace. Naath will be there, always. You are good to this—to me.”

“And you to me.” Dany took the girl by the hand. “Come help me dress.” (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

I think Dany is projecting a lot onto Missandei. Her longing for home, for childhood. For loyalty. And yet…

Daario and Ben Plumm, Grey Worm, Irri, Jhiqui, Missandei … as she looked at them Dany found herself wondering which of them would betray her next. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

And here Missandei witnesses an interesting turn of events.

Dany thought a moment. “Any man who wishes to sell himself into slavery may do so. Or woman.” She raised a hand. “But they may not sell their children, nor a man his wife.”

“In Astapor the city took a tenth part of the price, each time a slave changed hands,” Missandei told her.

“We’ll do the same,” Dany decided. Wars were won with gold as much as swords. “A tenth part. In gold or silver coin, or ivory. Meereen has no need of saffron, cloves, or zorse hides.” (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Instead of eradicating slave trade, Dany allows it to wobble back into existence, because she had no better plan. Curiously, Missandei seems to support, even enable this. She turns Dany’s attention toward the Astapori practice. Why? That is.. seriously odd, for a former slave who is supposedly enarmored with Dany’s anti-slavery crucade, and thus loyal to her.

Missandei remains gentle, caring, ever so attentive. As Dany struggles with ruling Meereen, Missandei is there to hold her hand.

She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, khaleesi and queen, Mother of Dragons, slayer of warlocks, breaker of chains, and there was no one in the world that she could trust.

“Your Grace?” Missandei stood at her elbow wrapped in a bedrobe, wooden sandals on her feet. “I woke, and saw that you were gone. Did you sleep well? What are you looking at?”

“My city,” said Dany. “I was looking for a house with a red door, but by night all the doors are black.”

“A red door?” Missandei was puzzled. “What house is this?”

“No house. It does not matter.” Dany took the younger girl by the hand. “Never lie to me, Missandei. Never betray me.”

“I never would,” Missandei promised. “Look, dawn comes.”

The sky had turned a cobalt blue from the horizon to the zenith, and behind the line of low hills to the east a glow could be seen, pale gold and oyster pink. Dany held Missandei’s hand as they watched the sun come up. (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Dany promises to take her home, Missandei promises to never betray her. Or “promises”? She now knows that Dany is certainly concerned with fear of betrayal. Yet her gentle presence allows Dany to refocus when she was tempted to leave Meereen behind.

“There is nothing to stay for,” said Brown Ben Plumm.

“Your Grace, the slavers brought their doom on themselves,” said Daario Naharis.

“You have brought freedom as well,” Missandei pointed out.

“Freedom to starve?” asked Dany sharply. “Freedom to die? Am I a dragon, or a harpy?” Am I mad? Do I have the taint? (ASOS, Daenerys VI)

Dany ends ASOS choosing to stay, to rule.

Of course, the deterioration of Meereen has a devastating personal effect on Missandei. Her brother is murdered.

She could hear the soft sounds of sobs. “Who is that weeping?”

“Your slave Missandei.” Jhiqui had a taper in her hand.

“My servant. I have no slaves.” Dany did not understand. “Why does she weep?”

“For him who was her brother,” Irri told her. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

(Subtext: Irri sees no difference between Missandei and a slave. Dany does not understand. She does not really comprehend how to MAKE it different.)

Mossador. Dany made a fist. Missandei and her brothers had been taken from their home on Naath by raiders from the Basilisk Isles and sold into slavery in Astapor. Young as she was, Missandei had shown such a gift for tongues that the Good Masters had made a scribe of her. Mossador and Marselen had not been so fortunate. They had been gelded and made into Unsullied. (ADWD, Daenerys II)

I wonder what happened to the third brother? Has he died by this point, as well?

Dany decides to employ torture to investigate the murder of Missandei’s brother and others by the Sons of the Harpy. The torture of a suspect’s innocent daughters, to be exact. Another step toward villainy.

When she returned to her rooms atop the pyramid, she found Missandei crying softly on her pallet, trying as best she could to muffle the sound of her sobs. “Come sleep with me,” she told the little scribe. “Dawn will not come for hours yet.”

“Your Grace is kind to this one.” Missandei slipped under the sheets. “He was a good brother.”

Dany wrapped her arms about the girl. “Tell me of him.”

“He taught me how to climb a tree when we were little. He could catch fish with his hands. Once I found him sleeping in our garden with a hundred butterflies crawling over him. He looked so beautiful that morning, this one … I mean, I loved him.” (ADWD, Daenerys II)

Mossador sounds a lot like Bran. Climbing, fishing.

Compare the images:

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling."

"He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" (AGOT, Eddard V)

Asleep in the godswood like Mossador had been in the garden. Surrounded by dragon’s breath flowers like he had been covered by butterflies. Two sisters thinking of their brother, terribly harmed. Where Bran survived, Mossador did not.

“As he loved you.” Dany stroked the girl’s hair. “Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath.”

“I would sooner stay with you. On Naath I’d be afraid. What if the slavers came again? I feel safe when I’m with you.”

Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.”

Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys … I want to protect you but … it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen … the … the …”

“… mother,” whispered Missandei.

“Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered.

“No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter. “Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court.”

“We’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes.” When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle.

And reading this, I just realized that there is a clear parallel to someone else: Taena Merryweather. Where Irri parallels the sexual abuse aspect, Missandei parallels the “sweet confidant” aspect of her relationship with Cersei. Sharing a bed, telling stories, secrets. We know how loyal Taena was to Cersei.

Missandei just lost her brother whom she loved enough to weep copiously for, yet she ends up comforting Dany, the exchange becomes about Dany. This reads sweet and mutual, but IS IT REALLY when you keep that turn of the conversation in mind?

Dany keeps projecting onto Missandei, and I think Missandei knows. I think Missandei is very aware of this and using it to stay afloat. Not because she is evil but because she is simply trying to survive and do anything he can to try and keep in contact with her brothers, to protect them. Her connection to Dany is the best way to do that.

Missandei keeps witnessing Dany’s lower points:

When Daenerys returned to her pyramid, sore of limb and sick of heart, she found Missandei reading some old scroll whilst Irri and Jhiqui argued about Rakharo. “You are too skinny for him,” Jhiqui was saying. “You are almost a boy. Rakharo does not bed with boys. This is known.” Irri bristled back. “It is known that you are almost a cow. Rakharo does not bed with cows.”

“Rakharo is blood of my blood. His life belongs to me, not you,” Dany told the two of them. (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

Interestingly, she is also reading “old scrolls”. Educating herself.

Dany remains happily intrusive in her command over her “handmaiden’s” bodies. It accompanies a very strange exchange between them.

A cool wind was blowing on her terrace. Dany sighed with pleasure as she slipped into the waters of her pool. At her command, Missandei stripped off her clothes and climbed in after her. “This one heard the Astapori scratching at the walls last night,” the little scribe said as she was washing Dany’s back.

Irri and Jhiqui exchanged a look. “No one was scratching,” said Jhiqui.

“Scratching … how could they scratch?”

“With their hands,” said Missandei. “The bricks are old and crumbling. They are trying to claw their way into the city.”

“This would take them many years,” said Irri. “The walls are very thick. This is known.”

“It is known,” agreed Jhiqui.

“I dream of them as well.” Dany took Missandei’s hand. “The camp is a good half-mile from the city, my sweetling. No one was scratching at the walls.”

“Your Grace knows best,” said Missandei. (ADWD, Daenerys VI)

It is not the Astapori scratching.

For a moment he saw only the blackened arches of the bricks above, scorched by dragonflame. A trickle of ash caught his eye, betraying movement. Something pale, half-hidden, stirring. He's made himself a cave, the prince realized. A burrow in the brick. The foundations of the Great Pyramid of Meereen were massive and thick to support the weight of the huge structure overhead; even the interior walls were three times thicker than any castle's curtain walls. But Viserion had dug himself a hole in them with flame and claw, a hole big enough to sleep in. (ADWD, The Dragontamer)

So Missandei is hearing the warning signs the others are missing.

Dany is trying, but the true cost of ruling – the abdication of one’s most personal choices toward the benefit of the many - chafes hard. Interestingly, Missandei is unusually outspoken on the subject. Downright testing the waters of her influence on the friendship track.

“Your Grace needs more than wine to break her fast. You are such a tiny thing, and you will surely need your strength today.”

That made Daenerys laugh, coming from a girl so small. She relied so much on the little scribe that she oft forgot that Missandei had only turned eleven. They shared the food together on her terrace. As Dany nibbled on an olive, the Naathi girl gazed at her with eyes like molten gold and said, “It is not too late to tell them that you have decided not to wed.”

It is, though, the queen thought, sadly. “Hizdahr’s blood is ancient and noble. Our joining will join my freedmen to his people. When we become as one, so will our city.”

“Your Grace does not love the noble Hizdahr. This one thinks you would sooner have another for your husband.”

I must not think of Daario today. “A queen loves where she must, not where she will.”

Her appetite had left her. “Take this food away,” she told Missandei. “It is time I bathed.” (ADWD, Daenerys VII)

Eyes like molten gold. Molten gold, a golden crown that men shall tremble to behold. Ominous.

I wonder what Missandei’s endgame here is. Why does she oppose the marriage? Why did she propose the slave sale tax?

Dany relies on Missandei emotionally. But Missandei seems to pull back, now that Dany did marry Hizdahr.

Dany flinched. “Who is there?”

“Only Missandei.” The Naathi scribe moved closer to the bed. “This one heard you crying.”

“Crying? I was not crying. Why would I cry? I have my peace, I have my king, I have everything a queen might wish for. You had a bad dream, that was all.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” She bowed and made to go.

“Stay,” said Dany. “I do not wish to be alone.”

“His Grace is with you,” Missandei pointed out.

“His Grace is dreaming, but I cannot sleep. On the morrow I must bathe in blood. The price of peace.” She smiled wanly and patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Talk with me.”

“If it please you.” Missandei sat down beside her. “What shall we talk of?”

“Home,” said Dany. “Naath. Butterflies and brothers. Tell me of the things that make you happy, the things that make you giggle, all your sweetest memories. Remind me that there is still good in the world.”

Missandei did her best. She was still talking when Dany finally fell to sleep, to dream queer, half-formed dreams of smoke and fire.

The morning came too soon. (ADWD, Daenerys VIII)

Missandei did not correct herself when she used “this one”, like she used to before. She does not enthusiastically agree to stay with her. “If it please you” is a phrase used with monarchs like Joffrey, Cersei, Stannis. Dany used it on Viserys, to placate him.

Missandei becomes even more openly critical just before the fighting pits open.

“Even if the pits must open, must Your Grace go yourself?” asked Missandei as she was washing the queen’s hair.

“Half of Meereen will be there to see me, gentle heart.”

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “this one begs leave to say that half of Meereen will be there to watch men bleed and die.”

She is not wrong, the queen knew, but it makes no matter. (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

Once again, no correction on the “this one”. She doesn’t bother anymore. Still she makes a last-ditch effort to use her emotional influence on Dany. To no avail. Why does she not want Dany to go? Is it the principle of the thing? Is it to subvert the union? Is it because she knows something is going to happen? Does she Need Dany on a particular path?

Just before she leaves for the fighting pits, Dany has her last interaction with Missandei.

Missandei reemerged. “Your Grace. The king bids you join him when you are dressed. And Prince Quentyn has come with his Dornish Men. They beg a word, if that should please you.”

Little about this day shall please me. “Some other day.” (ADWD, Daenerys IX)

That’s it. Brushed off. Missandei stays behind. Dany goes to the pit.

Next we see her is in ADWD, The Queensguard. She is mostly unsupervised, alone.

The royal apartments were still and silent. Hizdahr had not taken up residence there, preferring to establish his own suite of rooms deep in the heart of the Great Pyramid, where massive brick walls surrounded him on all sides. Mezzara, Miklaz, Qezza, and the rest of the queen’s young cupbearers—hostages in truth, but both Selmy and the queen had become so fond of them that it was hard for him to think of them that way—had gone with the king, whilst Irri and Jhiqui departed with the other Dothraki. Only Missandei remained, a forlorn little ghost haunting the queen’s chambers at the apex of the pyramid. (ADWD, The Queensguard)

Dany and Selmy can forget that the kids are hostages. But Theon shows us that they never forget what they are. Irri and Jhiqui remain Dothraki. And Missandei? What IS she up to?

We gain a few more insights on her interactions in Meereen.

“She might be flying home,” he told himself, aloud.

“No,” murmured a soft voice behind him. “She would not do that, ser. She would not go home without us.”

Ser Barristan turned. “Missandei. Child. How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. This one is sorry if she has disturbed you.” She hesitated. “Skahaz mo Kandaq wishes words with you.”

“The Shavepate? You spoke with him?” That was rash, rash. The enmity ran deep between Shakaz and the king, and the girl was clever enough to know that. Skahaz had been outspoken in his opposition to the queen’s marriage, a fact Hizdahr had not forgotten. “Is he here? In the pyramid?”

“When he wishes. He comes and goes, ser.”

Yes. He would. “Who told you he wants words with me?”

“A Brazen Beast. He wore an owl mask.”

Like Arya as a cupbearer, Missandei is both visible and invisible and has the opportunity to fade into the background but also make contact with numerous people while she had Dany’s ear, hypothetically. We certainly know that Missandei disapproved of Hizdahr, as well. Also, she is sneaky and can listen to conversations. We know she reads scrolls. Her outward appearance remains that of a loyal believer.

Selmy immediately decides to make use of that ability.

The worst were those who played the game of thrones. “Can you find this owl again?” he asked Missandei.

“This one can try, ser.”

“Tell him I will speak with … with our friend … after dark, by the stables.” The pyramid’s main doors were closed and barred at sunset. The stables would be quiet at that hour. “Make certain it is the same owl.” It would not serve to have the wrong Brazen Beast hear of this.

“This one understands.” Missandei turned as if to go, then paused a moment and said, “It is said that the Yunkai’i have ringed the city all about with scorpions, to loose iron bolts into the sky should Drogon return.”

Ser Barristan had heard that too. “It is no simple thing to slay a dragon in the sky. In Westeros, many tried to bring down Aegon and his sisters. None succeeded.”

Missandei nodded. It was hard to tell if she was reassured. “Do you think that they will find her, ser? The grasslands are so vast, and dragons leave no tracks across the sky.”

“Aggo and Rakharo are blood of her blood … and who knows the Dothraki sea better than Dothraki?” He squeezed her shoulder. “They will find her if she can be found.” If she still lives. There were other khals who prowled the grass, horselords with khalasars whose riders numbered in the tens of thousands. But the girl did not need to hear that. “You love her well, I know. I swear, I shall keep her safe.”

The words seemed to give the girl some comfort. Words are wind, though, Ser Barristan thought. How can I protect the queen when I am not with her?

Look at her tickling dragon-killing information out of Selmy while appearing very concerned for Dany.

Afterward, back at the apex of the pyramid, Ser Barristan found Missandei amongst piles of scrolls and books, reading. “Stay here tonight, child,” he told her. “Whatever happens, whatever you see or hear, do not leave the queen’s chambers.”

“This one hears,” the girl said. “If she may ask—”

“Best not.” Ser Barristan stepped out alone onto the terrace gardens. I am not made for this, he reflected as he looked out over the sprawling city. The pyramids were waking, one by one, lanterns and torches flickering to life as shadows gathered in the streets below. Plots, ploys, whispers, lies, secrets within secrets, and somehow I have become part of them. (ADWD, The Kingbreaker)

Again, reading scrolls and books. Again fishing for information. (Understandably, but also probably not innocently.)

Next, she is caring for Quentyn Martell on his deathbed.

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. (ADWD, The Queen’s Hand)

So she is undaunted in the face of death and physical atrocity, much like Arya. Giving comfort to the infirm not unlike Sansa with Sweetrobin.

She assumes the role of confidant for Selmy, as well. Seamless.

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. “Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles.”

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. “Cover him.”

Missandei pulled the coverlet over the prince’s face. “What will be done with him, ser? He is so very far from home.”

“I’ll see that he’s returned to Dorne.” But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We’ll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling. The silent sisters would have seen to it at home, but this was Slaver’s Bay. The nearest silent sister was ten thousand leagues away. “You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed.”

“If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through.”

Not for many years, child. Not since the Trident. Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

“The nights are too long,” he told Missandei, “and there is much and more to do, always. Here, as in the Seven Kingdoms. But you have done enough for now, child. Go and rest.” And if the gods are good, you will not dream of dragons. (The Queen’s Hand)

Child he calls her, and yet…

“Ransom,” said Ser Barristan. “Each man’s weight in gold.”

“The Wise Masters do not need our gold, ser,” said Marselen. “They are richer than your Westerosi lords, every one.”

“Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings.” Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King’s Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger’s domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown’s enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them. (The Queen’s Hand)

He takes political advice from the eleven-year-old translator. And he never stops to wonder what else she might be up to. Missandei is no sweet, innocent follower. Missandei is brilliant. She is a patient player. And she hides it so well.

In Dany’s mind, Missandei remains ever her loyal handmaiden.

Jhiqui and Irri would be waiting atop her pyramid back in Meereen, she told herself.

Her sweet scribe Missandei as well, and all her little pages. They would bring her food, and she could bathe in the pool beneath the persimmon tree. It would be good to feel clean again. Dany did not need a glass to know that she was filthy. (ADWD, Daenerys X)

and

As the world darkened, Dany settled in and closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. The night was cold, the ground hard, her belly empty. She found herself thinking of Meereen, of Daario, her love, and Hizdahr, her husband, of Irri and Jhiqui and sweet Missandei, Ser Barristan and Reznak and Skahaz Shavepate. Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon’s back. Will they think he ate me? (ADWD, Daenerys X)

Does she want her alive or dead? And what path does she want her to follow? Missandei’s specific goals are a mystery to me.

But I am loving this.

That relationship is one giant cauldron bubbling away. A big sign saying “Watch this Space”. I am excited for this. Considering the parallels to the Stark sisters, especially Arya, but also to Taena Merryweather, I am fairly certain Missandei is going to betray Dany and play a role in at least a significant setback for her. I do NOT think that Missandei genuinely cares for Dany. The details of her aims are fuzzy to me, but I suspect it’s going to prioritize her brothers.

Considering she was the last to care for Quentyn, I would be especially excited if she somehow came into contact with Dorne, especially Arianne and Aegon, before the end.

So yeah, those are my thoughts on that relationship.

#asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #missandei of naath #asks #my posts

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colehasapen · 4 years ago

Text

(ONE SHOT) oya'karir STAR WARS

(belated) Whumptober no.28 - Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops.

Comfortember no.2 - First Day/Night

There’s an injured animal in the forest, Obi-Wan can hear it from his cabin over the sounds of his banthas bellowing to each other, and the shrieking of his chickens. Standing on his porch, Obi-Wan can hear the sounds from the dense underbrush of the woods that surround his home, traveling up the mountain, as well as the distant sounds of hunting dogs. The druid had lived in the mountains long enough to have memorized what hunting season is when - it’s like clockwork - but whatever is out there isn’t something that’s supposed to be hunted, and it’s not an animal that he’s heard before.

Obi-Wan had never been able to ignore a creature in pain, he’d never been able to turn away from something in trouble, and walking away from the monastery hadn’t changed that, no matter what his former mentor seemed to believe. He had been raised to love and care for all beings as an orphan left on the doorsteps of the Jedi Temple, he had been taught to protect and heal, and choosing to leave didn’t change that. It didn’t change who he was.

So with hot determination burning in his chest, Obi-Wan abandons his tea and his planned morning of gardening, to instead slip into his traveling clothes and sling his bow over his shoulder, and set off into the woods. For a gifted animal druid like Obi-Wan, tracking is a breeze, and he’s very quickly able to pick up the trail. There’s no obvious prints in the dirt; they’ve been brushed away and covered with leaves, showing an intelligence not seen in common animals, which makes it likely that Obi-Wan is tracking a magical creature. It’s illegal everywhere to hunt magical creatures, as they’re recognized as sentient, but it didn’t stop certain sorts from seeing it as either sport to hunt them, as their ancestors once had, or they consider them delicacies and their bodies go for a lot on the black markets.

He finds a broken, bloodied bear trap deeper into the forest, likely what had injured the unknown creature, and a quick taste of the flaky blood has the creature’s emotions exploding in his senses. Pain, frustration, and fury were the strongest, burning like spices in his mouth and nose, followed by an undercurrent of protectiveness and determination, and the faintest sting of rotten fear. Whatever creature was injured here is protecting others, younger than they are, because the protectiveness carries the smallest traces of the sweetness of a parental love.

Obi-Wan straightens. Using the creature's blood to draw a quick tracking rune on a leaf, and setting it flat on his palm, the druid watches it spin like a compass. The spell would lead right to where he needed to go, whereas tracking the trail would waste much needed time. Time that could have the creature suffering needlessly, or help the hunters catch it’s trail.

Obi-Wan continues to duck through the trees, covering his own trail as he goes, following the compass through the underbrush while also keeping one eye on his surroundings. Finally, the leaf quivers, pauses then drops, and Obi-Wan stills. A warning growl from the thick shadows around him has the druid carefully lifting his hands to show the creature watching him that he means no harm to them.

“Good morning,” He greets, slowly scanning the trees around him, straining his ears to try and pick up where the creature could be. Whatever it is, it must be a predatory creature, because they’re soundless beyond the growling and the faintest ruffling of underbrush that shows where it was as it stalks him. “I’m not a hunter.” Obi-Wan assures, “I’m a druid from further up the mountains.” The creature’s growling quiet slightly. Most magical creatures knew instinctively that druids could be trusted, being linked to them and nature in ways that most would never understand. While they weren’t drawn to druids like common animals were, they weren’t often aggressive either. “I mean you no harm, I just want to help you.”

The growling stops, going quiet. The only sound he can hear is the rustling of the thick foliage over his head, and the chirping of birds. Obi-Wan keeps himself carefully still, keeping his body language loose and nonthreatening. And then, like a ghost, a large figure steps out of the shadows.

It’s a wolf, larger than any wolf Obi-Wan had seen in person before. As black as night, and with glowing golden eyes, it’s the size of a large pony, and the blue and white marks splashing through it’s fur give them away as a magical creature if it’s size hadn’t already. He - and now that he’s close enough, Obi-Wan can sense that the wolf is male - either a young Direwolf, or something else entirely. He’s limping too, hind leg dragging behind him as he shuffles towards Obi-Wan, nose twitching and teeth bared in a silent threat, ears perked.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan breathes in shock, awed at the sight of the magnificent creature in front of him, “Hello there.”

The wolf is large, streamlined for speed and endurance, and Obi-Wan can see powerful muscle moving under his lovely pelt. The golden eyes are sharp with intelligence, even for a magical creature, and he studies the druid in turn, probing. Then, in front of his eyes, the wolf gives a full body shake, fur melting away to reveal scarred brown skin, and Obi-Wan takes an instinctual step back in shock.

Oh.

Oh - a Mandalorian wolf.

Obi-Wan feels vaguely faint - the Mandaloran wolves had been labelled endangered and nearly extinct when he had been thirteen. Hundreds of them had been hunted and slaughtered on the fields of Galidraan, by a party led by once-Master Dooku and on the orders of the Duke of the territory. It had been under false pretenses, but it had still been horrible, and the monastery had felt the consequences of their participation and had removed Dooku from the Order for his crimes. The Duchess of Mandalore had banished the last of them from their ancestral lands when they had refused to bow to her newly claimed authority. Obi-Wan had loved Satine once, he might always love her, but it didn’t mean he had to agree with her, and her decisions involving the Kingdom she was leading were most of the walls that had been placed between them.

“You’re a druid?” The Mandalorian grunts, voice guttural and deep, and Obi-Wan can smell his muted hesitation and hope. He’s a large man, just as he was a large wolf, with thick rolling muscles packed under brown skin and handsome features, and short-cropped black hair that curled tightly on top of his head. Golden eyes are watching him, and Obi-Wan shakes himself out of his shock.

“Yes.” He says in a rush, forcing his eyes away from the rippling muscles of the man’s chest and stomach, painfully aware that the Mandalorian is naked. He’d barely had any interactions with another person since leaving the monastery, and now he finds himself face-to-chest with a very muscular, and very attractive man.

An injured man who needs his help.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He introduces himself, and the Mandalorian tilts his head, assessing and hesitant.

“Alpha.” He says, “You said you have a place up the mountains?”

Obi-Wan nods, “Yes, it’s not large, but no hunter would dare enter my land. It’s safe there.”

The wolf’s hesitation tastes sour in the air, though it doesn’t show on his face. If it weren’t for his scent-based empathic abilities, Obi-Wan doubts he’d ever be able to read the man’s expression.

“Got enough room for cubs?”

The druid is an odd one. Admittedly, Alpha had never met a druid before in his life, but it couldn’t be considered too odd, since he’d spent most of it, up until a few moons ago, in confinement. There were no druids on Kamino, and if they were, Alpha suspects their little zoo would have long since been destroyed, and the Kaminoans’ experiments would have been halted. Alpha and his cubs would have been free before now.

When he had escaped Tapioca City with six cubs of various sizes in tow, he had been intent on hunting down a pack to take them in, to help him protect his cubs. They may not be his, not by birth, but Alpha had claimed the litter, and the runt, as his own. He had taken them in, he had protected them, nurtured them, and trained them to defend themselves. They were still young though, still small and breakable, and they wouldn’t be useful on the battlefield for years yet, not unless the Kaminoans used their disgusting alchemy. They needed the protection of a pack, they needed stability and a place where they wouldn’t need to be afraid of being taken back to the cages.

Alpha had spent long enough in captivity that he barely remembers being free, he barely remembers his family, or his home, and he’s long since forgotten his name, but his cubs? The children magically created from his blood knew nothing beyond the cages of Tapioca City , and the cold cruelty of the Kaminoans.

The world outside is strange and odd to them, and more dangerous than Alpha remembers.

The hunters had been tracking them for weeks, and Alpha had thought that their luck had finally run out. They had been hunted up the mountain, forced to keep moving or risk being caught, with little food or rest. Rex, smaller and more sickly than his older brothers, had fallen ill - he had been deemed defective by the Kaminoans and slated for culling to remove his “unwanted genetics” because of his white fur and hair, and his frailness. When he had been distracted by Rex’s sickness, his older pups had slipped away, wanting nothing more than to help and bring back food in hopes that it would help their younger brother get better, but it had ended with Kote getting injured when the hunting hounds found them. Alpha had fought the hounds off, had killed them, but they were still coming, so he had been forced to hide his cubs in what had once been a badger den, then leave them behind to lead the hunters away.

Exhausted and distracted by his hunger and worry, Alpha hadn’t seen the bear trap until it was too late and it had already snapped closed around his leg. He had been forced to shift to pry the metal trap from his ankle, likely making the injury worse, and then shifting back to keep moving. He had continued going out of stubborn determination to keep his pursuers away from the cubs he had hidden.

He hadn’t expected a druid to come out of the trees and offer him and his cubs a safe place to rest and heal. Obi-Wan Kenobi; Alpha isn’t sure what to make of the human. His instincts tell him he can trust the druid, but his experiences tell him to be wary.

So Alpha stands at Kenobi’s shoulder, hovering protectively as the druid finishes stitching the wound on Kote’s face closed, a dozing Rex, drowsy from the tonic Kenobi had given him, held securely in his arms, white and blue fur smelling of herbs. Wolffe and Fox press against his legs, their curiosity strong, while Bly and Ponds roam around their new environment. The human’s pale hands contrast against Kote’s dark skin, and Alpha’s second youngest cub stares up at the druid with large amber eyes, completely in awe.

Kenobi keeps up a stream of inane chatter as he works, talking about the flora and fauna of his mountain, or the funny things his bantha herd had done. Anything to keep Kote’s attention away from the sharp needle poking through his magically-numbed face, but it wasn’t really needed. Kote is completely enraptured by the pretty human looking after him and tending to his injury.

Maybe if his cub was older, Alpha would push Kote towards Kenobi as a possible mate, but he’s only nine.

Kenobi was definitely everything Alpha himself had always imagined in a mate; he’d only known the man for a few hours, but he could feel the stirrings of attraction towards the druid and his sweet scent. Strong enough to defend himself, smart enough to provide, beautiful and fertile-smelling, and kind and gentle with his pups. Alpha had been imagining his possible mates since the moment he was sexually mature enough to able to breed and the Kaminoans had started shoving female wolves into his cage - he’d never taken any of them, had been insulted by the insinuations that he’d breed with common animals, and the scientists hadn’t been overly pleased with him for it. He’d imagined a pack far away from Kamino and any possible intruders, with a mate at his side and plenty of room for his cubs to run and grow without fear. Kenobi’s mountain sanctuary already met those criteria, and the longer Alpha was around the druid, the more he thought about those dreams.

And he’d only just met the man; what would happen during the long recovery period that stretched before him?

Kenobi had welcomed them into his lands, had treated Alpha’s leg and gave Rex medicine. He’d gone out and hunted them dinner when Alpha couldn’t, he’d let Ponds paw through his books and carved Bly toys, even after Alpha had warned him that the cubs would chew them up within a day. He’d shown Wolffe how to string a bow when the boy had asked, and had comforted Kote through his fear of needles and distrust of medicine. Alpha could smell the arousal on the man whenever Alpha was in his space, which could also be counted as a possible success as a potential mate.

Though Kenobi’s attraction was likely as instinctual as Alpha’s. The druid is alone, any scent beyond his own, and now Alpha’s pack, is so stale it’s nearly non-existent. The clothes Kenobi had given him to wear were larger than the druid, like the only thing that would fit Alpha, and made from rough-spun fabric with a scent so stale that it couldn’t have belonged to anyone in years . Kenobi had been alone for a long time, he needed a pack.

Well. Alpha stares at the human, considering, scanning his eyes across broad shoulders and his gentle expression as he talks with Kote. There’s always room in his.

#cole writes #star wars #fanfiction #whumptober 2020 #comfortember 2020 #obi wan kenobi #alpha 17 #alpha-17 #obi wan kenobi/alpha 17 #no.28 #no.2 #wolf au

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alexandralyman · 5 years ago

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Summary: A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read on FF.net here or on AO3 here

Part Twenty-Four

The Sistine Chapel - May 6, 1527

The long train of her gown made a faint whispering sound against the floor as she glided the length of the chapel, the heavy gold satin rippling and flowing in waves over the fine marble and intricately laid mosaics. They would have been a showpiece in any other cathedral, but here they paled in comparison to the splendour of a thousand years' worth of papal wealth that surrounded them. A few lanterns were still lit in the niches and alcoves set into the walls but the light was dying, flickering and growing even more dim with each step she took further and further into the shadowed heart of Christendom. It was in this place where a new pope rose upon the death of the old, crowned and gowned and bequeathed the Keys to the Kingdom as he ascended upon Saint Peter's seat.

The ancient throne lay empty and abandoned on this night.

Her hair was a loose spill down her back and she wore no hood or veil to conceal it, normally an unthinkable breach of protocol for a woman entering the sacred site and a grave offence to the Church. But there was no one left to bar her entry, not that any mortal man could actually stop her from passing through any door to any room in this place, where even the holiest of relics, the priceless texts of scripture and verse, the sacred hearts of saints, the swords carried into battle during the Crusades, all paled in comparison to her.

Not a single candle was left burning by the altar where a figure was just visible in the gloom, garbed as a monk in sober dark robes. But he was no more a lowly cleric labouring anonymously in the depths of the Vatican in his humble attire than she was a wealthy Roman noblewoman in her rich gown and while her head might be uncovered, it was far from bare. She wore her own diadem above her brow, it was made not of gold or gems, but of an unbroken circle of Heavenly light. Divine radiance illuminated her path while the astonishing frescos that the Florentine master, Michelangelo, had laboured over for the better part of a decade looked down from the ceiling above, now silent witnesses left behind when everyone else had fled.

Almost.

"His Holiness has left in the company of the Swiss Guard and the Emperor's army is about to breach the walls. Rome will fall to the wolves and it will fall tonight, it's too late to stop it now."

Emma delivered the news to the figure's back, as still as any of the painted prophets and saints that surrounded them. For several long moments he didn't move and if it was anyone else she would have thought he didn't hear her. But he heard everything, and when he finally turned the hood of his monkish robe fell back to reveal one who was both prophet and saint, known by many names and titles in different languages and traditions. In the chronicles of noble knights seeking the glory of the Holy Grail he was the mysterious and powerful Merlin, possessor of magic and esoteric knowledge beyond that of mortal men. In truth, he was a Prince of Heaven in his own right, an Archangelus, the patron of healers, lovers, and guardian angels and one of the highest ranked of the Blessed Ones along with his brothers Michael and Gabriel.

The Archangel Raphael.

Like all angels he was captivating to look at, with a face that Michelangelo would have given his own soul to capture in marble. Strong brows, full lips, and large, liquid eyes that were fixed firmly at some point in the distance before his attention turned to her. Pleas for salvation were echoing in the back of Emma's mind like a thousand hands all reaching out from the shadows to clutch at her train, while the Pope had been spirited away to safety many innocent souls had been left behind, unarmed and completely defenceless against the rampaging horde of soldiers about to descend upon them.

Raphael spoke in a low voice as his gaze drifted again, to the shadows that veiled the splendor around them and grew more with each passing moment. "Yes," he exhaled, and painted heads turned as his breath gave the little figures miraculous life. "They will come from the north...an army sent to expand an empire and lay waste to all who stand in the way...cities fall one by one and there will be death and destruction and war."

An exasperated huff escaped her lips. "Will be? War is already here!"

He shook his own head, his hair as close-cropped as any monk's in place of the flowing locks usually depicted in the many portrayals of him that adorned chapel walls and illuminated texts. The shapeless robes stirred about his legs, lifted by a cool breeze that swept through the nave and made the lanterns flicker and the frescos cower. The light dimmed even more with it and didn't recover, more faint, misty glow now than illumination.

"No, I don't mean this. What is to happen tonight will fade from history and be all but forgotten within a generation, though the effects will linger. This is not war, this is two mules eyeing each other balefully over the same pile of hay.

Only an angel would openly refer to the two most powerful men in Europe, the Supreme Pontiff Clement VII, who held dominion over all Catholic souls, and the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who ruled most of the land those souls resided on, as nothing more than humble pack animals fighting over a mouthful of feed. But the description was an apt one, it was their mutual stubbornness and refusal to cede any ground that had led to an army the Emperor could no longer control poised to lay waste to everything in its path and the Pope abandoning Saint Peter's throne to flee like a thief in the night instead.

"Charles and Clement may be nothing more than mules, but even a mule's kick can be fatal," Emma argued back. "And when a Hapsburg aims for a Medici, he doesn't just strike his rival. Tell the people of Rome that this is not war when they're burned from their homes and slaughtered without mercy in the street."

Raphael sighed and statues wept. "His Majesty and His Holiness are not the only ones possessed of an excess of stubborness. Now is not the time for debate about the constitution of war, it's long past time for you to go home, beata Emma. The army is not the only wolf howling at the gates tonight."

Emma lifted her chin, not giving quarter even to an Archangel. "And the innocents will suffer all the more for it."

His voice was firm and the warning in his tone was clearer than any bell. "The darkness will always seek to snuff out the light, in every form. Always. We can't save them all, Emma, and we are not meant to. He gave them the freedom of their own will be they prince or peasant, and as such they are capable of so much beauty and so much ugliness in equal measure. That potential they all hold within is His gift to mankind and we must allow them to choose their own path. You can not interfere in this mortal quarrel and if you stay, it is inevitable that the darkness will seek to find you."

She knew what would follow the soldiers in once they descended like locusts from the plagues of old and began to pillage the city. Even in the very heart of the Vatican itself she could sense them faintly in the distance, just beyond the seven hills.

Waiting.

Damnate Infernum.

The Damned of Hell.

"I do not fear the darkness."

Her voice didn't rouse the frescos or move the carvings to tears as his did, but her voice was steady and her shoulders were squared back in her elegant gown. She carried no sword, no heaven-forged blade like the one that had made it into legend alongside Raphael's tenure as Merlin appeared in her hand with which to repel back a demonic horde, but she couldn't leave, not when so many voices were out there and calling to her with their pleas for salvation.

"You do," the Archangel intoned with a raise of his brow. "Oh, you are brave and your heart is pure, but no one, not even an angel, is immune to fear."

He smiled then, a breathtaking sight that eclipsed even the glory of the grandeur that surrounded them. Emma felt her own lips lift in response and the candles that had been left unattended at the altar all ignited, filling the air around them with the scent of beeswax and sweet oil. Raphael's smile turned melancholy, his pupils twin golden flames from the reflections but also flickering with something else, beyond what Emma herself could see. The Merlin of tale was a prophet and that wasn't the fanciful imaginings of a twelfth-century cleric, Raphael had the divine gift of prophecy as all the Archangels did and in truth, Emma was afraid to ask what he saw when he looked at her now.

Another breath of wind swept through the chapel, cold, and decidedly unnatural. It licked a shiver down her spine and the candles went out again from the force of it, wisps of dark smoke curling up to the ceiling in serpentine ribbons. All save for one long, pale taper that continued to burn alone in defiance of the attempt to snuff it out. Raphael looked at it for a long moment and then he nodded once, as if in acknowledgement.

"A single light remains. If you truly wish to stay through what is to come, I won't forbid it. But Emma, you must keep in mind that the most divine of gifts can also become the heaviest of burdens. To listen and stay silent is not easy, you can find yourself longing not to hear them at all when you can't answer. Perhaps even for eternity."

She couldn't imagine even considering such a notion, one that trod so dangerously close to a path that led away from Heaven and only a few had chosen to follow since He first separated the light from the darkness as painted above.

"Is your gift a burden, beatus Raphael?"

His handsome face shifted, becoming softer and more wistful at the question. "My gift is wonderful. And terrible. I see such marvels to come, each more astonishing than the last as they continue to embrace art and science and learning, even when they stumble along the way. Then there are the horrors that have yet to be as well, when they fall into ignorance and loathing. But that is the future and as pleasant as it might have been to be gifted with visions of only the former and not the latter, without both, I would be blind in one eye."

With that, he made a motion with his hand and the candle that still burned lifted from the altar on unseen wings, crossing the bit of distance to float between his cupped palms. The little flame grew even stronger and for a moment that was an eternity unto itself the whole chapel blazed with light. Frescos acted out their stories in miniature, Passion Plays in pigment and plaster. The First Man reached to his Creator, the waters rose as the Flood washed over the banks and the Serpent hissed in triumph as the Forbidden Fruit was consumed and Man fell from grace.

Raphael offered the taper to her and she accepted it, his hands closing over hers so they both formed the ancient gesture of prayer. When he pulled away the flame returned to nothing more than a tiny spark, the painted figures were still and his eyes no longer reflected that which fate had hidden to all but him.

"They will follow you by this light, beata Emma."

She dipped her chin. "Gratias tibi ago."

The Archangel Raphael stepped back and folded his hands solemnly in his sleeves. A papal audience would conclude with the kissing of the fisherman's ring, but angels wore no jewelry. Her own fingers were bare of any adornment despite the richness of her attire. Still, she recognized she was being dismissed and she turned, satin gown rustling with the movement.

The candle illuminated the path back out of the chapel and no more, saints had retreated into shadows and all that remained of the dazzling splendor was a solitary angel. A glance back revealed what she already knew, Raphael was gone and she was alone.

It had already begun, Emma could hear the hue and cry quickly spreading across the city in advance of the army. She picked up her skirts and started to run, flying not with her wings but on her faith instead, trusting that it would take her where they would find her, whoever *they* were.

When she reached the closest set of doors that led outside they opened into the darkness of the night, the sky above indistinguishable from the ground below even with the candle in her hand burning bright. The space between the ornately carved wood gaped like a maw, and she could smell the smoke in the distance as her own prophecy came true and the fires were lit.

Rome had fallen.

When she reached the threshold the finely laid mosaics abruptly stopped, giving way to the drop where the Pope would slowly descend to the cheers of the waiting masses come to pay him homage in His name. Adoration had turned to debasement, cheers to screams, and as the floor fell away from beneath her feet Emma didn't ascend.

She leapt straight into the storm instead.

Lower Saxony, Germany, 1943

Bright sunshine shone down on the tall stone walls of the medieval Schloss, an imposing structure that dominated both the surrounding countryside of forests and fields and the picture postcard village nestled in the valley below, all nearly unchanged from how it must have looked centuries ago when the Hapsburgs still ruled this part of the world with absolute power not as mere kings like in France and England, but as emperors anointed by Rome.

Killian stepped out of his car and tilted his head back to take it all in, squinting into the light. It really was like stepping back in time, his was the only vehicle he'd seen on the winding road that connected castle and village and, unlike in every other city and town across Germany, there was no hint of the current turmoil to be seen or heard. No armed checkpoints on the roads, no soldiers posted at the town hall, not even the distant roar of the Luftwaffe in the sky overhead that was ever present now in even the most remote provinces far from the hive of furious activity that was Berlin. It would be curious, if Killian didn't already know exactly who was currently residing behind the ancient walls, someone who was far older and had the power to keep everything that was going on at bay.

For now, at least.

Inside, heavy damask curtains were drawn tight across every window and he was plunged directly into the darkness upon entering what was almost certainly enemy territory. It would have been disconcerting to anyone else, but Killian could see perfectly in the dark and his eyes adjusted at once with a flash of crimson to take in the artwork that crammed every inch of the walls in ornate frames. Far from an unusual sight in a castle, but these weren't the expected solemn-faced portraits of family scions or middling landscapes by unimportant artists like the one Emma had been so enamoured with before the French decided to give their entire aristocracy the same treatment as Herod gave to John the Baptist. Killian recognized the unmistakable hand of Titian in a red-haired siren and Caravaggio's signature chiaroscuro in the depiction of a saint, there was a Rembrandt that, as far as he knew, belonged to the Dutch royal family, currently exiled in Canada, and a half-finished sketch that he would wager a literal king's ransom was a Da Vinci. It was a veritable Aladdin's cave of priceless treasures, and none of it was owned by the noble family who had given their name to both the Schloss and the village and were now conspicuous by their absence. War had redrawn the European borders once again and, like the sacking of Rome by another German army four centuries prior, spoils had been taken and even more innocent blood was spilled. As Damnate Infernum, a Demon of Hell and corruptor of human souls Killian had seen it all before, he'd been standing on the hill when the city gates were finally breached on that May eve long ago and the holy city itself started to burn, but this conflagration was the closest he'd ever felt to the End of Days and the war destined to eclipse all others.

The Final Battle.

The artistic splendor was marred by the presence of an imp, lounging on an antique chaise in an insolent sprawl with one leg slung over the back and a grin that revealed a mouth packed with too many teeth.

Killian detested imps.

"Corruptor," the lesser demon practically purred, drawing the title out like it was a juicy treat. "What business have you with the illustrious Dark One? Have you come to make a deal?"

He would sooner be tortured by the Inquisition again than make a deal with Rumpelstiltskin and he bared his own teeth at the imp, white and far sharper than they looked.

"Tell your master that I'm here to speak with him, and that he needs to keep his pets on a tighter leash. I've heard what you've been up to when he lets you run loose. Bad form, even for an imp."

The rebuke in his voice made the imp's head snap back hard against the padded velvet, but instead of being chastised, it let out a high-pitched giggle that quickly melted into an obscene moan.

"Do it again!"

Killian grit his teeth, trying to keep his hellish temper in check. As much as he would have liked to teach the imp a painful lesson in the proper amount of deference owed to a higher demon, he was here for something far more important and anything else was a distraction.

Besides, the infernal creature would probably enjoy it.

"Fetch. Your. Master," he repeated, each word snapping in the air like the crack of a whip.

The imp stood and gave a mocking salute, clicking its heels together and bending its knees like a ballerina doing a plié. Killian didn't return the gesture, despite the uniform he was currently wearing.

"Aye, aye, Kapitän."

He felt his eyes narrow at that as the imp disappeared down the hall, dancing and whistling a jaunty tune through those piranha teeth as it went. The sound seemed to echo long after the imp was gone until Killian realized he was hearing someone else instead, his head turning in the direction it was coming from and following on silent feet until he found the source.

A pair of narrow doors stood ajar with a sliver of light peeking out and through the gap he saw that it was the castle's library, tall stacks rising right to the ceiling and filled cheek by jowl with leather-bound books. He gave the door the tiniest of nudges and it swung open fully, revealing that the curtains were tied back in heavy swags unlike in the other rooms he had passed, letting in the sun. The reason why quickly became obvious, there was a ladder attached to the bookcases to allow access to the higher shelves and perched on it was a soman, her back to him as she dusted along a row of books and hummed to herself in a sweet voice. Unlike the imp she was mortal, entirely human, her petite figure clad in a modest blue dress and her chestnut hair falling down her back in thick curls. Killian supposed she was Rumpelstiltskin's chambermaid, but strangely for someone in a demon's employ there wasn't a whiff of corruption about her. As one whose entire purpose was to corrupt and defile he could always detect it, to him it was like the scent of overripe fruit about to spoil. It clung indelibly to those falling away from the Light as their souls blackened and shrivelled like the half-eaten apple left behind in the Garden, so perfect and unblemished on the Tree until temptation proved too much for Mankind to resist. Whoever the woman was, she was still innocent, and curiosity had time taking a step closer because he was never one to resist temptation in any form.

The doors both slammed shut in his face before he could cross the threshold, with enough force to make his teeth rattle and the sweet humming was abruptly cut off, replaced by the harsh scrape of a lock being turned.

"Corruptor."

His demonic title was spoken from behind him in an oily voice and Killian turned smoothly on his booted heel, away from the library and the woman now locked within.

"Dealmaker," he acknowledged.

Rumpelstiltskin's thin lips went even thinner, but he couldn't fault Killian for addressing him in kind and not by his preferred moniker. He was attired in current fashion from the knife's-edge part in his hair down to his two-tone loafers, but he still carried the silver-tipped cane that Killian remembered from Paris, in the midst of another time and another war. The handle was shaped like a reptile's head, fitting for an ancient demon with such a cold-blooded disposition. The ebony tip rapped sharply against the floor when he turned and started to walk back down the hall without another word, not bothering to check if Killian followed. The dealmaker was more arrogant than any king in his newly acquired castle, and Killian rolled his eyes behind the self-styled Dark One's back before falling reluctantly into step to the metronome of the cane against the polished stone, each strike echoing loudly in the silence.

More incredible art adorned the walls on either side of them, one long corridor was completely lined in fourteenth-century tapestries that were somewhat faded with age but remarkably intact, depicting a typical medieval hunt. Killian had participated in his fair share of them under his many different noble aliases, he immediately recognized the scenes. The elusive quarry managed to evade the hunting party for several panels, leaping through glens and peeping defiantely at them through a copse of trees just beyond their reach. It almost slipped away, but the pursuers were determined and the freedom of the forest was fleeting, as the tiny woven arrows landed straight and true at the end.

Rumpelstiltskin came to a halt by another pair of doors where the imp was waiting, bowing like a well-trained footmen when he approached, fawning and obsequious now in the master's direct presence instead of mocking and impertinent. Rumpelstiltskin lifted the tip of the cane off the floor and used it to raise the imp's chin, forcing the creature's head back at what on anyone else would be an unnatural angle.

"Wait for me outside the library. It's currently locked, and it stays that way."

The order was clear and the imp ran off again, not bothering with any theatrics this time to scuttle away like a cockroach instead. Killian watched it scurry down the hall, his interest piqued even more while Rumpelstiltskin entered what looked like an ordinary sitting room. Tufted chairs, a wireless in a walnut case, and a china tea set left on a side table, nothing unexpected at first glance. A closer look told a slightly different story, there was a copy of the current evening edition of the London Telegraph folded next to the flowered cups, even though it wouldn't be out for another two hours across the Channel. There was no picture of Der Führer hung in place of pride or copy of his odious book on display as there were in every patriotic German household, and even ensconced as he was deep within the dark heart of the Glorious Reich, Killian suspected that Rumpelstiltskin had his long, grasping fingers stuck in all sorts of pies.

"Did the local count bargain away both his Schloss and das Mädchen?"

Killian sat down in the tallest chair without waiting for an invitation, pulling out a silver cigarette case engraved with his monogram and flicking it open. He lit one without a match, inhaling deep and blowing out not a mere smoke ring, but a smoke serpent that rose in the air and hissed right in the other demon's face until it dissipated from an equal flick of Rumpelstiltskin's finger, his expression clearly unimpressed by the showy display.

"She made her own deal with me and is therefore off limits to you, Corruptor," he said. "Don't think I've forgotten the last time you interfered in my affairs."

Killian hadn't forgotten it either, and he couldn't say he felt any remorse for assisting the courtesan Maleficent settle her affairs behind Rumpelstilskin's back. The letter she had written had been delivered safe to her daughter while the daughter's husband was away from the house and unable to confiscate it, Killian had made sure of that. It hadn't been a deal, not exactly, just an offer made to give the woman a bit of comfort with none of his usual strings attached because he felt like being magnanimous. Besides, he'd always enjoyed Maleficent's elegant salons. He took another drag on his cigarette and did his best to look contrite, even though they both knew it was completely insincere.

"Speaking of which," Rumpelstiltskin continued, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "what happened to that angel you were so damn adamant about? I heard rumours that an angel finally smited that irritating succubus Zelena in Paris and yet by some miracle you appear to have walked away from that encounter completely unscathed. How curious."

Killian hadn't forgotten the Dark One's interest in his angel either, an interest he had no intention of encouraging. Emma hadn't fallen, not yet, and until she did and he could claim her openly for his own, she was fair game to any demon that crossed her path. He was certain that he was the only one who could seduce her, but the others would be all too eager to attack a Blessed One and try to destroy her. Including the demon who sat across from him now.

He needed to tread very carefully.

"She flew beyond my grasp," he said, blowing out another lungful of smoke that turned into an image of Zelena's face, rendered as delicately as any of the paintings on display. Her mouth split open in a silent pantomime of her final, agonized scream when another breath of smoke spilled over it just as the holy water had in life. "Zelena thought she could take an angel on herself, if she had stayed on her back where she belonged and out of my way, then maybe she wouldn't have ended up as nothing more than effluent in the Paris sewers alongside the contents of every royal bowel loosened by the steel kiss of Madame Guillotine. But I can't say I mourned her untimely passing, not after she spoiled my plans and let the angel escape."

Zelena's image finally melted away just like the succubus herself when he stubbed the cigarette out into a crystal ashtray, leaving behind a smear of ash as dark and thick as her infernal blood had been when it spilled over the blade of his iron knife. Rumpelstiltskin's gaze followed the movement, unblinking even through the eye-watering haze of smoke that now filled the room.

"Indeed. Perhaps you'll have another bite at that particular apple, one day. Although it's already been what, a hundred and fifty years? Taking the definition of eternity rather literally, aren't we now?"

Killian knew it was a jab at his apparent failure and he let his expression twist into a scowl. Little did the Dark One know of all the nights since then when he'd succeeded in "capturing" Emma, her wrists pinned fast by his grasp that could so easily become shackles from which she'd never escape, caging her with his body while she was wound in his sheets, close, so close to surrendering to him fully and not just to his carnal temptation. He'd savour his other victories privately until then, how he'd coaxed out her name the night they met, worked to gain her trust over the centuries, her confession that she could hear him, each far more valuable and rarer than any painting or tapestry Rumpelstiltskin could acquire.

He'd get what he wanted, in the end. Patience might be a virtue, but he was willing to be virtuous for this, and he'd rub Rumpelstiltskin's nose right in his success whether it took ten years or a hundred. Losing a little face now was a small price to pay.

Turn the other cheek, as it were.

"I'm sure it didn't take you nearly as long to accumulate your little treasure trove, did it, Dark One? And all strictly for the glory of the new German empire, I'm sure."

There was a flash of amusement on Rumpelstiltskin's face at the sarcasm in Killian's tone.

"I've held up my end of all the bargains I've made on behalf of the empire. What you see here are merely a few trinkets kept for my private collection."

Killian thought that "looted" was probably a more apt description than "kept" for the fortune crammed onto the walls, but he didn't say it out loud. And he was the one who'd once been called a pirate. Still, the dealmaker's penchant for trinkets was the whole reason why he'd come and he made a photograph appear, held delicately between his fingers like the cigarette before he set it on the table and slid it over.

"Is this one of your new acquisitions like the artwork and the decorative young girl, perhaps?"

The image was grainy, a faded sepia and foxed at the edges from age. Rumpelstiltskin looked down at it and while his expression didn't change the blue haze in the air from the cigarette smoke rippled around him, like a stone dropped in a still pond.

"It's called the White Hilt," Killian began, watching the other demon carefully as he spoke, "among other names, and was said to have been made from a remnant of the sword wielded by the angel who drove the First Man and First Woman from the Garden, where it was cleaved in two by their sin."

While the photograph was badly faded, the object pictured was still recognizable and had even retained a bit of gloss, forever reflecting the flash that had gone off when the image was captured for posterity. It was a blade, long and narrow and oddly shaped. Both sides were curved several times along the edge, so that it resembled less of a knife and more like a lick of flame made metal. Despite the name the actual hilt wasn't white, it was so dark in the picture that it was probably black or nearly to it, and was studded with what looked like a large jewel at the top.

"There was legends about it, like those about the Holy Grail and the Spear of Destiny, but they fell out of fashion and out of history and only a few scholars have even heard of the White Hilt now, including those that Der Führer has combing every pilfered record he can get his hands on thanks to his new obsession, the occult sciences."

Rumpelstiltskin gave him a contemptuous look. "Spare me the lesson, I'm far more versed in these tales than you, Corruptor. More than one soul has tried to barter with me for holy relics, thinking it will bring them power and glory. A blade forged from Heavenly light is an attractive idea, especially to one who has styled himself a Saviour of the people."

"While he exterminates those who don't fit his definition of the term," Killian added.

It wasn't spoken of openly, but people knew where their absent neighbours had gone. Yellow stars were left behind on the lintels of empty houses, paint flaking away in the elements and the sin cut deeper than any knife.

The other demon lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Sieg Heil."

As before, Killian didn't return the sentiment. He gestured to the photograph instead. "This was taken sometime before the Great War, in this very castle."

He flipped it over and revealed the writing on the back, done in an old, copperplate hand. There were only three lines, the name of the Schloss they were currently sitting in, an illegible signature, and below them both was a word written first in German, and then, perhaps more tellingly, in Latin.

Dagger

Rumpelstiltskin eyed his uniform, one that gave him near absolute authority in the name of the would-be king. "I suppose you've come here as the knight on a noble quest?" he asked, tone still laced with contempt. "Shall I address you as Sir Killian instead of Corruptor then, collecting shiny tribute for your new master?"

Killian ignored that jab as well and focused on what the dealmaker might have just accidently let slip instead.

"So it is here?"

He met Rumpelstiltskin's gaze head on across the table. It was like staring into a well, his eyes were fathomless black depths that seemed to ripple from deep within. A mortal soul would fear what lurked unseen at the bottom and glance away from it, as Damnate Infernum in his own right, with power far beyond what the rank on his collar granted him, Killian didn't blink.

When Rumpelstiltskin spoke again it was through teeth gone serrated as a crocodile's. "I don't answer to you. Or to Der Führer. You think I'm somehow unaware of his more esoteric interests and attempts to collect such objects? Napoleon went to Egypt in search of Biblical treasures to strengthen his laughable claim, Charles V sent his troops to Rome to seize Saint Peter's throne, and now Adolf Hitler seeks a broken sword with which to rule the world. An emperor in all but name, and like those who came before him, doomed to inevitable failure. Just as you've failed in your pathetic attempt to intimidate me."

He started to rise from his seat then, cane in one hand and clear dismissal in his voice. "You can see yourself out now, Corruptor."

Killian remained where he was, idly examining his rings. The large, square cut ruby that he'd owned for centuries sat on his finger and winked up at him, he refused to don the honours that went with the uniform and wore his favourite pieces in their place instead. He rubbed his thumb over it and admired the fire within before rolling his wrist and snapping his fingers without looking up.

"Even in this modern world, I find that some still cling rather stubbornly to the old ways, don't you, Dealmaker? Especially those who used to hold power. They still style themselves with the titles they lost in the last war in the hope they'll regain them one day, prince, duke, count, and they still arrange marriages for their children. Marriage is a sacrament, and there is nothing more sacred to these people than money."

Rumpelstiltskin snatched up the papers that had appeared on the desk at Killian's command, his face a mask of utter fury as he scanned them and obviously realized his error. The marriage contract was clear, the bride's wealthy family had provided a considerable dowry to the impoverished but noble groom, on the condition that she be granted sole ownership of his ancestral seat and all the contents within upon the wedding, a hedge against a future divorce. Furnishings, carpets, silverware, there was a complete inventory right down to the number of teaspoons.

Including; "an antique jewelled dagger of unknown provenance."

"I confess I may lack your level of expertise," Killian continued, acting as innocent as a virgin at Mass, "but I do know that you can't put up what doesn't belong to you as collateral. Your contract was only with the husband. Mine is with the wife."

Her signature was next to Killian's own on the document the Dark One now held, granting him possession of the castle and surrounding estate. Marriage was a sacrament, and adultery was his favourite sin. He lit another cigarette from his silver case, filled as much with smug satisfaction at having pulled the rug out from under Rumpelstiltskin as the smoke he drew into his lungs. Another demon couldn't interfere directly once a bargain was struck and they both knew it. But Killian hadn't, since the deal was never valid to begin with. "Good faith" was not a doctrine demons followed, and Rumpelstiltskin had no choice but to accept that his own carefully wrought deal was now completely null and void.

"You don't answer to me, that's true. But you do answer to the Fallen One, so if you care to argue this further we can always take this little disagreement to him for a final ruling, if you desire."

The papers fluttered back down and spread across the table in an untidy heap while Rumpelstiltskin's dark gaze went sharper than any dagger. Despite his easy posture with the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, Killian was inwardly as tense as a bowstring. They were both bound by the same rules that called for the other demon to acquiesce, however unwilling he was to do so, but he looked to be on the verge of breaking those rules completely and refusing to relinquish his claim. If he did it would come at a considerable cost, and Killian's entire plan hinged on the Dark One being unwilling to pay it.

"That's twice," he said at last. "Believe me, there won't be a third time."

With that, Rumpelstiltskin lifted his cane and slammed it back down on the floor. The sound was like the strike of a match flaring to life, only magnified a thousandfold and everything in the room rattled from the force of it. For a split second Killian could see what lay beneath the unassuming countenance that had slithered unnoticed and forgotten throughout history for so long, the Beast without his human form to conceal him. He braced himself for the attack that was sure to follow, fingers tightening on the arm of the chair and ready to leap up and fling the lit cigarette right into the demon's face.

It never came. The Dark One was gone instead.

His boots made no sound when he stood up from the chair and walked around the table, the tip of the cigarette flaring crimson as he took another deep inhale. A chasm had opened in the floor like a sinkhole, right where the cane had struck. Killian crouched down to examine it, taking a final drag before flicking the cigarette into the hole and watching it fall end over end until it was swallowed up by the darkness. The chasm was deep, impossibly so, and for a moment he wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had decided to appeal to Lucifer after all and returned to Infernum itself to do so, as the Fallen One rarely left his kingdom below. He waited a few moments, but there was no summons under his skin that compelled him to follow and a check of the castle revealed that most of the treasures had been removed as well. The walls where the tapestries had hung were bare, the exquisite paintings were gone, furniture was draped in dusty cloths and there was an air of disuse and neglect as if everything had been shut away and left untouched for months. A check of the hall outside the library revealed the imp was nowhere to be found, and now that he'd established himself as master the door opened as soon as Killian touched the knob.

It was empty.

Not just the maid, a lot of the books had vanished alongside her. There were holes on the shelves that hadn't been there before and a few of the ones left behind had toppled over completely without the others to hold them in place. Rumpelstiltskin had withdrawn in silent acknowledgement that he'd been outmaneuvered, but he'd obviously taken everything from his other deals along with him. Using that much power at once could nearly cripple a demon, even one as powerful as the dealmaker.

When he returned to the sitting room he saw the rent in the floor had sealed itself back up and all that remained where it had been was a small black mark, perfectly round, left by the tip of the cane. His shoulders dropped with relief under the tailored wool of his jacket that his gamble had paid off, in truth, Killian hadn't wanted to involve the Fallen One either and the invocation of his authority had been a bluff.

The edge of the photograph peeked out from underneath a page of dry German legalese, Killian picked it up and read the words on the back again. If the White Hilt truly existed, then it was a holy relic of the highest order and one he would not allow to fall into Nazi hands. That madman in Berlin could make do with the ramblings of false prophets and the bones of apocryphal saints to fuel his insane crusade, anything genuine was exceedingly rare and he had his own reasons for searching such objects out, reasons he didn't share with those who only thought the commanded him. Just as it had the last time he'd been part of a German army, it was to serve his own purposes and not the other way around.

"Find it."

He didn't have any imps at his disposal so he sent his shadow to begin the search instead. The dark shape moved along the wall of its own volition and sank into the stone like water sinking into the sand, if the dagger was secreted somewhere within the Schloss then he'd find it no matter how well it was hidden. If it turned out to be a medieval copy then he'd return with it to the capital and graciously accept the Reich's accolades, but if it was real, then his coded dispatch would report that the legend of a blade forged from a sword once wielded by a holy angel was just that, a legend, and nothing more.

Night had fallen by the time Killian went outside for some air, frustrated by what appeared to be a fruitless search. There was no jewelled dagger anywhere to be found and he couldn't sense the presence of anything holy. He'd known the odds were exceedingly slim to begin with, and yet for some reason a part of him had believed that not only did the White Hilt exist, he would find it here. Learning that Rumpelstiltskin had chosen this of all the estates he could have had for a wartime headquarters had only increased that belief, it was too much of a coincidence that the demon who coveted power above all else could be sitting unawares on such a prize.

A single line in an inventory that had been prepared years prior and a photograph even older still. It could be real, or it could be nothing more than a wild goose chase and there was no way to tell without the dagger itself. He'd know immediately, just as he'd known that Emma was an angel. The damned always recognized the divine.

A light appeared high in the sky above and drew his attention up. It wasn't the holy light that had drawn him closer on that night in Rome when war had raged unchecked and the city burned, it was the Luftwaffe, flying on steel wings to rain fire in the form of the bombs dropped nightly across the Channel. A falling star streaking across the heavens with a deafening roar, and as it passed overhead he felt the disturbance in the air even from the ground.

The feeling didn't go away after the plane was gone, if anything it increased, hairs on the back of his neck rising and a prickling under his skin that usually meant one thing. Something else caught his eye, a tiny bit of movement that was nothing but a pale smudge against the deep indigo at first. As it grew closer Killian saw that it was a bird, a dove, with something held in its beak.

Not an olive branch, it was a note, falling straight into his hands while the dove flew away. There was only one who correspond with him in such a fashion, and it wasn't another demon. When he unfolded the square of paper letters appeared as if by magic in gold script, addressed at the top in a familiar hand to, "Damnate."

Killian quickly scanned the lines, his brow creasing with a frown. Once he'd secured control of the castle his plan had been to keep following the trail of the White Hilt if it wasn't there, he had some other leads and records that pointed to where it might have gone and the war was the perfect cover for his pursuit. Now that the Dark One knew of his interest, it was even more important that he maintained his cover and moved as quickly as possible. He wasn't bound to answer the summons he held in his hands, the promise he'd made could easily be broken.

"...as you once agreed to give me safe passage I ask that assistance again of you now…"

"...I need you…"

"...please…"

It was signed at the bottom with a single initial in lieu of a name, E, and he brushed his thumb over it.

His answer was silent to all but her.

Belgian Countryside, 1943

"Someone's coming."

The whispered announcement made everyone freeze for a moment before they hurried to the dusty windows in a flurry of palpable dread, dousing the old gas lamp they'd been using for light and pulling the tattered curtains back to peer out into the gloom on the other side of the glass. Outside it was pitch-black for miles around and silent as a tomb across the barren fields and empty roads that made up the ancient Flemish countryside, with not a soul to be seen nor heard from in days. Or it had been, at least. Now there was a distinctly mechanical hum in the air, quiet and barely audible at first, but growing louder and louder and a collective gasp echoed around the room when the long drive to the abandoned farmhouse where they'd taken refuge suddenly lit up with twin oblong lights. As yellow as the predatory eyes of a serpent poised to strike and moving even more quickly, they were unmistakably headlamps, from a large vehicle that was making its way directly towards them at breakneck speed.

"Soldiers!"

"Germans!"

It was a single cry of alarm that was taken up at once by the rest of the ragged group, white-faced and trembling with both exhaustion and fear. In the shadows Philippe and Richard shared that kind of unguarded embrace that would send them straight to the camps as sexual deviants alongside Isaac and the other Jews who sought shelter under her wings, while the Mother Superior had her arms wrapped comfortingly around little Gretel, as thin and delicate as a baby bird fallen from the nest.

Emma forced herself to her feet despite her own utter fatigue and lurched towards the door, tossing a hurried, "Stay here," over her shoulder as she went.

"Emma, Emma come back!"

"Emma, wait, no, it's too dangerous, you don't know who's out there-"

She heard them, but there was another voice that was even louder and she didn't heed their warnings, already on the sagging porch with her shoes scarcely touching the ground as she practically flew down the steps and flung herself headlong into the path of the oncoming car. The light found her immediately and there was an ear-splitting squeal of metal as the unseen driver behind the wheel slammed on the brakes. Gravel flew from under the tires like shrapnel and the car skidded to a halt scant inches from where she stood, so close that Emma could feel the searing heat from the engine, a shocking contrast against the cooler night air. A door opened and a tall figure emerged, standing just beyond the pool of light with his face hidden under the brim of his hat. His appearance elicited another shriek of fright from behind her when they caught a glimpse of his uniform, the glint of silver on his collar and the armband red as blood. Her little flock hadn't listened and had followed her outside, staying close to their shepherd and bleating in fear like orphaned lambs in the dark. Their presence pulled at her to return while his pushed her back, his damnation attempting to repel away her divinity and she swayed back and forth where she stood, caught between warring instincts until he stepped into the light and there was nothing except him.

"Engel," Killian murmured when she threw herself at him, straight into his arms and burying her face in his shoulder. His voice rumbled through her, equal parts amused and concerned. "Oh blessed one. What have you done now?"

There was a shuffle of footsteps behind her and she felt him stiffen, his attention shifting to the small group she'd guided from the Dutch border and across half of occupied Belgium. Emma knew she should pull herself away and try to come up with an explanation as to why she was embracing what appeared to be a Nazi officer who'd just appeared out of nowhere in a car more suited to a film star than a soldier. It must look like their shepherd had delivered them straight to the wolves instead of the safety she promised and she should step back, reassure them, ease their worry...but her head was too heavy, weighed down with innumerable unanswered prayers that flickered behind her eyes in an endless loop. People were suffering, starving, dying, and it was too much for even her wings to carry. Her fingers curled into the dark wool of his jacket and when they called her name again it seemed to come from very far away. His voice was among them but she couldn't answer, her hold loosening and her knees giving out, buckling like an ancient tree gone hollow with age and unable to withstand the force of the wind any longer.

"Killian."

His name fell from her lips in a whisper and she was falling with it, the hard earth below rushing up to meet her and the heavens above, dark, and devoid of stars.

The demon caught her before she hit the ground.

#cs ff #cs fic #my fic #Between Heaven and Hell

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