#a side saddle apron riding skirt

[sassmill]

Nice gay lady give cool old clothes, I order more expensive box

[just-here-for-the-moment]

The Escape

This grew out of an unhinged convo that @deadhumourist and I had over DMs ages ago. Now that it’s wintertime and very cold where I am, I decided to write it up for her. Hope the rest of you enjoy it as well!

Word count: 1400

Rating: Mature, 18+ only (no minors)

Outline: Old West AU? Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x You (race-neutral, blank slate female reader insert; no racial description, no physical description, no name, no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: Yearning and anticipation on both sides; mentions of Jack rescuing you and helping you to escape from some kind of vague danger; Jack affectionately nicknames you “Bluebonnet”; mutual lusty pining; both characters imagining “what if”; mentions and imaginings of sex acts; cranking up the heat on this wintry day

***

The mustang’s hooves clop slowly across the hard ground as Jack guides you to safety through the barren forest. The dry, frozen air of mid-winter makes the sound seem louder than it is, echoing off nearby trees and bouncing back to your ears.

Your focus shifts as your heart rate slows. The adrenaline from Jack scooping you up onto his horse has dribbled out of your veins, bleeding into a numb calmness as he puts distance between you and your hard circumstances.

Your hand aches, clutching at the rough, wool saddle blanket that Jack had wrapped around you both, ordering you to keep it closed for warmth as his rough breath warmed your ear. The sharp, direct order had cut through your fear and you had followed his directions to the letter. You kept the blanket closed over your sternum tightly. An hour into the journey and your fingers were aching, but you refused to let go. You wanted Jack to be proud of you for following his order, for keeping his arms warm and his hands free so that he could steer properly. You wanted to be smart and useful to him.

You tried to ignore the gentle rocking of his thighs against yours where they cupped you, holding you steady on his mount. After everything, you are shocked that your mind is wandering to such lusty images, and you attempt to chastise yourself out of thinking about such things…but the rough denim of his pants conceals a bulge that rocks gently against your ass with every step the horse takes.

For his part, Jack is fighting lusty thoughts of his own. As his breath slows and the horse’s gallop changes to a saunter, Jack tries to ignore the soft curves of your hips under your long winter skirts, and the summery scent of your perfume… delectable notes of lily of the valley and rose that waft up from the heat of your body and tickle his nose. 

It makes him want to find a safe haven, some little culvert or cabin where he can build a fire and put the thick, warm blanket to better use, perhaps as a bed where he can take you gently and show you what good love is supposed to be… if you’ll have him. Maybe after what you’ve been through, he shouldn’t be thinking such things, but the rage that flared in his gut at seeing you in need of rescue has boiled down to a simmer, and he needs to let off steam one way or another. 

He clears his throat and reassures you, “Won’t be much longer now, Bluebonnet.”

“Why do you call me that?” 

“Your scarf,” he brings his left hand gently up to your face and tugs affectionately on the fabric that you’ve wrapped over your head and knotted under your chin, hoping to keep some warmth around your ears. 

“You were wearing this the first day I saw you. Same color as a field full of Texas bluebonnets.” Then, as if that’s all that needs to be said, he trails off into silence. 

You reach back in your mind and try to remember that day, but the time and distance from that moment make things fuzzy. You remember cradling your hard-won harvest of berries in your scarf, tied around your waist like an apron as you emerged from the edge of the forest. And on the road were Jack and another man riding toward town, the sun beating down on the brims of their hats, shadows obscuring their faces. 

If you had been prescient of everything that would transpire between that moment and now, you’re not sure if you would have done things any differently. 

It all ended up with you here, feeling the warmth of Jack’s body against your back, the muscles of his thighs as they tense and squeeze against yours. He’s more relaxed than when the first lengths of galloping put distance between you and that terrible town, but his breath still comes in heavy sighs, and you can tell he’s holding something back. 

“S’that all it was? The color?” You chide yourself internally for sounding hard, ungrateful for the compliment in how he compared you to a pretty sight from his home state. 

You hear Jack’s breath hitch, and then his voice comes deeper, tickling down your neck in warm puffs and up your spine in electric zig zags. “And your strength.”

You think that’s all he’s going to say, but then Jack surprises you, adding, “They go to seed, dig themselves into the dirt in th’ autumn… they grow best in hard soil, rocky places… they bide their time, gettin’ strong all winter, an’ in springtime they bloom blue and pretty and soft… whole waves of ‘em, far as the eye can see.” 

He ends it there, and your mind reels. 

This man sees you… you wonder at that, and your normally quick tongue is stunned into silence as your brain picks over all the golden threads he’s just revealed. You follow the words with your mind, chasing them around in your brain as the horse slows, then stops. 

There’s a clearing just ahead, and Jack turns the mustang slightly sideways, assessing whether it’s safe or dangerous before he approaches any further. His breath comes hot and hard against your ear through the thin material of your scarf, and you fight a whine when his left arm grips you tight around your middle. 

His hand drifts down to your left hip, and he squeezes you hard: a silent message to keep still as he shifts, perhaps making moves to dismount. You want to squirm and rub yourself against the saddle, give yourself friction and action to combat the heavy silence and the frozen air. Your heart is beating so hard you want to faint. 

You breathe in a slow drag through your nose, and that makes it worse. You can smell frost and leather and the living animal underneath you, and layered in with everything is him… smoky, manly soap and fresh sweat and his morning coffee. You turn your face away from the clearing and tuck your ear against his shoulder, and lean into the comforting warmth of Jack as he guards you and protects you. 

Jack watches the clearing and sees a slight movement and he freezes, his massive hand grips your hip harder, and you forget yourself long enough that a small, “Mmh,” escapes your lips before you stuff it back down. 

Your bitten-off moan coincides with Jack’s realization that the movement is a deer, seeking leaves where none have been for weeks, and he relaxes with a chuckle. His laugh vibrates through his chest, pressed against your back, and you exhale a sigh of relief. 

Jack’s distraction subsides and a puzzle piece falls into place. Your noise, that mewl when he gripped your hip through your skirts, and the slight shift of your hips… Jack knows what desire looks like and sounds like from a woman, and he’s happy he hasn’t been nursing a one-sided infatuation. The minute he gets you to safety he’s finding the softest bed and the warmest fire, and he’s going to make sure you don’t have to muffle those noises. He wants them all, just for himself, and he’s damned if he’ll let you hide them from him again. 

You turn as far around as you can and lift your eyes to look at Jack, and when your eyes meet you can’t breathe all over again. 

Jack’s deep brown eyes are boring into you intently, and you wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are… how all you want to do is nuzzle the tip of your nose into the little hollow just under his earlobe and trail it up to his sideburns, because you know that that's where a man smells the most like himself. You want to brush your lips over the stubble that's dusted over the curve of his jaw, feel the contrast of it against your soft lips… press a kiss into the skin of his throat and feel his heartbeat as it moves blood through his jugular before you flick the tip of your tongue out to taste the salt of his skin… but you can’t, because you're still fleeing everything that he's rescued you from. 

You’re grateful for that, but you're so desperately aroused and so tired from running that all you want to do is turn and sit sideways across his lap, snuggle into him for warmth and safety and let him hold you and fuck you until you fall asleep. 

The moment passes, and Jack flicks his eyes toward the clearing before prompting the horse with his heels. 

“Won’t be far now, Bluebonnet, I promise.”

You turn your face toward the future, and let Jack guide you there. 

***

[wastelandwitch77]

SO I absolutely love historical dress, and I saw The Bad Batch western AU by @hellothere-generalangsty , so I had to do this. (I’m also going to tag @mintywriteswritings because I first found the AU through her and she writes beautiful fics for it) Our view of the wild west is very 1950′s Hollywood, which is fine, but I just wanted to design some historically accurate costumes. (I made one for myself too because I wanted to design another dress) I’ve been working on this for at least a month? I think? So here’s the (mostly) historically accurate Bad Batch. If you want to read more about my decisions or research, you want to learn more about historical accuracy for your fics, or just think historical fashion is fun, please keep reading under the cut. 

Our time period here is the late 1860′s.

I want to emphasize that this is DAY WEAR. This is what you’d be wearing around town or at work or at home. Evening wear is an entirely different beast altogether.

 I guess I’ll start with Tech. Tech is the most fashionable. He’s a city boy and a doctor, and has access to more expensive fabrics, as well as knowing more about what’s trending. Everyone else is a year or two behind the fashion because it takes a while for the fashion to move out west. 

His frock coat is very in fashion.

Working class people tried to stay on the fashions just as much as wealthier people, they just used what they had, typically adapting garments they already had to suit the new styles.

Lower class and working class people typically had maybe 4? outfits total. Two to switch out day to day, a “Sunday Best” to wear to church, and then something to wear to fancy occasions like dances and weddings (evening wear). Tech, being a bit wealthier, may have a few more than that. 

Undergarments were changed everyday and washed more frequently than the outer clothing. Typically the outer clothing isn’t touching your skin much so that it didn’t get sweaty and didn’t have to be washed often. (washing=more wear and tear on the clothes) Aprons were worn during work to also keep the clothing from getting soiled. 

The dropped shoulder seam and bishop sleeve was the go-to for both men and women.

Men would not go any where with at least a vest over their shirt if there were to be any women present (except their wife). Just the button up shirt is essentially like being in your underwear. 

Likewise, women would never, EVER, have their hair down around men (except their husband.) 

Woman’s hair was always parted in the middle (side part was only for men) and pulled into an up-do low on the head. 

I had to cut Hunter’s hair, because long hair for men was only found on Confederates during this time and I just could not stand for that. 

The modern cowboy hat didn’t exist yet. The hat here is “The Boss of the Plains.” It had only recently been created but was an instant hit. If the time period was any earlier than the 1860′s your cowboys would’ve been wearing a bowler hat. 

If you are a woman, YOU ARE WEARING A DRESS. If you wore menswear at this time, you would get laughed out of town. No trousers. Not until at least the 1910′s did it become somewhat acceptable for women to wear pants at all. Yes, even while riding a horse, which means...

WOMEN ALWAYS RODE SIDE SADDLE. No exceptions. Not in the 1860′s. 

WOMEN ARE WEARING CORSETS. YES, EVEN WORKING IN THE FIELDS. Corsets have been given a bad name by modern media, don’t fall for it. I could go on about corsets for hours if you let me. They did not restrict your movement or breathing. They weren’t laced tightly. They just provided structure and essentially functioned as the precursor to the bra. If it is before 1920, you are wearing a corset.

This is a mistake that’s made a lot, but you wore a chemise under your corset. Your corset does not touch your bare skin.

Women wore crinolines (kind of like a hoop skirt) that were slightly fuller at the back (getting ready for the bustle that was popular in the 1870′s). This is likely the only undergarment that MIGHT have been shed during hard labor.

Working women still wore full length dresses, only hemmed maybe an inch shorter for ease of movement.

Clothes for children were just smaller versions of adult clothes, really. 

Young boys (like under the age of 6?) wore dresses until they were older.

Women and girls would’ve worn bonnets, but I think bonnets are fugly so I didn’t draw any. 

There were just so, SO many amputations performed during the Civil War that the entire culture around disability changed. There was better accessibility and technology for disabled people than ever before. 

I don’t think Tech would let Echo look shabby so he always makes sure that Echo is dressed appropriately. 

I gave Echo a frock coat like Tech’s to mimic his kama, but then I put him in a wheelchair so you can’t even see it. 

For shirts, dresses, and vests, they didn’t really do solid fabrics during this period. The more elaborate the pattern the better.

A shaved head on both men and women indicated that they were either ill or were recently ill (consumption, anyone?)

I based Hunter’s birthmark on my irl uncle Doug, who was a real cowboy.

I allowed hair-dye and bleach to exist because it helps keep the characters recognizable and also because I can. 

The funnest part of this project was probably designing the patterns on the clothes. 

My favorite design is probably Tech.

Menswear is kind of boring. It doesn’t change much after the Regency period. It was very tedious reading about the varying width of lapels in the 1800′s. 

Overall, this period of fashion is not my favorite. This project made me yearn for the vastly superior 1890′s-1910′s era. But I still had a lot of fun. 

If you still have questions feel free to ask. I don’t have a degree in historical fashion or anything, but I did hella research for this and if I know the answer to your question I’m happy to help. 

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

be still my foolish heart

the wench and the witcher

“be still my foolish heart”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: More moments, a gift, and a soft goodbye.

Warnings: Mature/18+ - brief mention of sex/heavy petting. Still a pair of foul-mouthed little darlings. Somehow also fluffier and sweeter than yesterday’s bit (sorry/not sorry @owillofthewisps​).

A/N: Y’all seemed to be down with the smash-up fic, so here, have another! Given that leaving the house is pretty much impossible right now, I’m going to see how much stuff I can churn out until this quarantine is lifted. You’re welcome. Title and lyrics below the cut snatched from “Almost (Sweet Music)” by Hozier.

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​

I came in from the outside, burned out from a joy ride She likes to roll here in my ashes anyway

Beady, black eyes stare at you. Frozen in place, you hardly dare to breathe, bar rag clutched in a pale-knuckled grip. Slow, carefully, you stand from your crouch behind the bar and begin twisting the rag around itself into a makeshift weapon. 

“Don’t move,” you mutter to your foe. “Don’t you dare, you little  – “

 The brown spider sprints at you.

 You shriek.

 Over the piercing echo of your abject terror, you hear Geralt shout your name. A door upstairs slams. The Witcher finds you seated on the bar top with a look on your face like you’ve seen an alghoul. “What the fuck – “

 “Kill it,” you hiss and point in the general direction of the fiend. “Ger’, please kill it or I’m burning this fucking place to the ground.”

 Stunned silence, and then a long sigh. “Where’d it go?”

 “Behind that cask of red.” Your voice edges towards a childish whine as you thrust the bar rag towards him, “Geralt, please.”

 Geralt muscles himself over the bar with ease. Muttering to himself, the white-haired mutant moves the cask of wine out of his way to dispatch your mortal enemy with a sharp smack of his palm. You make your way back to the floor and try to get your pulse to slow. Geralt wipes smashed spider from his hand with your rag and you breathe a sigh until he tries to hand the bug-rag back to you; you recoil as if the eight-legged beastie were sitting on his hand.

 “Nope,” you insist. “In the bin. Or the fire – don’t care, not touching it.”

 Geralt snorts. “Sweetheart, what do you do when I’m not here?”

 “Make someone else kill them.”

 “I have seen you face down drunks twice your size.”

 “They don’t have eight legs and fangs, asshole.”

 “… The proper response is ‘thank you’, sweetheart.”

 “Thank you. Asshole.”

 Geralt arches a brow and sucks his teeth. You smirk back until he lunges at you – the sudden movement startles a yelp out of you. You’re pinned to the bar top before you can curse him. Deft fingers prod at your ribs and underarms while you howl with laughter and try to unsuccessfully wriggle free. There are tears streaming down your face by the time he manages to torment you into apologizing.

 _-_-_-_-_

 The note reads:

 ‘Get rid of that shit whetstone in the kitchen already.

Keep your damned knives honed, or you’ll cut off a finger.

I’ll be back in a few weeks. – G ‘

 Bossy prick.

 You’re a little surprised by Geralt’s penmanship – he writes well, letters small and even. You grin as you tuck the note into your apron and open the box you’d found on your desk. The whetstones inside are high quality, better than the one you have now. One is a large, solid block, nearly as long as your forearm; it means you can finally get rid of that overpriced river rock that sits on your counter.

 The other stone is smaller. You reckon it would sit comfortably in the palm of your hand and do well with the blade that is currently sheathed in your boot. Wrapped around the small stone is a soft cloth – it keeps a small bottle of honing oil tucked against the whetstone. Smiling fondly, you pull your dirk from its place and unwrap the smaller of the two whetstones. Geralt’s instruction is fresh in your mind and you go through each motion with a novice’s care.

 By some miracle, you don’t even nick a knuckle.

 _-_-_-_-_

 Geralt kisses like a tidal wave – insistent, unrelenting, and eager to pull you under. It would be a good death, you think, as the hot swipe of his tongue against yours pulls a shiver up your spine. You sigh into his mouth and feel him grin against yours.

 “I thought you were leaving,” you gasp.

 “Was,” he grunts. “Am. Soon.”

 You snicker. He smothers the sound with his lips, but you feel him huff out a laugh of his own. You nip at him, worry the softness of his bottom lip with your teeth, and are rewarded with a rumbling growl. The Witcher tightens his grip on your waist and begins to shuffle you away from the stable door. There’s a brief jostle when he sits on a nearby hay bale, then a tug that has you stumbling into his lap with a squeak and a laugh.

 He lets you ease back, panting for breath, only to dart in and press his face against your throat. Blunt teeth catch along your pulse; Geralt chuckles when you moan into his hair.

 “This is not leaving,” you groan. “What, you wanted to literally roll me in the hay before you skip town?”

 Geralt trails his smiling mouth up the line of your throat. His teeth nip at your earlobe. “Maybe,” he mumbles, then hmms when you rock your hips into him. “Yes. Definitely.”

 With a low growl, the Witcher sets himself on the soft bit of skin below your ear. Nibbling and biting, he brings blood to the surface in a deep red bruise until you swear and yank him in for another kiss. He sprawls onto his back in the hay and then rolls until you’re curled under him with your skirts around your hips. Your fingers tear open the buttons on his trousers.

 His slip between your legs. The teasing pressure pulls a rough gasp from behind your tongue.

 “Hurry,” you whisper on a breathless laugh. “Before someone wanders in.”

 He has to press his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

 After, he helps you stand on your shaky legs and plucks the hay out of your hair. It would be almost gentlemanly, if it weren’t for the smirk on his handsome face. You meet his sly gaze and feel your cheeks go hot. “Don’t look so smug,” you mutter.

 “Never.”

 You shove at his shoulder. The Witcher rumbles a warning and pulls you into his chest. He kisses you once more – hungry, and hot, and so damned sweet that it makes your toes curl in your boots. You’re both panting and desperate again in no time.

 “Gods be damned – no, stop it,” you groan – when you shove again Geralt lets you, chuckling when he stumbles back a step. “Come on, you need to move. Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

 Golden eyes spark back at you, all cocky mischief as you blush and laugh. You follow Geralt to Roach’s stall, watch him make the final preparations to the mare’s saddle – attaching the bed roll and the pack of provisions you’ve wrapped for him. He digs through one of the saddle bags for a moment, then goes still.

 “I ah… I have something for you,” he mutters.

 You arch a brow at him when he turns to crowd your space again with something clutched in his hand. He clears his throat roughly, and his bright gaze drops to the toes of his boots as he holds up his gift. Your breathe steals out on a soft ‘oh’ - in his palm lays a necklace boasting a slim, curved fang. It’s been buffed to a matte ivory sheen and hangs on a simple leather chord. Polished cherrywood beads frame either side of the small bit of bone.

 “What kind of tooth is it?” you murmur.

 “It’s, uh. It’s a wolf’s.”

 Oh.

 You try to swallow, but there’s a thickness in the back of your throat that makes it difficult. Geralt lets you take the necklace from his hand, and you run your thumb over the smooth trinket. When you glance up, the Witcher now seems to be studying the hem of your skirt with a single-minded intensity, and the twitch of his jaw tells you he’s biting his tongue. 

“Geralt,” you whisper.

 He glances up. You smile as you meet his gaze and tie the leather chord around your neck. The fang sits just bellow the hollow of your throat, cool at first, but slowly warming to the temperature of your skin. Geralt stares at the necklace for a moment. He presses his lips together, but not before you see the corner of his soft mouth twitch upward. With a shameless grin of your own, you step into him and wind your arms around his waist, balancing on tip-toe to brush the tip of your nose over his. The Witcher lets out a low, satisfied murmur of an exhale – the pad of his thumb sweeps gently up the apple of your cheek.

 “Go on, darling,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be here when you get home.”

[kelyon]

Game: A Golden Cuffs Story, Chapter One: Curse

A month after their wedding, Belle asks Rumpelstiltskin if he'd like to indulge in one of their old favorite ways of passing the time.

Read on AO3

Belle kept most of her riding clothes on before going up to the tower to see Rumpelstiltskin. 

When she was a girl in her father’s house, Belle had only been able to go out riding when there were no other obligations--and even then she’d had to be accompanied by her ladies and at least a few servants. Her horse then had been a docile gray mare who had been trained not to jump or even gallop, no matter how Belle had tried to spur the creature on. She’d had to ride sidesaddle in a dress, the only way that was proper for a young lady. 

But she wasn’t a young lady anymore. Now she was a woman, the wife of the Dark One, protected by his magic and free to do as she pleased. She had bought a horse with gold coins her husband had created from nothing. 

Philippe was only a farm horse, not fast, but strong and unflappable. Every morning, after waking up in her bed with her husband beside her, Belle went out for some exercise. She rode in a regular saddle with both legs astride the horse--not like a lady, but like a person in control of their own destiny. 

To aid in her mobility, Rumpelstiltskin had fashioned riding clothes for her. The two of them had experimented with giving her divided skirts and different sorts of habits, but eventually it was decided that tight-fitting trousers worked best. He had made her a dozen pairs in different colors and various blends of wool and linen. 

When it got colder, Belle planned to ask her husband for a pair of leather breeches. Even if they proved impractical for riding, she wanted to see if such an ensemble would flatter her body as much as it did his.  

For now, in these lovely summer months, it was good to get outside every day. Atop Philippe, Belle explored the forests and mountains that surrounded Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. The woods were rich with life. Walking slowly through the trees, Belle looked for birds and deer and bears. Sometimes she even caught the morning sun glinting off a dew-covered spiderweb. She had no fear of anything in the forest. Rumple’s magic kept away supernatural creatures, and  animals rarely attacked something that was no threat to them.

Humans were less understanding. 

When she had first started going out, Belle had tried to visit the little town at the base of the mountain. She had thought that she might make friends with the townsfolk, at least with the innkeeper and his wife. But she soon realized how uneasy her presence made people.

Anyone who saw her coming down from the Dark One’s castle tended to avoid speaking to her unless she spoke to them first. Even then, they kept their eyes downcast and their voices were strained with fear. All of them gave her and Philippe a wide berth, moving to the opposite side of the street as they approached. Children gawked at her from windows until adult hands pulled them back out of sight. Belle couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that the villagers started talking about her as soon as her back was turned. 

She hadn’t even told anyone that she had married Rumpelstiltskin. Simply being associated with him was enough to ostracize her from polite company. 

So she kept to the forest, and kept to the castle. She stayed close to her husband and her home. There were people in the various worlds who loved her and understood her, and those were the relationships she cherished. No one else’s opinion mattered.  

Still, she enjoyed her rides. It was pleasant to have an activity of her own, something that took her away from Rumple for a few hours every day. And every time, the brief separation made their reunion that much sweeter.

“I’m home!” Belle announced as she entered the castle after putting Philippe away in the stables. Rumple knew she was back, of course. He knew everything that happened in his home, and he’d told her that he kept watch over her while she was out and about. 

But declaring her presence meant more than merely stating a fact. When she said those words to Rumple, she was telling him that the castle was her home and she was happy to be there with him. She told him that she was well, that she wanted to talk to him, that she wanted him to want her around.

She told him that she loved him.

She made her way to the landing that held the door to their bedroom and to the tower where Rumple worked most of his magic. Belle stopped by the bedroom just long enough to take off her light riding coat. The lilac-colored garment was damp with sweat and the castle air felt deliciously cool against her loose linen undershirt. 

Belle hung her coat in her wardrobe, knowing that it would be clean and pressed the next time she wanted to wear it. She kept on her brown riding boots and trousers. Rumple had never said anything out loud, but she had seen the way his eyes lingered over the shape of her legs, even when they were covered in cloth. 

When she removed the linen kerchief at her throat it exposed the openness of her shirt and just a hint of her bosom. The white fabric was thin and her perspiration had made it almost translucent. She thought about removing her stays before she went up to see Rumple, but decided against it. 

She never needed a riding crop for Philippe, but sometimes she wished she had one, for special occasions.

To cover up any unpleasant odors of sweat and horse, Belle pulled out a jar of perfume and sat down at her vanity to put it on. The jar itself was a work of art--a cube of cut crystal in a red so dark it might have been carved from a ruby. She set the top of the jar next to a sapphire-blue pyramid that contained a different liquid fragrance. Belle dipped her fingers into the red jar and swiped up a few drops of perfume. 

If anyone asked her what the perfume smelled like, she would have told them roses. But in truth, this scent was almost nothing like the flowers that had bloomed around the castle gates on her wedding day. This perfume was the soul of roses, or roses in love, sultry and deep. Only magic could create this smell of heat, of desire, of a living, primal need.

She felt that heat in her cheeks and her chest before she even began to apply the perfume. With a light touch, she swept the scent over her wrists and her neck. One drop rolled down her throat into the valley between her breasts. The sensation made Belle shiver.

As a final touch, Belle untied the ribbon that bound her hair and shook it loose over her shoulders. Running her fingers through the curls, she coated them with the last of the perfume--Rumple had never given her a hairbrush of her own. Then, she tied the lilac ribbon back around her hair, but loosely, so the bow could be undone at a moment’s notice.

Even by her vanity, there were no mirrors in the castle. She usually didn’t miss them. If the Evil Queen could use mirrors as her spies, it was better to keep them covered. But every now and again, Belle would have liked to inspect her own appearance. Particularly on those occasions when she wanted to look especially alluring.  

When she got to the foot of the stairs, Belle called to her husband. “Is it safe to come up?”

This was another sentence that meant so much more than the mere words would imply. When Belle asked if something was safe, she was telling her husband that she trusted him. She was telling him she knew he might have more knowledge than her, and that she relied on him to protect her from harm, that she would follow his guidance if he told her to stay away. She was telling him that she loved him.

And when Rumple’s voice came down the steps as “Yes, sweetheart,” Belle knew that he was really telling her that she was welcome in his place, in his work. He was telling her that he wanted her around him, that her presence was better than solitude. He was telling her that he loved her. 

Did all couples speak to each other in a code like this, or was it only that she had married a man who lived by riddles and hidden meanings?

Either way, Belle went up the stairs to be with him.

Rumpelstiltskin was standing in front of his work table. As Belle approached, she saw him taking off a pair of dragonhide gloves and a leather apron. He pulled a beaked mask away from his face. She knew he didn’t need those protections, but he wore them so he wouldn’t have to take the time to decontaminate himself of any dangerous magic before he touched her.

The room smelled faintly of char, but there was no sign of a fire or an explosion. Several books lay open on the table, and there were beakers and vials full of brightly-colored substances. Some of the liquids floated in their bottles, while others glowed with pulsing light. In the center of the table there was a glass dome on top of an iron plate. The plate and the dome were bound together by iron chains and inside the dome something moved.

Rumple greeted Belle with a soft kiss and wrapped his arms around her waist. He sniffed at her perfume, but didn’t mention it. “How was your ride?”

She snuggled into his embrace, rubbing the scent onto his clothes. They didn’t kiss again, but they knew they could. “It got hot once the sun burned off the morning mist. I’m almost surprised that you allow the summer sun to enter your domain.” 

“A bit of sunshine is good for the complexion.” He grinned at her, his green skin sparkling. 

Belle giggled, less because his quip was that funny and more because she was so happy. “And how is my husband?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead and breathed in slowly. “Better, now that my wife is in my arms.”

“Better?” Belle rested her hands on his shoulders. “Were things not good enough before? Is your work troubling you?”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. “It’s nothing urgent,” he said. “Nothing that must be done or else there will be catastrophic consequences. But I thought I might try something and the results were not as I had hoped.”  

Turning to the table, Belle broke their embrace. She stayed close enough to keep her body against his. Rumple kept one hand on her hip, slowly caressing the light brown fabric of her riding trousers. His mind was no longer on his magic. However, Belle had suddenly become curious. 

“What is it that you’ve got trapped under the glass?”

The moving thing was a strip of darkness, smaller than the length of her hand. The smell of burning seemed to emanate from it. The edges of the thing wavered and sparked, like some sort of black flame. It darted in every direction around the dome, searching endlessly, relentlessly. There was an aura of malice around it that was more than just the wriggling tendrils of death-colored magic.  

Slowly, Belle approached the table, and Rumple kept his hands on her. She knew better than to reach out to the thing in the dome, but she bent at the waist to examine it. The thing wasn’t entirely black, but held the faintest tints of a deep, angry red. It reminded her of blood, of meat.

“It’s not some kind of creature, is it, Rumple?”

Gently, he pulled her back, away from the thing. “It is a curse, my dear. But a small one, and fairly harmless.”

Her gaze shifted from the dome to her husband. She wasn’t afraid of this magic, not while he was there to protect her. “What kind of curse is it? What does it do?”

“Like I said, it’s a simple hex. It wouldn’t do much trouble even if it got out. The curse is, ‘May your bacon always burn.’”

At the sound of its purpose, the curse reared up and started banging itself against the glass. Belle jerked back against Rumple’s body, but her reaction was more out of surprise than fear. The chains kept the dome weighted down against the plate and the effect that cold iron had against certain spells held true. In no time at all, the curse seemed to have exhausted itself. Though it didn’t stop, its movements became listless and sluggish. Tendrils drooping, it floated instead of flying around the dome.

Full of nothing by curiosity, Belle looked at her husband. “What did you think you would find out from studying a curse?”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed before he spoke. “I, uh, I was trying to study the nature of curses and the effect of malicious intent on a spell. My perspective on such matters has… shifted, in the past month or so.” He twisted his wedding ring around his finger.

It had been a little more than a month since she had put that ring on him, since she had claimed him as her own forever. Belle put her hand over his, to still his nervous fidgeting. “What did you find out?”

He squeezed her hand before he let it go and went to one of his books. “Tell me, my love: What is the difference between a curse and a blessing? Don’t think, just tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. He had gone from magic to philosophy, and his question surely would have a philosophical answer. “I suppose… curses are evil.”

“And what is the difference between evil and good?”

Belle thought only a moment before answering. “Well, evil things hurt people.”

“Aha!” Rumple snapped his fingers and pointed. She had gotten to the heart of his explanation. “But is it always evil to hurt people? Would you say a soldier at war is evil? How about a knight at a tournament, even if he just knocks his opponent to the ground? Is an executioner taking a murderer’s life less evil than the criminal himself?”

“But those are all people, Rumple. And what harm is acceptable under what circumstances is a matter for law-makers and clerics. You were examining a curse.”

“Yes.” Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes darkened as he gazed at the strip of black fire he kept under glass. “Unlike a person, a curse has no choice, not even an ability to mitigate the pain it causes. And a curse is pain, my sweet. For a magic-user to create a curse requires a wealth of intense, concentrated, damage on the heart. A hurt so unspeakable that the only way to be rid of it is to inflict it on another victim. And even then, the wound remains. It festers, like a stinking mold on the soul. No matter how you try, you’re never really clean again.”

   He had turned away from her as he spoke, bracing his hands on the table. He stared intently at the curse and Belle could feel dark magic gathering around him. How many curses had her husband created? How much pain had he suffered and made other people suffer? How much damage, how much ‘stinking mold’ was on his soul?

The thought frightened her and she wanted to pull away. Instead, she stepped closer. 

She put her hand on his arm. “Rumple?”

He didn’t react to her touch. His eyes had become black and unfocused. He was seeing things that did not exist in the world where she stood. Ghosts and regrets were never far from his mind, Belle knew, and this talk had opened up a door for them.

But she had the power to shut that door. 

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle ordered, “look at me.”

With a shudder, her husband came out of his trance to obey her. He blinked several times, and each time his inhuman eyes became less black and more gold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I--what were we saying?”

“You were telling me how terrible curses are.”

“Yes.” He took a heavy breath. “Yes, Belle. And you were listening to me.”

“I was.” Belle kept her hand on his arm, but gave him enough space to breathe. “But we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his eyes closed. He rubbed his face with one hand, the hand with his wedding ring on it. The golden band shone, reflecting the late morning light. His other hand gripped at the back of Belle’s loose shirt. He held her tightly, afraid to let go. 

“I did have a point,” he said with a rough exhalation. The sound might have been a chuckle. “My experiment today was to see if a curse could be… redirected. Not broken, not reversed. I wanted to see if I could keep it whole, but shift its purpose, the same force for the opposite ends. I thought I might, somehow, compel harm to become helpful. I thought I could create goodness out of something that is built of nothing but rage and destruction.” He shook his head, sour and weary. “But it’s hopeless.”

“Well of course it is.” Belle put her arms around her husband’s waist and rested her head on his chest. His breathing had slowed, but it was still labored. “You said it yourself, Rumple: a curse has no choice.”  

He shuddered again and clutched his arms around her body, buried his face in her hair. “Then what hope is there for evil people?”

Like a key turning in a lock, the mystery of his thoughts suddenly opened to her with a click.

“Oh,” Belle said out loud. “Oh, Rumple. Is that what this is all about? About you?”

He pushed himself away from her embrace and took a few long strides around his workroom until he was alone in the center of the floor. “Dark magic is all that I have done--all that I have been--for so long, Belle.” He took a deep and heavy breath. “I cannot dream of giving up evil entirely, not yet. But I thought that I could… transform it, a little. I thought I could make myself better, for you.” His hands balled into fists. He stared again at the trapped curse. “But the principle doesn’t hold, not even on the simplest of spells. A curse cannot be made good.”

As much as she understood her husband, Belle knew she had to disabuse him of at least one notion before they went any further. “But you are not a curse, Rumple.”

“Am I not?” He held up his hands for her examination. “This is a curse that I need, that I use every day to provide for myself and for you. Being the Dark One means living off of dark magic and all magic comes at a price.” He sighed, casting his gaze around the room. Belle saw him look at his spinning wheel, his spellbooks and potions, at the curse he had contained but could not control. Then he looked down at the floor, dejected. “I never minded paying until now,” he said softly. “I never minded being evil, until a good woman pledged to love me.”

Belle stepped up to her husband and gently took his hands. He gave himself to her, unresisting, but he did not meet her eyes.

“For as long as I’ve known you,” she said softly, “you have never made a secret of your evil.” She rubbed her thumb against his knuckles. “You’re usually more prone to hiding your goodness and your vulnerabilities.”

His eyes were still downcast, but his lips twitched into a half-smile. “And you found them out anyway, you remarkable woman.”

“And they were worth the search,” Belle assured him. “Rumple, I love your goodness, but I know that you are more than just one thing. I know that darkness is a part of you. It was the first part of you I ever knew.”

He grabbed her hands and shook his head. “I wish it wasn’t,” he said. “You are so good, Belle. You deserve a good man for a husband.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re trying to become a good man instead of trying to force me to be with someone I ‘deserve’ instead of with you, the man I love.”

He squeezed her again and pulled her into his arms. He embraced her so fiercely Belle thought it would leave bruises. She didn’t mind the idea. 

“I can’t live without you, Belle,” her husband whispered. “I tried, but I hated it. I’m sorry I’m so weak.”

“I hated it too,” she reminded him. “I didn’t want to be away from you, that’s why I came back. And I know who you are, Rumpelstiltskin. I know what you’re capable of and how your mind works--and I still agreed to marry you. I appreciate that you want to be a better person, but please don’t think that I want you to become something entirely different than what you are.”

Rumple said nothing, but he rested his head against hers and nodded. 

“I meant what I said before,” Belle went on. “You are not a curse. You are a person who does actions. And yes, some of those actions are curses, I won’t deny that. Some of your actions are cruel and thoughtless, and most of your magic is dark. But you!” She held his face in her hands. “You, my love, my husband, my Rumple--you are more than your worst actions. A curse doesn’t have a choice, but you do. Every time, you have a choice.”

“But so often my choices are wrong. If evil is what hurts people, I have done plenty of that.”

“I know,” Belle conceded. She rubbed his temples with her thumbs. “But that doesn’t mean that you are beyond hope, that you are unworthy of love. I have never believed that.”

“I know.” He held her close again. His hands stroked her back, twisted into the ends of her hair in its ribbon. They breathed together for a moment. “Even in the beginning, you never hated me as much as you should have.”

“Stop,” she ordered gently. “If I could order you to stop hating yourself, I would.”

Rumple chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Even that magic has its limits.”

She rested on his chest. “But I love you,” she said. “And I wish you could love yourself.”

“It’s easier to contemplate, when you’re around.” He held her by the shoulders to look her in the eye. “I do want to be a better man for you, a man who is actually worthy of your love.”   

 Belle smiled. “I’m just happy you’re thinking of yourself as a man at all,” she said. “It wasn’t that long ago you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t that long ago I wasn’t,” he countered. “You did transform me, my Belle. Your love… kept me from ever being a complete monster.”

Belle tried to keep her smile, but she couldn’t hide the slight slump of her shoulders.

“What is it?” Rumple asked.

“Nothing,” Belle said too quickly. She looked down at her hands, at her ring. “I just… I’ve had some selfish thoughts lately.”

“Oh?” he said lightly. “What is selfish for you, my sweet?”

It was Belle’s turn to fidget, to not look her lover in the eye. She stepped away from him, wandering uselessly in the small room. “It’s just… something I wanted to ask of you. But I worry that it isn’t something that you want to do anymore.”

Rumpelstiltskin cocked his head. “Now what on earth could there be that I wouldn’t give to my wife?”

Suddenly very hot, Belle swallowed. “I…” she began. “I worry that you will blanch at the idea, that it will be too evil for you now, for the man you want to be.”

Now his eyebrows furrowed and his voice became serious. He crossed the space that separated them. “What evil would you ask of me, Belle? Did someone hurt you? Do you want a head on a platter? I will destroy your enemies in an instant, if you just say the word.”

“No,” Belle almost laughed. But what she really wanted seemed too absurd for laughter. It had been weighing on her mind even before the wedding, before she came back to the castle, ever since the night she had been brought back from Regina.

Had it really been that long?

She took a breath. “Rumple,” she began. “Do you remember the chipped cup?”

He looked at her, quizzical. “Of course I remember your chipped cup. It’s still downstairs. We look at it every day.”

“Do you remember how we used to use it? W-what it meant?”

When Belle looked again at Rumpelstiltskin, she realized that she was probably seeing what her own face had looked like at the beginning of this conversation, that sudden moment of clarity. 

“Oh,” he said simply. “You… would like us to do… that sort of thing… again. Is that what you mean?”

Belle hung her head, but nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I told you, it was a selfish impulse. And if it’s not something you want to do, I understand. But Rumple, you have to know--I never hated your darkness, and I never hated it when you let that darkness play with my body.”

A tremor went through Rumpelstiltskin. The muscles in his face twitched and his lips moved without sound. When he did speak, his voice was slow and breathy. “You… want me… to hurt you?”

Swallowing her embarrassment, Belle nodded. “A game, like we used to play. You were never really angry with me, it was never a real punishment for a real transgression. We were just… pretending.”

“But the pain was real,” he whispered. “The blood was real, the scars, the bruises. I really did hurt you, Belle.”

This time, her nod was more vigorous. “And I’d like you to hurt me again.” She looked down at the floor. It was harder to say these things as his wife than it ever had been when she was his whore. “I used to enjoy wearing your bruises, Rumple.”

His breath caught and Belle looked up. Rumpelstiltskin’s face was unmoving, but his eyes had gone dark and his lips were parted.

Walking up to him, Belle stood in front of her husband for a moment. Slowly, deliberately, she reached into her hair and pulled at the lilac ribbon. Released from their bondage, her curls tumbled over her shoulders in wild waves. She shook her head to help her curls settle into place and to unleash the hidden reserves of her perfume. The smell of roses--of heat, of desire--wafted from Belle to Rumple.

His mouth opened wider as he breathed her in, as he took in the sight of her and all the signs of her yearning. He gaped at her now. He stood up straighter, as if his leather trousers had suddenly grown too tight.

 Then, Belle slowly sank to her knees. She hadn’t done this in months. The position was more awkward in her riding clothes and boots than it had been when she had worn nothing but a blue robe. She sat back on her heels, with her hands resting on her husband’s calves. She licked her lips and looked up at him.

“Would you like that, Rumpelstiltskin? Would you like to play a game with me?”

“Fuck.” He shivered and looked down at her. “Are you sure?”

“I fell in love with the Dark One,” Belle answered. “I fell in love with the man who owned me, who brought me over the brink of pain again and again. My husband is gentle and kind, but he can also be fearsome and terrible. And I love all of him.”

“Fuck,” Rumple said again. Then he bent at the waist. Then his hands were in her hair and his mouth was over hers and Belle was on her knees and utterly at the mercy of the most powerful dark magician in the world. 

They broke apart, both of them breathless and overwhelmed. They didn’t change positions after the kiss. Belle remained on her knees and Rumple loomed over her.  

“Do you have a preference?” he asked. “Where we do this?”

“Our room,” she said at once. “We make love every other way there. We shouldn’t treat this as separate.”

Bent over, he cradled her face in his hands. “Do you really think that, Belle? That what we’re about to do is just another way to make love?”

Belle nodded. “It is an action, not a curse.”

Rumple looked stricken at that--shocked that she had known what he was thinking, and touched that she would care. “I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you.”

“I love you,” he repeated as his hand clasped around her throat. Belle gasped and felt her whole body clench in desire as he forced her to the ground. “And that’s why I’m going to make you scream.”   

[katymacsupernatural]

The Knight of Your Dreams Part 1

Knight Dean x Reader 

1700 Words

Written For: @spnaubingo

Square Filled: Knight Dean

Warnings: Not completely historically accurate. Warnings will be given with each chapter. 

“Do you really think this thing came from the medieval ages?” You asked, staring down at the necklace laying on cloth in front of you. The leather strap had long since rotted away, leaving nothing more than a little knot where it attached to the main part.

It was made of gold, round, about an inch wide. It had words etched into the soft metal, barely discernable with all of the wear. A dark emerald, crusted with rust was encrusted in the middle. In its heyday, it would have been an expensive piece. One worn by a Queen, or some other high ranking lady.

“It definitely could be,” your work partner, Becka agreed, leaning down with a magnifying glass. “Where it was buried, the markings. It all fits in with the 12th Century. I can barely make out the words. Give me a piece of paper!”

You handed over a slip of paper, and she began scribbling. Watching over her shoulder, you were able to read the Latin words that were appearing. Mumbling them under your breath, you stared in amazement as the Emerald began to glow. “Becka, are you seeing this?” You asked.

She had stopped scribbling, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “That’s weird. I wonder if it’s having some sort of reaction to the cleaner we used. Let me get a test strip.”

She ran down the hallway, snapping off her vinyl gloves as she went, leaving you to stare down at the necklace. It had continued to glow, brighter and brighter by the second. You began to feel dizzy, your body swaying as you held onto the table for support.

The necklace began to shake before it emitted a bright white light, blocking out everything else in the room. This energy pulled you towards the necklace, your entire body throbbing, full of this bright white light before it stopped. Leaning over, taking deep, gasping breaths, you called out to your coworker. “Becka? Did you see that?”

“Who is this Becka you are talking to? I only see one maiden in this area,” A deep voice spoke up from behind you, and you stood up suddenly. Too fast as your head started spinning and you lost your footing in the soaking wet grass, falling on your butt. Ignoring your throbbing rear end, you stared down at the grass in confusion. “Grass?” You whispered, reaching out to touch it. Just seconds ago you had been standing on the pristine white tiles of your lab, nowhere near the grass.

“Lass, are you alright?” The voice called out again. The bright sun was blocked out by a shadow, the man’s shadow and you peered up to see a pair of shimmering forest green eyes staring down at you in alarm. He was handsome, his face covered in a slight stubble of a reddish beard. His hair was matted down, but you could still see the dark blonde color that matched his beard.  His shoulders were wide, in the weird, rough cotton, long tunic he had on. It was a dull gray, torn and stained in multiple places.

You found yourself following the tunic down to his trim waist where a heavy leather belt was tied tight. But it wasn’t the belt that caught your gaze. It was the long, silver, very real looking sword held tight. And in your line of work as a museum's curator, you could see the rough edges of the blade, the marks where it had been handmade by a blacksmith. The handle was encrusted with gems, almost as green as the man’s eyes.

“Are you daft lass?” He spoke again, and you lifted your gaze.

“What year is it?” You asked, getting a good look at your surroundings. You were in some sort of field, with the grass trampled flat. Trees lined one side, the forest thick and dark. But it was the view behind the man that had you startled, crawling backward away from him.

“It is the year of our Lord 1121,” he answered skeptically. “Did you hit your head M’lady? And that is unique garb you are wearing if I may say.”

Trying to calm your breathing, you glanced down at your simple gray pencil skirt and black blouse, you had to admit. If you were actually somehow in the year 1121, your outfit would be very scandalous indeed. Leaning down, you placed your head against the cool grass, your breaths coming short and fast as you tried to figure out exactly what had happened. Everything felt so real. The grass tickled your nose, more fragrant than anything you found in the parks in Chicago. The air was clean, and that castle in the distance seemed oh so real and not crumbling like those you had seen only months ago.

Before you could even get your emotions under control, you were being picked up by a pair of strong arms, held against a sturdy, yet strong smelling chest. He smelled of leather, horses and sweat. All man, nothing like your ex who had used an almost floral aftershave.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said, his voice rumbling against your shoulder. “But you’ve no doubt hit your head. We’ll get you back to the castle, and Hika will get you taken care of.”

“Castle?” You whispered, still completely overwhelmed. “12th century?”

“Shh,” he spoke, taking you over to the horse you hadn’t even noticed. It was a large warhorse, at least fifteen hands tall. Pitch black, with the type of saddle you only saw drawn in ancient books. It snorted, prancing away before the man holding you pulled on its reins. “Castor, shh. It’s just a damsel.”

The horse calmed instantly, and the man holding you placed you in front of the saddle before climbing up behind you. “He’s a strong beast, but he won’t do you any harm. You are safe. With him, and with me. I’m a knight. Sir Winchester, but you can call me Dean.

Taking his cloak from the back of the horse, he wrapped it around your shoulders, covering you completely from head to toe.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he took hold of the reins, sitting uncomfortably close behind you. Clicking his tongue, the horse started off at a trot, and you were grateful for the strength of his arms around you, holding you on.

The ride was silent as the castle grew closer. It was currently being added on to from the looks of it. It had two large towers on either side of the portcullis which was currently lowered with guards on each side. People bustled around outside the castle, moving shaggy cows to pens, or bustling to shabbily made huts. They were all in rough, handmade woolen clothes. The women had simple wool gowns with stained aprons and wimples covering their hair. Men had tunics much the same as Dean’s, leather boots covering their feet and calves.

Truthfully, this would be any curator’s dream. To see the thing they studied up close and personal. Alive. Many of the items they were using or wearing would have disappeared before your era, and it was such a treat. But the main part of your brain was having such a hard time believing this was true. That you were currently in the past, a true knight holding you tight against him.

As he rode under the heavy metal gate, people parted to give him room, many nodding or bowing to him. It was a sign of honor, which meant he was a knight in very good standing. He rode to the stables, a young man, almost a child rushing to take the reins. Dean slid down, helping you off the steed before making sure his cloak covered you completely.

“This way,” he ordered. “And please, in the presence of others, call me Sir Winchester .”

You nodded, letting him guide you past the throngs of people moving about, and the hound dogs lounging on the steps. The great room was dark and stuffy. A large fireplace sat off to one side, the fire nothing more than embers. Roughly cut wood tables and benches filled the main hall, with straw covering the floor. People milled about, some sitting on benches, others standing in the corner talking. A man sat in the front of the room, easily notified as the Man of the Manor. He had a fur cloak perched on the back of his chair. His tunic was of the finest materials, his hand covered in gold rings and gemstones. He had full black hair with hints of gray, his face full of fine wrinkles. A lady sat at his side, her dress a deep garnet. She had a stark white wimple with a gold band holding it in place. She was beautiful and elegant, exactly as you had imagined the Lady of the Castle.

“Sir Winchester!” The man called out, clapping his hands together. “I had heard you were riding back to us.”

“It was time,” Dean answered, bowing before the man, and you wondered if you should follow suit. “But forgive me. I found this woman wondering outside of the castle, in much disrepair. I fear she might have hit her head and is in need of help.”

“And who might you be?” The woman asked, taking an interest in you. Thinking fast, you curtsied, hoping you were doing it right. “My lady, my name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I find myself at your doorstep with no family, no anything. I beg for your mercy.”

She rose, staring down at you, and for a moment you feared she was going to throw you out with the pigs. Instead, she held out her hand and you rose. “My dear girl, we would not turn you away. Especially since our favorite knight has taken such interest in you. Come, let’s get you washed up and changed and you can tell me all about your journey.

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[imagining-sio]

Adventure Awaits I

Medieval!Bucky AU

A/N: loved this movie as a kid among many others and I kinda wanna do my own version of it, hope you like it! 

Chapter i

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

The gulls cruise over the shoreline, the thermal wind lifting them up with grace and fluidity. The tides themselves crash upon the wet sand with a rhythmic sound, a beat that, if standing upon the right cliff-face, it stems for miles. The very same winds that drive the gulls upward hit the cliff-face with the force of a stampede, and can knock one off its balance if not careful. Most stay clear from the edge, as the rocks are known to crumble at the faintest step. 

Though, there is one who run toward the danger, or worse yet, dance upon it’s edge.  It would be heresy for one to do it routinely. Such as it is today, a heretic to the sensible, responsible, and reasonable; in other, more plain words, an adventurous teenager. 

With her sword and shield in either hand she slashes at her imaginary foes. Her grace and stamina are matched to few, more so that there are none left on this field but her and her horse who is grazing a few feet away, completely oblivious to this imaginary war. The female, ducks down to block a fictional wave of arrows, lifting the circular shield over her head. Her sword wushes in the blustering wind, her grip firm or else the metal knightly sword would fly from grip, as it had when she was a naive beginner with the weapon. 

The Knightly sword itself looks out of place in her hand. It looks like a far wealthier object than the stature she would come from. Her clothing is muddy and worn, showing much use over the years. A stark contrast from the intricacy of the shield and the weapon that lie in her firm grip. The shield is of the same make, it’s light blue inlay of the circular design show a royal craftsmanship. 

“King stark! Behind you!” The female, Y/n, shouts at her to the imaginary ally, protecting him from the even more imaginary and faceless foe. The great ruler of the Kingdom, in reality resides in his great towered castle, which itself sits firmly set in stone in the great Capitol. Y/n smites the fell creature with three staggering blows, finally finishing it off by stabbing the Knightly sword into the grassy knoll of earth. 

There was a quick surrender of the foul troops, and they dissipated into the winds, like a wave of ashes, stemming her back to reality. The thrumming of hooves draws her out of her battle, and back to the land of Midgard. Her black horse lifts her head, the noise finally drawing her attention. Y/n readies herself for her approaching enemy, the sweat pouring from her brow. Her stance lowers, her shield in front of her, enough for her to see over it and sword pointing to the approaching figure. 

“Y/n!” the shout makes her instantly relax, the sword practically plummeting to the ground again, while still in her grip. As she stands, the figure is finally spotted riding her speckled work horse over the beach grass covered hills of the cliff-face. The winds whisk her bright cherry red hair, and the flaps of the apron she wears as she rides side saddle. The young woman hops off the horse with the grace of a dancer, her hand coming to tuck her hair behind her ear. 

“You mother is looking for you!” The redhead shouts over the winds, in case she cannot be heard from that distance. Y/n rolls her eyes so hard her head begins to follow. She tucks the shield over her back, trudging to the black horse that has lazily resumed her grazing. 

“Of course she is!” Y/n grabbed the leather sheath for the sword itself, and tucked it away within it. Grabbing the saddle, Y/n hauled herself up to horseback, her feet easily finding the stirrups. Her horse raises its head in attention, and trots over to the redhead and her speckled horse. 

“You know that you should be out here. Be lucky I found you before she did.” The redhead mounted her horse once more, riding side saddle as to protect her skirt and apron. The two girls stared at each other, only to begin laughing seconds later. 

“You should’ve joined me. You would have made good practice.” Y/n giggles as the two trot their way back to their village. The gusting winds soon become a lulling breeze, one completely harmless, as it barely manages to move the braches of the wheat grass starts to overtake that of the beach grass on the cliff-face. 

“Oh yes, because we have enough swords and shield for one single person in the village and you keep stealing them.” The redhead, Natasha as she was known, scoffed, throwing her head back in laughter. 

“I could still teach you!” Y/n rebutted defiantly. 

“You forget I am better with a stick that I am a sword.” Natasha eyed her, a knowing smirk grew across her face. The two rode from grassy undergrowth to a paved stone road, a showcase that civilization drew near. Soon, you could hear the hustle and bustle of the small village. Small plumes of make were starting to come into view, as did the thatch made roofs atop the stone houses that slowly and surely became more and more closer in proximity. Soon the market came into view, and People were running about for setting up decorations, as they did every year around this time. 

The end of summer brought the celebration of the foundation of the Midgardian alliance, when the multiple city states finally sanctioned itself as a single country when it came under attack from foreigners of a dark and mysterious country merely twenty-two years prior. For the founding of the kingdom, they appointed their catalyst for their alliance, as he risked life and limb for the people of Midgard to be protected. The great King Stark then appointed a host of knights to join him in the Capitol as not only representatives of the city states, but to be his advisors and his men at arms. The Iron Knights as they are known throughout Midgard, the fiercest warriors of the kingdom. 

Y/n’s own father was a great warrior, and the leader of the Iron Knights. As leader, he was practically the King’s right hand, hence the reason for the intricacy of the shield and sword Y/n covets so precious to her. 

“You seem to be making progress on your wild goose chase.” Natasha stated, hopping off her horse, tying the bridle to the horse post beside Y/n.

“Very funny,” Y/n gave a empty glare. With their horses tied up accordingly, they set out into the village center, where the decorations were being tied up. 

“Are you still on the hunt for your bird brain?” Y/n shot a knowingly look toward the red head, her smile only growing wider as Natasha’s cheeks were beginning to become as red as her locks. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” she muttered, shoving the woman lightly, enough to move her a step to the side as she laughed. 

“Hello, Y/n, hello Natasha!” the villagers greeted the two women as they passed. the two women would respond accordingly, as the custom in the village. Everyone knew everyone here, and they most likely watched the younger generation grow up to their current age. 

“Y/n you mother’s been looking for you. What did you do this time?” 

“Nothing much, I’m sure.” the woman grinned. 

“Y/n you know better than to run off like that! You mother has been worried sick!”

“I didn’t go far.”

“Y/n L/n!” her mother’s voice pierced the air. The young women easily spotted the elder woman, and angry expression on her face as she stormed toward the two who sat on horseback.

“How many times have I told you, don’t run off like that!” she pulled the young woman by the sleeve toward their home. 

“Thank you for finding her Natasha, Clint has been looking for your help in the bakery.” she quickly diffused any attempt of help from the red head by merely mentioning the boy’s name. Y/n watched in horror as her friend ran off in the direction of the bakery, where her little bird was working. The remainder of the walk to the house was silent, Y/n’s guilt mounting with every step. 

With the slam of the wooden door, Y/n could feel the eyes of her mother glare towards the back of her head. 

“Y/n, I understand you miss father greatly. But this running off has got to stop. I don’t need to worry about the village and you running around somewhere. Souls forbid, the cliffs.” Her mother ran a hand over her face, the exhaustion prevalent in her tone.

“How am I supposed to be a good knight if I can’t go anywhere!” Y/n protested. 

“Knights don’t go running off into battle or for seeking adventure! Your father never ran into a fight, he only fought to protect us. Y/n Knights protect their people, more so, Ladies don’t become knights! So please, stop this impossible dream!”

“What if I don’t want to be a lady? I want to be a knight! And if I can’t do that than what am I?” Y/n flung her arms in frustration, the palpable silence the fell over the house was enough to hear a pin drop. 

“Y/n, you will always be my daughter, no matter what life you choose.” Her mother sighed, bringing her child into an embrace, only pulling away to placer her within arms’ reach. 

“I know how much you want this, no matter how hard I try to understand it. But you need to know there are other aspects to being a knight than fighting. Your father was an example of what a knight is supposed to be. He protects his people, he supports his people, as if they were his own family. The village is our family, Y/n, and we as the lairds of the land, must protect them should they need it. They’re other ways to protect people, please, let me teach you.”

Y/n’s lips formed a tight line, her brow furrowing. A sigh fell through her nostrils, her shoulders sagging at the weight of her decision. 

“Okay.” She nodded her head weakly. 

A great sigh passed through her mother’s lips. The elder woman happily embracing the younger with renewed vigor. 

“Oh, thank you, Y/n. I need you to get ready for the festival tonight. Wear your Sunday best! The clothes are in your bedroom. For now, I need to help Mrs. Atkins, I’ll be back before evening.”

“If only you were here papa, maybe you could try to help me get to the Capitol for training, like you always promised.” 

  ———————————————————————————————————— 

The night had proved good reason for the decorations, the whole village was in attendance. The people were alight with joy, sharing drinks and food with one another. Y/n’s mother was conversing with the successful owners of the village, as she was making her rounds with her constiuents. Y/n stood in full sunday best, her long dress in a pristine white cream color, the thick fabric concealing the fact that she still wore similar clothing that she wore earlier that day, only this pair was much cleaner. 

“And how are we this evening,” Clint, the son of the local baker approached her.

“Well, Barton, though I am surprised that our mutual friend is not beside you.” 

“I was wondering the same thing.” He mulled over his drink, taking a sip before speaking again; “I was wondering if you had seen her yet?”

Y/n’s head tilted to the side, her brow furrowing. It was not unlike Natasha to not show up somewhere. More so when it involved Clint. She always showed up at the agreed upon time, if she didn’t there was something wrong. 

“I haven’t Clint.”

“Then we are in agreement.” he set his mug down upon the table Y/n sat. Y/n herself stood up, walking with her friend to find the missing redhead. 

“Mother have you seen Natasha?” our protagonist asked her mother. The elder woman, shook her head, her brow also furrowing, having so much experience with the young girl and her habits. 

“I have not, when was she last seen?” she asked her fellow townleaders. 

“Last I saw she was over by the entrace facing the sea.” one member spoke. 

“I thought she was over by the barn?” Another chorused. 

“Alright, Y/n, you go to the sea road; clint and I will check the barn; you two go see if she is anywhere in the fields. Come back in ten minutes, here.” Her mother spoke with a level headedness that helped quell the young baker’s nerves. 

Y/n hiked up the road toward the sea for a solid five minutes, the dress was definitely a hindrance on her progress. 

“Tahsa!” she shouted as she struggled not to trip over her feet. Y/n cursed the dress under her breath as she nearly fell to the road for the umpteenth time. 

A rustling in the bushes caused the young woman’s body to shoot upward. The darkening raod made it as if everything moved, that anything had a face to it, this was nothing like her imaginary foes from earlier that day. Of course, that was in the afternoon sun, this was in the covent of night, where the imagination may come back to haunt you. 

“Natasha?” Y/n leaned toward the noise, which led to the cliff where she was that afternoon. A low drumming sound began to thrum through the air. Y/n, following the noise, quelled the uneaase in her stomach, nor did she care that the hem of her dress was bound to turn brown from the sand and dirt. 

A shirll cry stuck the air as thunder from behind. Y/n whirled around in time to spot the flying figure. It was much larger than a bird, and was far to fast to be a seagull. Y/n was able to duck from the creature in time, with enough room to remain undetected as it descended down the cliff-face. Our protagonist followed the beast until she reached the cliff’s edge, to be met with a horrible sight. 

Ships were beginning to dock upon the beach, with mass amounts of troops debarkig upon the same sands that she often rode upon her horse. Shouts and orders were being barked around as supplies were also being dumped as for the troops. The large beast that almost hit Y/n landed next to a figure whom stood directly beneath her. The large looming figure stood surveying his infantry, not even giving the flying beast the time of day. 

“Do you have it?” he asked, his gravelly voice was enough to send chills up Y/n’s spine. 

“N-no master.” The beast, whom now could apprently talk, spoke with a serpentine cadence, it’s head ducking low. 

The figure backhanded the creature without a second thought. 

“You were to steal the Iron sword. How hard could that have possibly been you imbocile!” the man boomed, his rage boiling over. 

“They will never find it, master.” the creature defended.

“Oh, do explain, while you still breathe.”

“It fell in the Darkened Wood. No one dares go in there.”

Y/n processed the information with fever pitch. The Iron sword of the King had not only been stolen, but lost in the Darkened Wood. The sword itself was forged by the king, and it is said to have fabled abilities. Without it, the Midgardian would have never won their independence. The king has never parted with it, and it is said that without it he would perish. The king himself could very well be dead as we speak, and without this fabled sword, there is no hope of victory. 

Invaders now line the beaches of her home, and without the fabled sword of the king, no one would be able to mass the amount of hope needed to defend themselves. 

The Darkened Wood was what stood in the way for these people. It stood directly in the way for the path to the capitol, the road around it would take another week to get to the capitol, which was why it was presumably more used than the overgrown and dangerous road that ended within the confines of the Darkened Wood. The Sword lay within the confines of that forrest. That certainly narrowed down the playing field. 

A faint touch upon her shoulder sent Y/n to jump out of her skin. A hand clasped over her mouth, silencing her from any noise she would have presumably made. Natasha held a finger to her mouth as to continue the silence, the same finger then pointing doward as to reference to the figures beneath them. The redhead tugged on Y/n’s arm, carefully guiding her to her feet. The two women crept backwards until they were at a safe distance, to which they turned and ran at full sprint. 

Y/n’s dress tore as it came in contact with a thron bush, the ripping sound emanating throughout the fields. The two didn’t stop to think if it was heard or not, they simply kept running back into town. 

As soon as the town came into view, they began shouting with great frivor. Their sout drew the attention of the entire town. Soon Y/n’s mother, and even Clint came to meet them. 

“What’s happened?” Y/n’s mother noted her daughter’s dress and it’s dissaray. Clint rushed to Natasha, whom was in a worse condition. He quickly snatched a strewn tablecloth, draping it over the red head with great care. 

“Ivaders, they arrived on the shore, they’ll be here shortly.” Natasha spoke between pants. 

“Y/n?” Her mother probed for an answer. The young girl nodded her head. 

“We need to get word to the Capitol, Mrs Atkins! Get my husband’s sword and shield!” her mother began to order towspeople to bring up barricades. The tailor, Mr Hilberg, handed Natasha an overcoat in place of her tablecloth. 

“What do you need me to do?” Y/n asked her mother. 

“No, I have something more important for the three of you. Clint go get their horses. Hurry!”

“Torches up ahead!” a man shouted from atop the roof.

Mrs Atkins returned with the sword and shield, handing it off to Y/n mother, who promptly handed the items to her daughter. Clint had arrived back with tow horses, his own, and Y/n’s, whose was the fastest in the village, but not necessarily the fastest on earth, it was a slim margin. Clint was already armed with a bow and quiver, as he was a prolific hunter in the village. 

“I need you three to get word to the capitol as soon as possible, the sooner the king knows, the better the chance we have. Do you understand?” 

“We do.” Clint set Natasha atop his horse, a large belgium workhorse big enough to fit the both of them. He then mounted, making sure Natasha was situated comfortably in front of him, despite the bright red tint on both teenagers’ cheeks. Y/n mounted her horse, looking to her mother, grasping her hand, at silent sense of peace in the midst of the fray. 

“Go, hurry!” her mother slapped the bottom of Y/n’s horse, sending it into a gallop out of the town. Clint was quick to follow, the horse easily catching up to Y/n as they headed toward the Capitol as fast as possible. The three dared not look back, in case if anyone actually had seen them escape. 

It wasn’t unitl daybreak that they had slowed down. The long grassy knolls were soon replaced with large evergreens of vibrant color. Birds sang throughout the woodland, to the point it was tough to say what bird was singing due to the amount of overlay. 

Soon a giant fork in the road appeared. the one on the left retained its bright cheery image, it’s sign was well kept, and was inscribed with a newly painted ‘Captiol’. The other, which pointed to the opposite direction, was unkempt, and riddle with dark thorney vines. As Clint and Natasha rode forward upon the well worn road to the capitol, Y/n remained at the fork, mulling over a great decision. 

“Y/N?” Clint asked puzzled, turning his horse with the bridle. 

“The Iron Sword is somewhere in the Darkened Wood. The Ivaders are after it.”

“Y/n I don’t like where this is going.” Clint said with a warning tone. 

“You shouldn’t.” Natasha voiced for the first time since they had been dispatched. 

“They will most likely be after it just as much as they want to invade the Capitol. You go, I’ll go this way.” Y/n dismounted her horse, offering her to Clint and Natasha. 

“You know no one comes out of their, right.”

“What choice do we have?” Y/n ripped her dress apart, revealing her clothing that she held under it. She attatched the sword to her belt, and placed the circular shield upon her back. Natasha disounted from Clint in order to mount Y/n’s horse. Before she did, she pulled Y/n into a warm embrace, one filled with a layer on morbid sadness. 

“Be safe.”

“You too,” 

A loud shout drew the three from the tender moment. The three turned toward the direction of the shout, which was the exact direction they had spent all night and morning running from. 

“Go!” Y/n urged the two, watching them gallop away upon the safe road toward the capitol. Gathering the remnants of her dress, she hoped to buy her friends a few moments of time, by trailing the torn fabric behind her toward the more dangerous road. Y/n turned toward the road she had travelled, the sound of running footsteps growing louder, before finally turning toward the unkempt road filled with thorns and fog, running full speed into the Darkened Wood. 

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Hope you enjoyed it, message me if you want to be tagged!!! 

[im-fairly-whitty]

Taken - A Frozen Oneshot

Thinking about how messed up it is that Kristoff is literally abducted by trolls as a child and we see only a few seconds addressing it and none of the repercussions. Decided to fix that by showing behind the scenes and shoveling on a big dose of real troll child stealing/changeling lore.

  “Henrick, please, Kristoff isn’t old enough to go out with the ice cutters, what if he’s taken by-”

“Ida, so help me you’d better not say trolls.” Henrick said, his voice getting a little gruff and sharp as he yanked on one of his boots.

He didn’t like arguing with his wife, he wasn’t like some men he knew who always tried to cow their spouses into submission, but they’d had this particular conversation so many times.

“He’s only eight, Henrick.” Ida said pleadingly, one hand on Kristoff’s blonde head as the boy held onto her skirts, watching them both with his big brown eyes, “He doesn’t even have a name that could protect him.”

“He has a proper Christian name.” Henrick said, shoving his foot into his other boot, “If you’d had your way he would have been saddled with some superstitious nonsense like “Hiccup.” I swear it’s like you want to curse the boy yourself, keeping him inside all day, never letting him out of your sight. He’s not a little girl, he’s got to get out with the men and learn his trade, I’m not letting you keep him cooped up indoors learning how to cook and knit and wear dresses.”

“I like cooking, I don’t mind!” Kristoff said brightly.

Henrick looked at his wife flatly.

“He’s nearly old enough to be safe,” Ida said, starting to sound desperate as Henrick packed his ice tools into his rucksack, “Just a couple more years and he’ll be too old to take, the trolls won’t want him when he’s twelve and then you can take him on all the trips you want, he’s a fast learner, he’ll catch up quickly.”

“Trolls. Aren’t. Real.” Henrik said, really starting to feel angry now. He stood, coming over by the fireplace, standing over her, “Kristoff is real. Ice trading is real. Our livelihood is real.” He growled, roughly rubbing his face with a sigh, “Look, I promise I won’t let him out of my sight, alright? We’ll be back before dark and I promise he won’t be taken by trolls. You can’t keep him tangled in your apron strings forever. He’s a strong boy, he’ll be fine. I promise .”

Ida folded her arms, biting her trembling lip as she looked up at him. Henrick’s gruffness turned to guilt as he watched her try not to cry.

He shouldn’t have pushed so hard. Kristoff was their only child and the light of her world, he knew she’d been truly terrified ever since Rikke’s boy had gone missing in the middle of the night a few years back. Henrick and the other men knew it had to have been Edde wandering off but the womenfolk had whispered of fae for months after. It was the downside to living in a small village, every shift of a snowdrift was the fault of some troll or ice mage or wandering spirit that had to be appeased. But Ida was still his wife and he needed to be more gentle with her feelings, even if they were wrong.

Henrick pulled Ida into a hug, wrapping his arms around her. “I’m sorry for pushing.” he said gently, “If it really bothers you I can take him out some other time, I just want him to be prepared for his future.”

She buried her face against his shoulder, “I just don’t want to lose either of you.”

“You won’t.” Henrick said, kissing the top of her head, “I promise.”

“Mama, can I go?” They both looked down at Kristoff, who was still holding onto Ida’s skirt with one hand, his set of tiny metal ice tongs he’d gotten for his last birthday in the other. His eyes were bright, even if his voice was hesitant. “I promise I won’t get taken by trolls. Sven and I want to be the best ice merchants ever, and we gotta practice!”

Henrick looked at his wife, waiting for her to decide. She rubbed the side of her face like she always did when she was hesitant.

“Do you really want to go?” she asked.

“Yes!” Kristoff said excitedly, bouncing up and down a little, “Please? I can take my new sled! I’ll work hard, I promise!”

“I won’t let him out of my sight.” Henrick said, putting a comforting arm around her waist, “We shouldn’t be out too late since we’re getting an early start, but the boys are leaving soon.”

“Alright.” Ida said, looking tired and worried, but forcing on a small smile, “Kristoff you have to promise me you’ll stay right by your father and not wander off. Keep all your snow gear on and don’t fall in the water.”

“I will!” Kristoff shouted with glee, really jumping up and down now, “This is going to be the best day ever! I’ll bring you home so much ice Mama, you’ll be able to build a whole other house!”

“I bet you will.” Ida said, bending down and scooping him into a tight hug, kissing his forehead before letting him go, “You’d better go get ready if you’re going to leave in time with Papa.”

“I’ll go tell Sven!” Kristoff said, tearing off the moment she let him go.

“We’ll be back before you know it.” Henrick said, smiling as he hugged her again, “But don’t get your hopes up about a new house.” he teased.

“Well if he grows up to be half as good as you then we’ll be plenty well off in old age.” Sedsel said, her smile was still small, but it felt real again.

 ***

 “You’ve done a fine job there, boy.” Henrick said, grinning down at the little chunk of ice Kristoff had pulled out of the lake, only about the size of a single brick.

“Thanks!” Kristoff said. His cheeks were flushed and he was panting as he tried to latch his tongs onto the block again, dragging the little block backward across the ice, “I’m gonna load it onto my sled so we can sell it!”

It was far later than Henrick had thought they’d be out, the sun having already dropped below the horizon by the time the men were finally loading the last of the harvested ice up onto the sleigh. Everyone was clearing up by the light of their yellow-green lanterns, making sure all the tools had been gathered up.

Ida would probably be frantically pacing by the front window by now, Henrick already having broken half his promise of being home before dark.

“You sure you don’t want me to load it onto the sleigh with the rest of the ice?” Henrick asked his son, balancing his own massive steel ice tongs on his shoulder, “You and Sven can ride up with us, it’s already getting dark, your mother’s going to tan my hide for having you out this late.”

“No,” Kristoff said, concentrating hard as he continued to struggle with his tongs, the points slipping loose over and over across the ice block’s sides. “Sven wants to pull the sled and the ice by himself.”

Kristoff seemed to have lost his hat at some point and had been enthusiastically “helping” harvest ice all day. He was doubtlessly exhausted, not having built up the dexterity and strength that handling tongs required like the other more experienced boys his age had.

Henrick heard a whistle and a shout from the ice sleigh as the others loaded up. It was time to head back. It would be faster to just scoop up Kristoff, reindeer, sled and ice block all in one armful and carry them to the sleigh, but Henrick couldn’t bring himself to stomp on his son’s independent spark. Even if he couldn’t keep up quite yet he could at least help boost the boy’s confidence.

“Alright, but I think you’ll have better luck just pushing it yourself, I’ll carry your tongs.” Henrick said, stooping to take the metal tool and ruffle his son’s hair, “You and Sven can handle your ice yourself but I’ll be watching you from the sleigh, alright? We’ll be moving much slower than we did on the way here, but be sure to keep up. Maybe after supper we can finish that dog wood carving we’ve been working on together.”

“Okay Papa!” Kristoff said, starting to push the ice block with his mittens, already moving much faster than he’d been managing with the tongs.  

Henrick chuckled, patting Sven as he passed him on the way to the sleigh. Not every child in the village could boast owning their own reindeer calf, but being well off meant that Henrick could afford to treat his son to some of the nicer things.

He grunted as he pulled himself up to stand on the side of the sleigh, holding onto the wooden slats as he peered back into the darkness. Kristoff had just managed to get his ice block onto his sled, nearly falling over himself as he did so, but he and Sven got moving right as the sleigh under Henrick did, everyone beginning to move forward across the snow.

Good. They’d all be home safe soon enough, a warm supper and a quiet evening by the fire with Kristoff and Ida sounded like heaven right now.

Henrick looked up at the night sky, gazing up at the northern lights that had begun their silent dance above them, ethereal ribbons of shimmering green twisting across the sky.

 ***

 Being out with Papa all day had made Kristoff tired, but it had been so exciting!

Kristoff rubbed his thick leather mitten against his nose as Sven pulled their sled. He’d lost his hat earlier and the freezing wind was starting to bite his nose and ears, but it was okay, he was basically a grown up now, and grown-ups could ride home all by themselves. He saw Papa up ahead on the big sleigh look back at him, checking on him again before looking ahead. The grown-ups had loaded so much ice on the sleigh that it was super easy for Sven to keep up, Papa didn’t have to keep worrying about him.

Kristoff couldn’t wait to show Mama the block of ice he’d pulled out of the lake all by himself with only a little help from Papa. When she saw how good he’d done maybe she’d let him go out even more so that-

He heard the thundering of horse hooves and turned to see a pair of horses whip past him, carrying their riders through the woods and back into the night.

Kristoff’s eyes got wide, behind one of the horses was a spreading path of ice , a beautiful sparkling trail frosting across the grassy ground.

What kind of horse was that?

Kristoff had to see more.

He quickly unclipped Sven’s harness and jumped on his back, leaving the sled and ice behind and turning them around to follow the ice horse as quickly as they could. The grown-up sleigh was moving so slow that they’d catch up with them again no problem as soon as Kristoff figured out what was going on.  

Papa wouldn’t even notice he was gone.

 ***

 Kristoff was gone.

Henrick had just checked on him, had seen the tiny sled trundling right behind them in the night with its lantern swinging, and now not even ten minutes later he was gone.

Henrick shouted hoarsely for the sleigh to stop, jumping down as quickly as he could. He’d been exhausted from the long day only a minute ago but now he was on fire with panic. He shouted Kristoff’s name as he walked back through the trees, the other men starting to get off the sleigh behind him.

Kristoff must have gotten distracted by something and wandered off for a moment, maybe his sled had gotten caught, or Sven had gotten tired.

As soon as Henrick hiked back around the last bend he’d see Kristoff and he’d have to lecture him about keeping up. The boy had lost his sled privileges was for certain, he’d have to ride on the sleigh from now on.

Which is why the pit of fear in Henrick’s stomach was irrational. Nothing had happened to his son, he’d only lost sight of him for a few minutes. It was just Ida’s old housewife superstitions getting at him was all.

 ***

 Bulda hadn’t expected the human King and Queen to come to the troll glen tonight, she hadn’t expected them to bring the little human princesses to Grand Pabbi for healing and memory rearranging either.

But most of all she hadn’t expected her very own delightful little human boy to wander all the way up to her herself. And with his own little reindeer calf too!

“Well aren’t you just adorable!” Bulda said.

She smiled as she petted the boy’s hair, a beautiful shiny blonde, his outfit was charmingly well made too. Everyone else would be jealous to see what a good looking child she’d found, and she hadn’t even had to break into a human house to get him either.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, looking curiously at her stony hand, “And what was going on with the family? Was the girl sick?”

“Well, I’m a troll silly. You'll have to get used to it now that you're staying here with us.” Bulda chuckled, taking the boy’s hand and turning it over, marveling at the soft smooth skin, “And she’ll be alright, just humans meddling with things they don’t understand. What’s your name?”

“S-stay with you?” the boy said, his eyes getting wide with fear. He tried pulling his hand away and the reindeer calf balked back away from her.

“What kind of a name is that?” Bulda teased, keeping ahold of the boy’s hand. Human children were always jumpy when they were first adopted, but it wasn’t too hard to calm them down as long as she kept him from running off before she could clean up his memories a bit, “Come on, tell us your name.”

“Kristoff,” said Kristoff, his voice squeaking a bit in fear as he kept trying to yank arm away, “Let go please, I want to go back to my Papa, he’ll be worried.”

“Kristoff.” Bulda said with a smile, pulling just a bit at his memories now that she had his name. A good Christian name by the feel of it, “Oh you’ll like it out here, lots of trees and mushrooms and mud for little boys to play with. Come and meet the family, they’ll all be excited to meet you!”

“But...” Kristoff said, his pulling getting weaker as a look of confusion spread over his face, “But Mama...”

“I thought you said you were an orphan?” Bulda asked patiently, “Weren’t you just telling me you don’t have a family?”

“I...yeah. I think so.” Kristoff said slowly, looking around, “Why am I out here?

“Because we’re you’re family!” Bulda smiled, gently pushing him further into the glen as the others started noticing her new human child, pointing excitedly, “Why else would you be out here in the woods all alone? It’s because you belong with us.”

Kristoff smiled hesitantly as he stiffly stepped forward, but quickly loosened up as the others eagerly gathered around him. Changing around human memories was just too easy.

She looked over at the reindeer calf, which still looked nervous and wary, but a gentle pat on the head fixed that, and soon it had happily joined Kristoff.

Bulda wandered off to the side for a moment, cracking her knuckles before picking up a hunk of old wood. Kristoff’s old family would be wondering where he’d gone so she needed to send them something in return to keep them off the trail.

After all, if they’d been careless enough to let a properly named blonde child out of their sight then they probably didn’t really care about their child, now did they?

She concentrated as she carefully poured a strong enchantment onto the wood, it must have been decades since she’d last made a changeling, but she could still manage well enough.

Once she’d finished she shooed it back off into the woods, watching her handiwork shuffle off into the trees. She dusted her stony hands in satisfaction, turning back to the others who were all enthusiastically gathering around her new human.

She smiled and rolled over to join them. Tonight was a night for celebration.

 ***

 “Kristoff!” Henrick shouted, his voice starting to feel hoarse now.

He didn’t know how long he’d been searching now, it might have been an hour, it might have been weeks. Kristoff’s sled was gripped under his arm as he kept swinging the lantern back and forth. He’d found it sitting alone with only the tiny iceblock left on it. No child or reindeer to be seen.

“Henrick,” Orrin said, putting a hand on his shoulder, “we need to get the ice back to the village and packed before it melts, we’ll come back with more men to search.”

“He’s got to be here!” Henrick said, jerking his arm away and crashing through more brush, “I’m not leaving, help me look! Kristoff!”

The pit of fear in his stomach had grown and swallowed him whole, making it feel as if he’d dropped into a nightmare that refused to end.

What if he never found Kristoff? What if he did find Kristoff but something had happened to him? There were wolves in these mountains, there were cliffs and rivers, dozens of places a young child could disappear into in the dead of night and never ever be found again.

And what would Ida say if he really had lost their little boy.

He swung the lantern again, what was left of his heart continuing to drop as he peered uselessly into the all-consuming shadows of the looming trees around them. How had he been so stupid, how had he ever let Kristoff out of his sight long enough to-

He froze as he heard something. Something that sounded like the sniffling of a small child.  

He crashed through another barrier of brush, his lantern light falling on what looked like a little boy wandering by himself through a clearing.

“Kristoff!” Henrick choked, rushing up and falling to his knees, setting the lantern down and scooping his son into a tight hug, “What happened? Where did you go? Are you alright?”

Henrick would have become angry then after having been scared to death, but Kristoff stood stiff in his hug, only continuing to sniffle. Not acting at all like he usually did.

“Son, are you alright?” Henrick asked more gently, taking Kristoff’s face in his hands, “Where’s Sven?”

Kristoff said nothing, only hanging his head miserably as he began to cry.

A heavy chill settled over Henrick that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature. Something was very very wrong.

He stood, scooping up his son as he looked warily at the dark forest around him. They needed to get home. Now.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back to Mama soon, everything’s okay.” Henrick said, grabbing the lantern and pushing back through the underbrush as quickly as he could.

Something was deeply wrong with these woods and he wanted to get out of them as quickly as possible.

 ***

 “Henrick, that’s not our son.”

“How can you say that?” Henrick whispered back sharply, his arms folded so tightly that it was starting to hurt as they both stood in the doorway of Kristoff’s bedroom, watching him sleep. “He’s just been sick, that’s why he’s been acting like this.”

But he couldn’t pretend anymore that he’d had the same terrifying thought himself.

Over the last few days Kristoff had been acting like a completely different child, always crying without saying why, hardly speaking, usually sitting on his own and sullenly lashing out whenever they tried to coax him out.

Only so much could be attributed to the loss of his reindeer, which is what they’d assumed was wrong at first. But as Kristoff seemed to become more and more ill, despite how much food he kept demanding and voraciously eating, Henrick found himself longing for how his son had been only a week ago.

“What...what if he’s really a-?” Ida started.

“Don’t.” Henrik said, but he pulled her into a tight embrace as they continued watching the child in Kristoff’s bed, a tuft of blonde hair sticking out over the blanket, “Don’t say it.”

“Can we take him to the church tomorrow?” Ida asked, looking up at him, tears in her eyes, “Just, just to have the priest make sure.”

“Alright.” Henrick said, his breath shaking just a bit, “We’ll take him to the church tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Ida said softly.

“Go to bed, I’ll come in a moment.” Henrick said, letting her go.

She nodded, glancing back at Kristoff before leaving.

Henrick stood in the dark quiet of the night, silently watching the boy sleep as the house creaked in the night wind around them, the dim light of a candle flickering around the small room.

They’d take Kristoff to the church tomorrow and get the priest's blessing, they’d pay the doctor to come around again and get him to give them a straight answer about what was wrong with their boy and how to fix it. Henrick would buy Kristoff a new reindeer, he’d let him stay inside with his mother as much as he wanted, he’d do anything he had to to get his son back to the way things had been.

He felt a chill run down his spine as a sharp draft whipped through the room, snuffing out the candle at the bedside and dropping the room into darkness.

Henrick looked over his shoulder, despite knowing no one was there, unable to shake a sudden creeping feeling that had come over him. Where had a draft that strong come from?

He crossed the room, his eyes slowly adjusting in the darkness as he pulled a match from his pocket, striking it and relighting the bedside candle. He picked up the empty ceramic water pitcher as he turned to leave the room for the night, unable to keep from glancing one more time at Kristoff’s bed.

For years afterward the neighbors would tell in hushed whispers about being woken by Henrick and Ida’s screams in the middle of the night, of rushing to their aid with crossbows and axes, expecting to find that a wolf or a bear had broken into their son’s bedroom.

But instead finding them both standing amid the shards of a smashed water pitcher, the wife having fainted dead away at the sight of an old crumbling log rotting in their son’s bed.

[hoodoo12]

Violations and Consequences (2/6)

A rescue. Violence. Death. Minor mention of deities and what may or may not be appropriate for Orcs.

Part 1

Mature.

“Worthless swine!” a thick voice hissed.

Before either of you could react, a heavy warhammer made solid contact with the man’s temple, crushing it with a dull wet sound. The blow was so hard his body followed as his head lolled, flopping him to his side. Tangled as you were in his limbs, you were thrown sideways too.

“And you, filth--”

But before the insult and threat was completed, the bandit you’d lacerated scrambled to his feet and crashed away through the undergrowth.

Instead of chasing the bandit, your savior took you upper arm and you were hauled to your feet.

“Volesh!” you cried in a gasp.

Being thinner than her brother didn’t make her less solid or intimidating. Grar’s sister stood like a rock, holding you steady as your knees threatened to give out. With one hand you found a grip in the chestplate of the armor she wore. The other still gripped your knife, and she held your wrist to keep it away from her. The tall female Orc watched where the bandit had run off for a moment with a scowl on her face, then turned her attention to you.

“Are you injured?”

“N-no,” you replied, sniffling a little. Now that you were safe, your tears returned unbidden.

The Orc ignored your weak human emotion, and kept an arm around you.

“Ghath!” she called.

Silently, her son appeared at your side. The boy was barely double digits and his tusks were just starting to show but he was as tall as a grown human and muscular. Although nowhere near the bulk he’d gain when he was an adult, he’d match many human men in strength already.

“Mother?” he asked quietly.

“Collect the goats while I attend to your aunt.”

You were sure he would much rather chase down the man who attacked you, but he didn’t complain. Immediately he went off to fetch the livestock.

Volesh took your shoulders and looked you over. “You are sure you are uninjured, sister? You are covered in blood.”

“It isn’t mine. I cut him. With this.” You opened your hand to show her your knife.

Her dark eyes widened and a small smile formed around her tusks.

“That’s good,” she praised, but didn’t explain the cryptic response. She told you to wipe the blade clean on the ground and return it to its sheath around your neck.

You complied even as you insisted your weren’t hurt; she demanded to check you over. You hadn’t realized your skirt had been torn, and your undergarment was ruined beyond repair. The Orc found blood in your hair from a wound on the back of your head, where you’d hit the ground. You were bruised in various places: your upper arm, your shoulder, and a few that were darkening on your inner thighs where the men’s grip had been too tight. You barely felt them, but Volesh wisely told you from experience that you would be stiff and sore tomorrow.

You assured her that you had willow bark and other medicinal plants to ease the discomfort.

“You and your alchemy,” she replied, with a shake of her head.

You wouldn’t think to call yourself an alchemist, but she told you her brother should consider supplying you with an alchemy lab, so you could truly create potions. That was neither here nor there at the moment, however. You asked how she and Ghath came by you.

“We knew Grar was traveling. I have finished some of the items you’d requested from the forge, so we thought it was a good time to visit.”

“It was good timing!”

Volesh told you that she’d planned on coming alone, but Ghath wanted to see his Blood-Kin, adding that the boy was fond of you. You knew that, even if he was sometimes shy around you. As if talking about him summoned him, your nephew returned, driving your small herd of goats in front of him.

He carried one kid.

“This one has died,” he said quietly.

It was the kid that had approached the bandit, and had been shoved away. He must have used enough angry force to break its neck. You sighed and ran your hand over its side, sadly. The brown and white kid was the first to have been born from your tiny herd.

It was upsetting, but there was nothing to be done.

“He was a wether,” you said. “He was going to be sold or butchered anyway. It just would have been when he was older. We can take him back to the cabin and have an evening meal.”

Ghath offered to carry him for the trek back to your cabin. You nodded. For a moment you considered continuing on to the pasture where the shepherd would be waiting for you, but you were starting to feel the beginnings of aches and pains. The goats would have to forage near the cabin today.

As the three of you--plus the goats, who didn’t seem put out they weren’t headed to the pasture--trekked back to your cabin, you asked how they’d found you.

“We heard your scream. Your trail was easy to follow; Ghath saw the faint deer trail and goat spoor, so we ran to you.”

“You’re becoming an excellent tracker,” you commended your nephew. “You’ll surpass Grar’s skills soon, I bet.”

The Orc boy blushed and pushed his hand through his hair to keep it off his face; he wasn’t yet old enough to wear it braided like an adult. He mumbled something about wanting to be a hunter like his uncle. His mother didn’t reply, but you’d learned to read subtle Orcish expressions and she wasn’t entirely pleased with that life goal.

Instead of continuing to talk about it, you changed the subject, asking how they managed to arrive at the cabin so efficiently. The Stronghold that was their home was several days hard travel.

“We have horses!” Ghath exclaimed.

That surprised you. Orcs didn’t typically keep horses because the standard equine was hardy but too small for them to ride comfortably.

“I was shoeing for a stablemaster and they had two coldbloods that were too large for men to ride,” Volesh explained more completely. “They’d been trained for cavalry, but an oversized horse isn’t ideal. Too big a target. He offered them to me at no cost, just to get him out of his stable, so I earned my coins and two beasts as well!”

With that explanation Ghath launched into telling you how saddles made for men weren’t fit for Orcs--although, he admitted, he could use them just fine for now--and he and his mother had to learn to ride, and how his father was both pleased and dismayed at horses in the Stronghold--

Volesh shushed him. You knew it was for sharing personal information about a Chieftain, even if he wasn’t within earshot. It was understandable why horses would be both a blessing and a curse: they could help with travel or breaking grounds for crops, but their upkeep wasn’t quite as easy as other livestock. You supposed the Chieftain also weighed Orcish traditions versus modern sensibility; he seemed to be a little more progressive than other Clans may think appropriate.

Even after being shushed Ghath had continued on about how he’d learned to make leather halters and bridles and he was in the process of creating a harness. His next big project was a saddle large enough for an adult Orc that was still appropriate for the horse--

Volesh gave him a light slap on the back of his head as he rambled on. The boy took it for the affectionate tap it was and grinned for a moment before finally stopping his chatter. You were closer to home now, the cabin just visible through the trees, and he hurried ahead of the two of you.

You would have picked up the pace too, but the aches you hadn’t felt initially were finally catching  up. Your sister-in-law stayed by your side, and in the few minutes of privacy you had you heard her thoughts that the boy didn’t have the fortitude to become Chieftain, that he had a temperament more like his uncle’s and maybe he would end up living outside the Stronghold too.

You heard the uncharacteristic worry in her voice, and reminded her that Grar did well for himself. And with her teaching Ghath forging plus what seemed like a natural affinity towards horses, your nephew could find work as a smith anywhere in the Holds. Good blacksmiths were always in demand.

She sighed and reluctantly agreed.

Finally back at the clearing with your cabin, the goats wandered to the stream to drink. Ghath introduced you to the horses. They were incredibly tall, much more than the typical stocky breeds, with thick necks and legs like tree trunks, but they were gentle. The boy picked up their large feet and brushed back the feathering that covered the lower part of their legs to show you the shoes he’d helped hammer out and nail to their hooves.

He also showed you the rivets he’d put in their halters, and told you how they’d arrived dusty and with patches of their winter coats that he’d brushed out until they were sleek, and he’d untangled their tails and shaved their manes and how he’d been measuring to get the proper sizes for the harnesses--

Ghath may have continued for a long time if Volesh didn’t remind him that you needed to clean up from the attack in the woods. Sheepishly, her son apologized. You hadn’t minded; it was nice to hear his enthusiasm even if it was boyish, but she was right.

With an increasing limp, you took a clean dress from the cabin and slowly made your way downhill a bit further to the pool Grar had created with a dam. The goats were further downstream. You stripped out of your apron and found it wasn’t easy to pull your dress off over your head; your muscles were tightening and made it painful to stretch. Still, you forced your way out of the fabric and stepped carefully into the pool.

For a moment the water swirled a brownish red before the color was carried downstream. You hadn’t realized how sweaty and dirty you’d gotten, nor how blood had caked into your hair as you watched the dirt float away. The bruises made themselves more known as you dipped yourself lower.

Gingerly you washed yourself of the grime with the soap and rags that had been squirreled away in a cache of rocks nearby. It seemed odd to be bathing midmorning.

Unbidden, the events of the morning flashed through your mind’s eye and suddenly you were crying. You were so reckless to not be paying attention to your surroundings; you were so careless to leave your dagger home after all the times Grar had told you not to! You were lucky be only mildly injured! Through your sobs you praised the Nine Divines for watching over you and promised a tribute to Stendarr, the God of Mercy and Luck, especially.

Calming gradually, you splashed water on your face. A tiny bubble of anger popped in you, and you finished your prayers with a word of thanks to Malacath. He wasn’t your god, but guided your husband and his people, so it was only appropriate to acknowledge him as well. If Volesh and Ghath hadn’t felt compelled to visit, you wouldn’t be here at this very moment.

Finally, having dawdled enough and worn yourself out with crying and anger, you exited the pool. You dried yourself with your apron--you knew it would be useful today!--and pulled the fresh dress over your head. The other’s skirt was too torn and bloody to salvage much except for rags. Gathering it into a bundle, you made your way back to the clearing.

In your cabin, you quickly swallowed the herbs and a tincture that would help with the soreness that was growing inevitably stronger, then you went back outside.

Your Blood-kin had skinned and cleaned the kid. Because you weren’t sure what Grar may want to do with the hide, you told them to leave it hanging. Volesh brought out and showed you the new spit she’d created at her forge. This wasn’t the first way you intended to use it, but she and her son built a fire in the outside pit and set the wrought iron spit over it. You helped by having bowls of salt and pepper available and mashing garlic and rosemary to form a paste to flavor the meat.

Once the fire had been banked down to coals, the meat was seasoned. Even though the sun beat down overhead Ghath sat by the fire, tending it. You and Volesh nestled potatoes and root vegetables into the cooler coals to bake. You still had to strain the milk you’d collected this morning and you’d wanted to harvest the early peas from the garden, but all of the sudden you were too exhausted to stand,

Volesh told you to go to bed. You tried to argue; it was lazy to take to bed in the early afternoon!

The Orc scowled at your stubbornness and reminded you that you’d been attacked several hours earlier. Would you allow anyone seeking your help, after going through what you did this very morning, to continue to work? Or would you tell them that rest was needed, for the body to heal?

You scowled back at her because her words were true. Your nephew laughed and remarked that if your skin wasn’t so pale you’d make a good Orc with an expression like that.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the observation, adding that you’d learned from the best, which made even his mother chuckle.

Finally, though, you couldn’t argue and went into the cabin to lay down. Volesh followed, and with your instruction created a poultice of daisies and tallow. As often as she made a withering comment about your ‘alchemy’, she knew the benefit of it. She helped spread the paste on your bruises and bound them with clean strips of cloth, then left the cabin, leaving  you alone.

  tbc . . .

[bee-kathony]

McTavish & Beauchamp | Ch. 24 “Journeys” 

a/n: thank you to my boo @julesbeauchamp for making my new lovely moodboard for this series!

Masterlist Here

Jamie didn’t want to leave Claire behind, but it was the safest option for both her and the bairn. As he rode away, he had looked back at her, smiling at the sight of her watching him go with one hand cradled over her belly. Seeing her filled with his child was one of his favorite sights.

He loved his children and he missed them dearly. The thought of finding his father and bringing him back to Lallybroch and introducing him to his own bairns brought tears to his eyes.

Eight years. Brian Fraser had been in Fort William for eight long years and Jamie prayed every step of the way that his Da was indeed still alive. With the help of Colum’s letter, Jamie expected no trouble in freeing his father. But he couldn’t help the chill that went down his spine at the thought of returning to the place he had been flogged.

He had lain in agony in that place — his body split open and bleeding. The wounds from his first flogging had barely time to heal in the span of a week before Jonathan Randall inflicted one hundred more lashes. The scars would be with him for the remainder of his life. The only thing giving him peace was that Randall was now dead and by his own hand.

There time in Paris had been fraught with peril and they had nearly lost Faith. They returned to Scotland together though and Jamie felt that his and Claire’s relationship was stronger than ever. He trusted her with his life and with his children. There was a mutual respect and understanding between the two of them.

As Jamie rode on throughout the next few days, his mind had nothing much to focus on and he found himself drifting back to the early days of his and Claire’s time at Leoch. That night in the surgery when they had given over to their desires. He had been so unexperienced when he had lain with her, everything was so new to him. Jamie’s cheeks turned pink as he thought about his father and what he would have said to him about bedding a lass before wedding her.

There were times when Jamie regretted giving over to his most primal desires, but he wouldn’t trade those moments for anything. Seeing her sweet expression as her body tightened around his and the breathy moans that he would never tire of hearing. He had belonged to her from the moment he laid eyes on her.

After the first time they had made love, they had only lain with each other one other time while they were on the road collecting rents. And not long after that they were wed. On Jamie’s second day riding as he passed through great stretches of open land of the Highlands, his thoughts once again settled on Claire. There was a moment at Castle Leoch just after they had been together that Jamie thought he might get another chance, but it had been interrupted by Mrs. Fitz asking for Claire’s help in the kitchen.

Jamie had been looking for her all day, Mistress Beauchamp. Since they had lain together only three nights ago, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from thinking of her. He also couldn’t help the terrible cockstand he got when he thought of her bonny fat arse under his hands. The night of the gathering when Jamie had made his own oath to Colum, he had held Claire in his arms while they sat against a tree. She had touched him and just with her wee hand had made him spill himself.

He would have — should have felt ashamed, but the way he felt when he was with her clouded his judgement. Jamie had asked around for her and finally someone had mentioned they’d seen her in the kitchens with Mrs. Fitz helping to prepare the feast for the last day of the gathering.

Walking in the kitchen, he saw her. Curly hair wild around her face, her hands covered in flour and the sweetest smile on her lips. She was kneading dough and Jamie’s eyes trailed down across her chest, his tongue snaking out between his lips as he noticed her breasts moving with every pound to the dough.

“Ifrinn,” Jamie cursed himself and his pervasive thoughts and just as he started to turn away she called to him. “Mr. McTavish!”

“How long have you been standing there?” She asked him as she abandoned the dough and came over to him in the doorway. Claire wiped her hands on her apron, but they were still covered in flour.

“Just a wee while,” he grinned and then took her hand, daring at glance in the kitchen before pulling Claire with him and walking to a more secluded alcove.

“And just what do you think you’re doing Jamie?” Claire laughed, placing her hands on his chest. “Oh no!” Her hands had gotten flour all over his vest in the shape of handprints. “What will people think happened to you now?” She laughed as she tried to wipe away the flour but only ended up making it worse.

“Most likely that I’ve been beaten by Mrs. Fitz for tryin’ to steal away some bannocks before the feast,” Jamie grinned and then captured both her hands in his, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’ve been lookin’ for ye.”

Her cheeks blushed red and she met his eye. “Have you decided I’m some kind of whore after having my way with you?”

Jamie’s mouth parted, he would never get used to a lass using such language so freely. “No! Not at all,” he squeezed her hands. “If anyone is to blame, tis me for bein’ a brute. But nah — I dinna regret a single moment.” He placed his fingers under her chin and kissed her then, sliding his tongue slowly between her lips. “I wouldna have taken ye to a dark alcove and pressed myself up against ye just so if I thought you a whoor.”

“Wouldn’t most men do exactly that?” She laughed. “Take a woman they so desired to a dark place and have his way with her?”

“All I ken is that I dinna want a whore…” he said sheepishly, feeling the heat creep up his chest as he looked down at her. “I want ye, Mistress. I think highly of ye is all and well I mean to say that I havena stopped thinkin’ of ye since—“

“Since I took your virginity and gave you a hand job?” She smirked.

“Weel, when ye say it like that, Sassenach, I sound as if all I want is yer body,” he grinned and moved his hands to her waist, pressing his thumbs against her soft flesh at the sides.

Claire looked down between them, a heavy sigh leaving her lips. “What is it lass?”

She didn’t meet his eye, but kept her focus on a loose string on his vest, her fingers idly playing with it. “I feel guilty,” she said softly.

“Guilty?”

“Yes, for what we did. For what I did to you…”

“Oh lass,” Jamie pressed his forehead against hers. “Ye did nothin’ I didna ask for or nearly beg from ye.”

“I just can’t get over how I’ve behaved… my husband—“

“Ye said he was dead, Sassenach, there’s no reason to blame yerself,” he smiled softly at her. “Tis no’ like he is alive.”

Claire was silent after he said this and he wondered if he was wrong in bringing up her husband’s death. She clearly still grieved for him and he saw that she was upset now as a single tear rolled down her cheek. “Oh lass, Claire.” He wrapped his arms around her body and held her.

She didn’t weep as she had before, but her grip tightened around him and he placed his hand on the back of her head. He felt her heartbeat against his chest and they stood there simply holding each other for what felt like forever. Finally she pulled back and wiped under her eyes.

“I might feel a bit guilty, Jamie, but I don’t regret what we did,” she smiled, her hand coming to cup his cheek. “I really did enjoy it.”

“Aye,” he grinned, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against her bottom lip. “So did I.”

“You did promise me a bed?” Claire looked up at him, her eyelashes fluttering and he felt his wame quiver at the look in her whisky eyes.

“Och, I did. And I promise one day we shall be able to,” Jamie leaned down and kissed her. Her hands were tangled in his hair, tugging at the nape of his neck. She grew fierce, hungry almost and he hissed when he felt her hand pressed against him. “Sassenach…”

“Wot?” She mumbled against his lips as she moved her hand over his cock. There was only the thick material of her dress and his kilt separating them and it would only take a moment. His hands drifted along her hips and as he started to pull at her skirts he stopped himself.

“We canna,” he moaned, closing his eyes as her hand pressed more firmly. “Christ.”

“I know you said you wouldn’t lie with me again until we found a proper bed, but,” she twisted her hand and he bit his bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“Jesus, Sassenach,” he muttered and leaned his head back against the stone wall. What he wanted was to see her body, smooth and white laid out on the sheets before him, but his cock had other ideas. “I need ye,” he leaned down and kissed her.

It really should have crossed both of their minds that they were still in an alcove in a corridor of the castle. Anyone could have walked by and seen them. As Jamie finally slid a hand under her dress and touched just between her legs, eliciting a moan from Claire, he heard footsteps coming towards them.

“Ifrinn!”

“What? What’s wrong?” Claire panted as she opened her eyes to look at him.

“Someone’s coming,” Jamie reluctantly pulled his hand away and out from the folds of her skirt.

“Mistress Beauchamp?” Came the voice of Mrs. Fitz from around the corner.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” Claire muttered and rearranged her skirts before stepping out from the alcove. Jamie grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him, kissing her hastily before she slipped out of his grip.

She turned back to him, winking as she returned to the kitchen. That night he had touched himself as he thought of her and her wee hands. Jamie felt ashamed by his actions and prayed to God to forgive him, but he wanted her so and he wouldn’t rest until the day he could have Mistress Beauchamp.

++++++

Jamie rose just as the sun began to rise and he packed his few belongings and saddled his horse. Today he would reach Fort William — he would see his father again.

He still hadn’t full let himself believe that the news was true. His father, alive all this time and living so close to him. Jamie mostly felt ashamed that he was unaware this entire time, unaware that his father had been imprisoned unrightfully.

That same chill went down his spine as he spotted it. The stone walls of the fort. Jamie wanted to get in and get out as quickly as possible.

Leaving his horse tied up nearby, Jamie walked to the entrance of the fort, giving his name to one of the guards. He still felt uncomfortable in the presence of so many redcoats and suddenly he wondered why he had come alone. Certainly his godfather Murtagh would have joined him, but ultimately Jamie knew he needed to see his father on his own.

“Follow me, Mister Fraser,” the redcoat commanded. He led him through the doors and down the hallway, into a room that must have belonged to the commanding officer.

“Lieutenant Grey will speak with you presently,” the redcoat nodded his head and then left Jamie on his own. He had made it this far.

Jamie must have waited only five minutes before the man he assumed to be Grey walked in. He was a young man, with his tricorn placed perfectly on his head and his uniform clean. Jamie wondered what a young officer had done to be placed here at the fort instead of serving elsewhere — away from lowly prisoners.

“Mister Fraser I presume?” The man smiled warmly and walked over to take a seat behind his desk. “I am Lord John Grey, it’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“Thank ye, sir,” Jamie bowed his head and took the seat opposite the man.

“I’ve received a letter from a Colum MacKenzie informing me of your arrival. Arrived just the other day,” the man motioned to the letter on his desk. “I must say this is an unfortunate incident and I’m terribly sorry about it all.”

“Och, I blame my bastard of an uncle,” Jamie smirked and saw the other man’s eyes widen at his language. Jamie had forgotten how the British had been.

Lord John moved forward, crossing his hands in front of him. “Well I won’t hold you any longer than is necessary. Your father is here and in my possession.”

Jamie’s chest nearly caved in at the words. “He really is alive?”

“Why yes, Mister Fraser,” Lord John scoffed. “Did you really not know of his state?”

He shook his head, “No, I didna. I kent him to be dead these past eight years.”

“My God,” the man before him sat back in his chair. “So it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Jamie leaned forward, his heart racing now.

“I’ve had the privilege of speaking with your father, he is a kind man — although a bit of a temper on him and he spoke of his son and how if his son knew that he was still alive, he wouldn’t be rotting away in these cells.”

“Will ye release him to me?”

“I will,” Lord John nodded. “I’ve read this MacKenzie’s letter several times and I can see there was a clear understanding, however I must have your word that this is the truth.”

“My word? Ye’ll take my word and then release my father to me?” Jamie noticed that the man before him was looking at him with a curious look. He would be lying to himself if Jamie didn’t realize that this man was attracted to him. Claire had told him that he had caught the eye of many woman and men around. Jamie of course had only the need to be with Claire, but wondered why it was always so that people found him so agreeable. “Aye, Lord John Grey, I give ye my word that tis the truth written in my uncle Colum’s letter.”

“Very well,” the man smiled and rose from behind the desk. “Your father has become a bit of a leader with the prisoners, I’m sure they’ll be sad to see him go.”

He led them through the halls and Jamie had to close his eyes as they passed the cell that had once been his while he waited for his floggings. This place was the last time he had seen his father. The last time he had felt his father’s kiss on his cheek.

He still felt that kiss and heard his father’s last words as they reached the largest cell.

“Brian Fraser, please step forward,” Grey spoke. There was a shift and then a man was moving towards them. It was still too dark for Jamie to see if it really was his father.

“Your son, Jamie has come to release you.”

“Jamie?”

“Da, is that you?” He took a step forward just as the man took a step in the light. There he stood — his da. Jet black hair and still the same tall stature. He was thinner, of course, but Jamie would have recognized him anywhere.

“My son,” Brian moved his hand up to cup Jamie’s cheek. “I knew ye’d find me one day. I never lost hope of it.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Jamie grinned and then fell into his father’s arms and wept.

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Metamorphosis: Chapter 19. The Search.

HUZZAH!! The next chapter of Metamorphosis is HERE!!

Extra special thanks to @thefraserwitch for making sense of my nonsensical ramblings and @diversemediums for being my spectacular mama resource. I couldn’t do this without you guys, you’re the best and my saving grace.

You can find previous chapters here on my master list, or over here on AO3.

Mid November, 1743; Lallybroch.

“What are ye doin’, lass?”

Murtagh’s voice held more concern than consternation as he made his way towards me in the dim stable. I didn’t — couldn’t — look at him as I hoisted the saddle blanket onto the mare’s back, knowing that if I did, if I saw the fear he was trying to hide in his eyes, I would cry… or worse, lose my resolve.

“What does it look like?” I huffed as I turned my attention to the heavy saddle, “I’m coming with you.”

He was at my side before I managed to get it anywhere near the horse. A guttural Gaelic expletive left his lips and I forfeited the heavy tack to him, but made no move to surrender my position near the mare’s flank. I crossed my arms against chest, my gaze withering as he set down the saddle and turned to back me.

“Ye’ll no’ be riding with me,” he insisted with a dismissive shake of his head.

I knew better than to ask him why not, for there were a thousand and one reasons for me to stay behind while he forged ahead. I’d thought of each and every one, every horrible scenario playing out in my mind since he’d arrived with battered Ian in tow and still came to the same conclusion.

I was going to find my husband... with or without Murtagh’s approval.

My chest heaved as I stared him down. He met my gaze without so much as a twitch, but the crack and timbre of his voice betrayed his true feelings.

“Ye’ll stay here… where Jenny can tend to ye, where ye are safe,” his shoulders hunched with huge weight of the situation, his breathing labored as he tried to talk me down. “Wha’ happens to the bairns if ye fall, lass? ‘Tis a long way down and no guarantee of a bush or heather to land on.”

“I won’t fall.”

He snorted, “And if ye do?”

“I’ve fallen a good deal farther and they’re still here,” I grimly stated and shivered slightly, for the chilling nightmare I’d had while within the depths of the Thieves Hole had become a frequent visitor in the weeks since my imprisonment, each repetition more frightening than the last.

My comment tore down Murtagh’s mask of resolute strength and his hands shot out, gripping my upper arms as moisture sprang to his eyes, “I canna risk it, a nighean. Please… will ye no’ stay here?”

I shook my head, opening my mouth to protest, but he cut me off.

“I give you my word, Claire,” he vowed, desperate for me to stay behind. “I will find him and bring him back to you.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment, but in what condition?” I spat, even as my voice cracked. “They flogged Jamie within an inch of his life the last time you broke him out of prison and I can’t imagine they’ll do anything less to him this time!”

The image of a hangman’s noose around my husband’s neck knocked the air from my lungs and I felt very much like I was going to be sick. My head spun as I lifted my hands to my face. A shudder ran through me in a desperate attempt rid myself of the sudden vision of Jamie swinging from the scaffold at Fort William. I felt my legs give way beneath me and my crippling fears swallowed me whole as the floodgates opened, a sob bursting forth from my lips unchecked.

Murtagh caught me just before I hit the ground, pulling me to him in an awkward embrace as my tears flowed freely. I’d been bolstered by Jenny’s strength and carried by my own stubborn determination, but the quiet darkness of the stable had been my undoing. I knew that, on their own, my tears would solve nothing… but I also knew that I wouldn’t solve anything if I didn’t allow myself to cry… here in the stillness, protected by the arms of the man my husband trusted above all others.

Working together, we could -- and would -- save Jamie.

We had to.

..

Two weeks later; Somewhere in the Highlands.

“Thank ye, Mistress,” the young boy nodded to me, going so far as to bend forward from the waist in a slight bow.

While I understood their appreciation, the almost reverence the village folk gave in the last few hamlets we’d traveled through was beginning to grow wearisome. I hadn’t even treated the lad’s wound yet and here he was acting as though I’d cured him of leprosy with a touch of my hand. Most of this was Murtaugh’s doing, I knew, and yet if it meant word spread more quickly or even made me more identifiable to Jamie, I would go along with the harmless charade.

Placebo pebbles, I’d mentally dubbed them when Murtagh explained his idea at the start of our journey. Highlanders were equal parts superstitious and religious and Murtaugh's plan was to capitalize on both. He told me of a folkloric woman, a sort of witch who was able to see the motivations of men and women alike, who could strike an evil-doer down with a single look. He thought he could use the structure of La Dame Blanche, as she was called, to create a Holy Mother-like figure who could see the future and give protection or healing with the aid of a stone. The rumors of a pregnant Sassenach wandering about the countryside telling fortunes and healing the sick using magic rocks was sure to make it to Jamie, wherever he was hiding. I only hoped he’d hear of us before they tried me for witchcraft a second time or even for heresy.

I offered the boy my best attempt at a smile, gesturing him to come closer as I placed the small pouch of stones into a more visible part of my work space.

“Does it hurt much?” I nodded to the bandage on his right hand.

“Och, nae,” he bluffed as he extended it to me. “Jus’ it gets in the way a wee bit, now an’ then.”

I carefully unwrapped it and noticed a little girl standing near a tree about fifty yards from us. She had her eyes trained on the boy, yet made no move to come any closer as I examined him. The two shared similar cheekbone structures, a smattering of freckles, and glittering brown eyes.   

“Your sister?” I inclined my head, trying to distract him as the last layer of his bandage slowly peeled away. He nodded bravely, but I caught the wince he tried to hide as he averted his gaze to where she stood.

“What’s her name?”

“Flora, Mistress.” His voice changed, rising in timbre as his discomfort grew and I began to examine what revealed to be a minor burn.

It had already begun to heal and was relatively clean, needing only minimal cleaning before my application of a basic salve and a fresh bandage, but I took my time with him. For once, there wasn’t a flock of people hovering about my skirts waiting to be treated, and I made the effort to do the extra things Murtagh had suggested.

Use just enough Gaidhlig to make them think ye have it.

Give them every reason to believe ye can do a great deal more than what yer doin’...  an’ tha’ the wee stones will do the rest o’ the healin’ for ye.

I kept my eyes on my work, but watched the boy out the corner of my eye as I began to slip in the phrases I’d been carefully taught, “And yours, a bhalaich?”

His head lifted in surprise to look at me, eyes wide with reverent awe and answered softly, “Michael.”

I nodded and reached for my medicine box, taking out the vial of salve I needed and a roll of fresh bandage. I set both down beside the small, leather pouch of stones before I looked at him again and found him unabashedly staring at me. My cheeks warmed, but I didn’t shirk from his gaze as I began to clean the wound.

Michael flinched as I cleared a bit of debris and dropped his eyes, staring the items table. I could see his mind working, but he didn’t speak. The cogs and wheels of his brain turned over each one until he came to the leather pouch. His mouth dropped open in excitement, then shut just as quickly as he tried to contain himself. He shifted from foot to foot uneasily and I knew this was the very result Murtagh had hoped for.

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, here we go again.

“Would you like one, Michael?” I coaxed.

Murtagh would chuffed to know that I hadn’t needed to explain the purpose of the stones with this patient. The rumors had reached this village far ahead of us and done the work for me.

My patient’s brows drew together in concern, “I dinna have anything to give ye... and ye’ve already mended my arm. I canna ask for a wee stone besides.”

“Then a gift for your sister, perhaps?”

Michael’s smile threatened to stretch right off his face as he nodded, turning to beckon the child to his side. I caught the little girl’s nervous glance between her brother and I and smiled at her in encouragement. With a final look to Michael, she stepped out from behind the tree and ran to his side, burying her face in the back of his green coat.

“Hallo, a nighean,” I murmured and finished off applying the salve, wiping my hands on my apron.

The little girl’s arms wrapped around her brother’s waist and held on for dear life. He coaxed her in Gaelic, resulting in her peering around him, but not budging so much as an inch. Michael’s tone changed and she reluctantly let go, sidestepping to reveal a dirty blue dress and smudged face. My heart melted as she grabbed for her brother’s free hand, anchoring herself to him as she tried to decide if I was friend or foe.

I reached for the pouch and loosened the drawstring. Not looking at Flora as she studied me, I, in turn, examined its contents and made a great show of selecting which one I wanted to give her. I did have quite a few options thanks to a good deal of forethought, but it really made no matter which I chose, for they were all plain, benign, everyday rocks.

I eventually selected a small, white pebble that was near the top as I tried to focus on the task before me, but — as if the brother and sister’s presence called out in greeting to them — the lives within me stirred. They turned and prodded until I, in turn, had to move to appease them. I shifted uncomfortably on my hard, wooden seat and tried to nudge one, encouraging them to remove their heel from between my ribs.

Would they be brother and sister like these cherubs? Would I have a daughter and a son? One to favor me and the other Jamie?

A small, warm hand gently covered mine and I looked up in surprise to see Flora lean in towards me, a quiet lullaby tumbling from her lips. I couldn’t understand the words, but I didn’t need to. Her soft melody possessed an almost hypnotic charm, an intonation of the purest intent, a blessing from one child’s heart to another. The baby moved their foot and the both of them stilled, as if they could hear her song and were listening intently.

I held my breath as she finished, giving my hand a pat with her final, sustained note. My throat constricted as her wide, innocent eyes met mine and she gave me a shy smile. Tears burned at the back of my eyes as I gave her one in return, lifting my right hand to cup her face. I tucked a tangled strand of hair behind her ear and her smile grew, making her brown eyes dance.

“May our Heavenly Father keep you safe, my child.”

This time I truly meant the phrase Murtaugh had taught me, though I’d uttered them to nearly every patient I had treated, and my spirit echoed it, petitioning for the both of them to be safe and well in the name of our Lord.

Flora turned her face into my palm and kissed it, then moved my hand to rest where it had been on top of the curve of my abdomen. I opened my left hand and offered her the stone, adding my own hasty benediction, my brain scrambling for the words.

“May Christ Our Lord be your solid rock and cornerstone… May He cradle you in the palm of His hand and shelter you under His feathers… from this day on and forever more.”

The sweet child accepted my token and then crossed herself before stepping back to her brother’s side. I blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to keep my tears at bay as my mind scrambled to remember what the hell I was doing before I had descended into complete sentimentality.

Bandage him, you bloody sot, I chastised myself and reached for the roll of cloth.

My fingers set about their business, pure reputation having made them deft and capable of doing the work without a connected or coherent mental direction. My tongue was thick in my mouth, my lips suddenly felt clumsy as I tried to spit out the basic care instructions that he would need.

“Keep it dry,” I muttered, adding, “and change the bandage daily.”

Michael’s head bobbed enthusiastically, “Aye, Màthair. I will.”

The bandage now fastened off and talisman administered, the children simply stood and beamed at me, waiting for dismissal or further instruction.

“Right then,” I swallowed hard. “Off you go.”

With a parting wave, they flounced off and disappeared into the village’s market.

God go with you, dear ones.

…

Another week later.

The chill from the cave’s damp, stone floor was beginning to seep through the sheepskin beneath me. I shifted, pulling my woolen blanket up and over my shoulders, but it didn’t help… the cold and dark disquiet of the night still found me. My eyelids and every muscle in my body burned with fatigue, yet my mind refused to stop churning. It’s machinations kept me forever suspended in wakeful agony.

“Canna sleep?”

A short puff of air left my nose in frustration as I tried to ease the ache in my hip and lower back, as well as in response to Murtagh’s observation.

“Of course not,” I muttered in answer.

How could I sleep when I knew we’d been unsuccessful?

When we’d paraded through every village, hamlet, and croft and had no more information on Jamie’s whereabouts than when we’d left Lallybroch over three weeks ago?

I felt Murtagh’s gaze upon me and looked across the fire to find him studying me intently.

“What is it?” I raised a brow in slight annoyance

He’d grown more accustomed to my condition as both our journey and I progressed, but he was still more than a bit tongue tied about the whole matter. I didn’t know if it was due to the century and culture in which he lived, or if it was simply from lack of exposure, having never had a wife of his own. Either way, the fact that he had questions was evident and I often had to drag them out of him.

“Are the bairns troublin’ ye?” His brows furrowed in concern as he added, “Wi’ their movin’?”

I shook my head, “I think they’re asleep.”

This surprised the Scot and he absently stroked his chin in thought, a motion that amused me as I realized my hand closely echoed his, although it was hidden from his sight beneath my blanket.

“They don't always sleep when I do,” I explained, even while wishing they did, “but they do sleep.”

“When they wake…” he searched for the right words, “a bit like ye’ve swallowed fish, aye?”

“More like a small hippo,” I grumbled, wistfully remembering the days when the movements within me could have been something akin to the brush of a fish’s tail, instead of the hooves on fire they resembled of late.

“A wha’?”

“It’s a… it looks something like a pig,” I started, my gaze lifting to the dark, stone ceiling above me as I tried to conjure up the image of the beast. One had nearly capsized our boat when I was in Cairo with Uncle Lamb and — though I’d only been eleven or twelve at the time — it was certainly an experience that stuck with me.

I heard his astonished murmured acknowledgement as he shifted his mental image from something the size of a loaf of bread to a decent sized farm animal and grinned to myself as I added, “Except it’s bigger than a horse.”

His guttural reaction was incoherent to my Sassenach ears, but the shock, disbelief, and then reverent awe was crystal clear. Murtagh didn’t quite know how to change the subject and we both let a heavy silence fall.

It was now well into December, making me officially in my sixth month of pregnancy. The babies were growing rapidly and so, in turn, was I. It felt as though they were already running out of room… though I knew we still had a long three months to go.

The blessing of living on the road was that I hadn’t seen my reflection since we’d left Lallybroch. I firmly held onto that mental image of my figure, not wanting to think of what I looked like now, nor how big I’d be come the month of March. The fit of my skirts was evidence enough of how I was changing on an almost daily basis and I half wondered if the age old tradition of confinement was so that heavily expectant mothers could get away with wearing nothing but their shift all day… but come to that, I wasn’t sure if even my shift would fit for much longer.

“Ye’ll return to Lallybroch in the morn,” my companion’s command interrupted my wandering thoughts.

I stiffened, my head snapping to the side to search for him in the dark.

“No,” I responded simply.

I hadn’t the energy or the words to plead my case just now, but giving up on my husband was not an option and neither was returning home to Jenny empty handed. I would not go back to Lallybroch without Jamie at my side.

The dim light of the fire threw deep shadows across Murtagh’s face as he insisted again, “Ye’ll go, Claire.”

“I won’t,’ I countered, my temper flaring and swallowing my fatigue as I pushed myself up onto one elbow. “He is my husband.”

He rose one brow as if taunting me, his silent ‘do ye no’ think I ken that’ ringing loud and clear in my ears and I swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to keep my tears at bay.

“You can’t possibly know how it feels!”

Murtagh rose suddenly and strode to the mouth of the cave as he burst, “An’ ye’re the only one to lose someone ye loved, then?!”

The sky was clear and the moon shone bright tonight, silhouetting his hunched shoulders, usually so proud and stalwart.  

“I lost someone too,” he murmured, his voice betraying the deep, churning waters that flowed beneath an always unbroken surface.

“‘Twas at a MacKenzie gathering, many years ago… she was a canty lassie, bonnie as the day is long… but she had another suitor. So, I thought to prove myself to her, to be the kind of man she desired… During the hunt, I alone killed the wounded boar with nothing but my dagger… The MacKenzie was so impressed by the deed, he gave me the tusks… I had them made into bracelets… and gave them to her as a wedding gift.”

The bracelets.

Jenny had given them to me the morning Murtagh and Ian had returned and they’d been in my pocket ever since, a talisman of my own to keep Jamie’s presence with me. I pushed myself the rest of the way up, my hands patting at my skirts to find them.

“It was you,” I whispered as my fingers wrapped around the curved ivory, warm from being against my body.

Murtagh turned and I staggered to my feet, closing the distance between us as I held them out to him. He was at my side long before I made it to where he’d been standing and his hands shook as he took the bracelets, bringing them to his lips as his eyes slid shut. He swayed slightly and it was my turn to place a steadying hand on his arm, .

“Ye think ye’re the only one who loves Jamie?” Murtagh murmured after a moment, the silver light of the moon making his damp cheeks shine bright as he finally looked at me. I found my own pain echoed in his eyes, multiplied tenfold.

“He is a son to me, a nighean.”

I nodded, knowing that I couldn’t possibly form accurate words to convey the acheings of my heart… the overwhelming and soul crushing realization that he did, indeed, know how I felt and he’d been carrying the weight of it around for decades.

My hand gripped his arm and he pulled me to him, supporting me as I cried. His hand lifted to gently cradle the back of my head as I sobbed into his shoulder, my tears flowing free for the first time since we’d left Lallybroch.

The doubt crept in as I let go of my facade, making me ask, “What’s going to happen to me… to us, if he’s… if Jamie is...”

“If the lad is truly gone,” Murtagh choked out, his embrace tightening, “I vow to protect ye and the bairns for the rest of my life… just as I swore to Ellen to protect Jamie.”

[theimaginesyouneveraskedfor]

At Your Service ~Seven~

Part One ~ Part Two ~ Part Three ~ Part Four ~ Part Five ~ Part Six

The morning came swifter than you would have wished. You had fallen asleep sitting against the wall after hours of dwelling on the scenes of the day before. You could not shake the sense that you had overstepped yourself and yet Thranduil’s reaction had been entirely gratifying. You had never expected to affect the king so deeply but you kept your pride in check as you pulled on a clean apron. You could never count short the Elvenking.

You tied your hair back, smoothing away the flyaways before turning to the door, little space between it and the few pieces of furniture in the room. At times, you felt as if you lived in a coffin, so confined and airless. You carefully pulled open the door only to be surprised by what, or rather, who awaited you on the other side. In your shock. You nearly tripped over your feet and kept yourself standing with the support of the oaken door.

“Y/N,” Thranduil smirked down at you, betraying none of the consternation he had the previous day, “Wonderful timing. I was just about to knock.”

“Your majesty?” You wrinkled your brow, confused by the most unexpected calling. You noticed he was wearing a long hide jacket and gloves, his boots of similar material, and you could guess at his plans.

“Today I’ve cancelled all meetings,” He announced and you searched for some falter; some hint of what had occurred and yet, nothing showed, “I am taking this day to ride, and you shall accompany me.”

“Oh?” You could not help the syllable before regaining your facade, “Your majesty.”

“My guards will stay behind as well, I rarely am allowed such solitude,” He explained as he stepped back and looked down the corridor, “I expect you to run ahead to the stables and order my elk readied. And one for yourself…” He glanced at you down his long nose, “Can you ride?”

“Well enough to stay on the horse,” You offered evenly, “At once, your majesty.”

You closed your door and stepped past him though he gave you little room to do so. Again, he watched you with latent interest and you were glad to turn the corner out of his sight. Stopping by the kitchen, you ate your breakfast in less than a minute and were informed of the food which had already been packed for the king’s excursion. Much of your duties had already been sorted and it was starting to annoy you.

In the stables, the elk was waiting and a horse as well; a tawny mare with dark eyes. The staff informed you that the saddle bags were in order and all that was needed was the king. You sighed as Evin appeared, a rare sight in the stable, and he strutted towards you. 

“See that King Thranduil is kept happy and that your duties are done satisfactorily,” He narrowed his eyes at you with disproval, “I should not like to tend to them again.”

The attendant marched away without awaiting a response and you glowered at his back. No doubt the king had ordered him to carry out the preparations and likely to clean up after the mess he had made in his anger. A chill of foreboding trickled up your spine and was only fed by the Thranduil’s arrival. 

He stepped out in his riding attire and approached his elk with a coo and a handful of oats. “It is a new steed,” He explained as he scratched its muzzle, “But elk are not difficult creatures,” His eyes slowly found you beside the pale horse, “Not like some.”

The underhanded comment was enough to make you steam and you looked to your own ride with uncertainty. You had only been atop a horse a few times in your life, servants not afforded such luxury, and you prayed your natural acumen, lauded by those who had witnessed your past forays, were truly inherent. You reached out to the mare slowly and she sniffed at your hand, lowering her head in unexpected affection.

“She likes you,” Thranduil intoned and you had not heard him near, “Would you like help in mounting?”

“Your majesty, I think I may be able to figure it out,” You insisted though you sounded less than convinced.

“Please, allow me,” He smiled before rounding you, gripping your hips firmly and lifting you before you could react. You let out an involuntary squeal and managed to lift a leg over the back of the horse, steadying yourself as Thranduil released you.

“Thank you, your majesty,” You hid your embarrassment and focused on gaining your balance as the king returned to his own steed.

“Not at all,” He insisted as he pressed his heels to the sides of his elk, inching the beast forward until he was beside you, “We’ve a long day ahead of us. Try to keep up.”

At that, he kicked his elk into a trot, restrained enough for you to follow but fast enough for you to be jostled in doing so. You worried that the saddle would do little to keep you upright and you clutched the reins desperately as your horse reach a solid pace. You kept to the tail of the king, as was customary for a servant, and prayed you would survive the day’s travels.

You were sweating, you had leaves in your hair and mud on your skirts, and your thighs burned. You had become certain by the afternoon that this was Thranduil’s way of punishing you and you cursed yourself for not figuring it out earlier. He looked pristine as the wind carried his blond tresses and his elk took the path with ease. Your horse was reliable but you were so inexperienced that you feared you would somehow tip her over.

Your pace slowed as you reached a small stream and the king followed it aimlessly and you doubted he even had an idea of where he was going. It had all been a trek devised to regain his upper hand and he was surely winning. He looked over his shoulder, a smirk apparent on his lips and he kept to the water’s direction.

“We’ll dismount for dinner soon enough,” He announced; the saddle bags had been packed bountifully but you had been forced to take your lunch on horseback, only stopping for a moment to do so.

“Your majesty,” You kept the discomfort from your voice as you swayed with the movement of your horse.

The stream grew wider to a river and the sound of a trickle became a shower and tall waterfall came into sight, glimmering in the light late afternoon. The water reflected shades of blue, violet, and green and had you not been so distressed, you would have marveled at its beauty. Thranduil stopped by a cluster of trees stretching out along the water’s edge and dismounted, tying his elk close enough to get a drink. You followed suit with less grace and were thankful to be back on solid ground.

You unbuckled a saddle bag and began to gather rations for the night’s meal though all you wanted to do was go home. You wondered when you would return to the palace and you glanced up at the ominous sky. You must have been far from the royal house and could not imagine how you would return by nightfall. Your eyes were drawn by the sense of another’s on you and you looked to the king’s, watching you with intrigue.

“We will not be returning this night,” He assured you with a grin, “There is a place we can rest near here.”

You held back a cry of disappointment and instead, gathered all that was in your arms and set it down atop a flat rock. You began to build a pit for the fire, kindling it as the king spoke in soft whispers to his elk. It was easy to distract yourself with preparing the food and you were thankful for it. You thought of how much you had lost in a mere matter of hours as you pushed back the hair which had fallen loose around your face.

“Your majesty,” You called to the king as you rose with a plate ready for him, “Your dinner.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” He crossed and took the dish, sitting down on a stump as he cradled it over his knee, “Please, join me.”

You took your meagre portion, never one to eat much as you had little time for it, and sat on the flat rock you had formerly set the food on. He watched you closely as you began to chew your bread and the silence was torturous as you could not think of any witty retort. As you were near to finished your plate, the king set aside his and pulled forth a water skin and two wooden cups from his pack. You wanted to sigh but merely focused on your food and stayed quiet.

“Here,” He set one beside you, “It’s been a long day.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” You grumbled after swallowing your last mouthful, setting aside your plate.

“I wanted you to see the beauty of our forest,” He sipped his wine between words, “Pent up in the palace so,” He shifted on the stump, “It can be tiresome.”

You nodded and gulped down the wine, feeling awkward as you struggled to decipher he motives. You finished your glass, quicker than you should have, and rose, gathering the empty plates and crossed to the river to rinse them. You could feel him watching you but you did your work without pause and packed the dishes away with no hint of your discomfort.

“Well, then,” Thranduil rose and took his pack from beside his mount, “We should find a place to rest for the night. They should be just fine by the river.” He gave his elk a final pat as you lifted your much smaller pack and followed him towards the waterfall.

He led you up a steep incline along the stony side of the falls and the path wound up behind the sheet of water until you found yourself in a cave. It was of white stone, pristine for being in the midst of wilderness, and Thranduil smiled as if he knew the place well. He set down his pack and pulled out flint, lighting torches which had been lit at one time or the other. It was simple enough to tell that he had been here many a time before.

He finished with the torches, the flames lighting the dark cave as the sky dimmed on the other side of the water. You warily set down your pack as you watched his back, his shoulders shifting in unseen movement. He turned back, approaching with a pale pink flower in hand and he held it out to you.

“I thought you’d appreciate the greenery,” You took it, knowing to deny him was always a mistake, “It would look so nice in your hair.”

He was being more forward than ever and all after a day of few words. You straightened your lips as you fought the urge to scoff at him. Did he think a rendezvous in the forest would so easily dissemble you? Even if the petals were beautiful and the sound of the waterfall lent serenity to the scene. It could not be so simple.

“Is this not bothersome?” He ran his finger along your apron, sodden from your work, “Such filth.”

“You get used to it,” You twirled the flower between your fingers and smelled it dully, “I am a servant. A dirtied apron is the least of my bothers.”

“It bothers me,” He insisted and reached around you, leaning in closely so that you smelled the lavender of his hair; recalling the vial of it beside his tub. He untangled the knot of the strings easily and let it fall loose as he backed away, “Come on. I want to show you something else.”

You lifted the apron over your head and placed it atop your pack, surprised to find him waiting for you to follow. He walked beside you as if he were not a king and he took a single torch from along the cave wall. He led you through a dark doorway and you found yourself climbing a set of crooked steps. Ahead, you could see the faint glow of moonlight and you continued without question, the tension growing between you.

As you came to the top of the stairs, the cave opened up into a natural balcony, open-faced to the expanse of grass and trees below. The moon and stars shone brightly down as Thranduil urged you forward and you looked around yourself to find ivy and a spectrum of flowers growing around the opening of the cave. Peering back across the land, you let your mouth fall open despite yourself and breathed in the awe-inspiring view.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Thranduil asked and you smiled, peeking over to find he was not looking at the stars, his hand delicately removing a leaf from your hair.

“Very,” You answered, tearing your eyes away before you could make a dire mistake, “Very beautiful.”

Your hands were clutched in tight fists as you felt the tingle spreading from your spine to your limbs, crawling up your throat and cheeks. You swallowed as you found yourself breathless and prayed you had the strength to make it through the night. Sending a plea to the moon, you let the night air cool your burning flesh and tried to ignore the stifling presence of the king beside you.

*courtesy tag* @little-red-83 @everyjourneylove @sistasarah-sallysaidso @shikin83 @imagine-it-dream-it@thehalfelves @nordiskstormhatt @thesquidni @cicelyrosedibben

[wandering-bard-from-the-id]

Daughters of Arendelle - Chapter 14 - Jokulsa Day 2

Part I - Bonding

Link to chapters 1-13

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12222767/1/Daughters-of-Arendelle

Chapter 14

Aug. 18, 1840

Darkness had long settled over the land as the convoy of wagons and horses made its way through the manor gates.

Elsa, Captain Olsen and Viktoria made their way to the manor's front entrance. They watched as the last of the convoy entered the grounds. Once they were clear of the gates Elsa sealed the opening with a thick wall of ice.

One of the wagons veered off from the others. It stopped before the manor doors. Several soldiers dismounted and circled it.

Elsa climbed down from the saddle. As her feet touched the ground a sharp pain shot through her back, it stole her breath away. She bit back a yelp as she steadied herself against Vor. The pain eased to a dull ache.

Viktoria was at her side. The girl held out a supportive hand but stopped short of touching her.

"I'm fine." Elsa answered through clenched teeth.  

A soldier appeared at her side and she handed off the reins. "Thank you." She tugged her jacket straight before making her way to the rear of the wagon.

The soldiers had lined up along the sides of the wagon. From the wagon seat the medic called out instructions to the men.

"Corporal," Elsa drew near the rear of the wagon. "How is he?"

"As well as can be expected, ma'am. Your suspension rigging seems to have provided a smooth ride."

"I barely...felt...a thing." The Admiral raised his head to offer Elsa a weak smile.

She managed to return it. "Good. I have some ideas to improve it for the ride home. But for now, let's get you inside."

"Queen Elsa, if you would please remove the supports." The Corporal said.

She looked to the guards gripping the stretcher. "Ready?"

They answered with a chorus of, yes ma'am.

With a wave of her hand the ice vanished.

The men moved the stretcher from the wagon. Led by several armed guards they started for the manor with the medic calling out for them to be careful not to jolt the Admiral about.

Captain Fuchs appeared from the entrance, followed by the young guard from the day before, the Chamberlain trotted along behind them.

As Fuchs’s gaze settled on Elsa, she could almost feel his anger. He stormed toward her, but stopped at a respectable distance as two Shield Guards drew up their rifles, each taking a position on either side of the Queen.

"Queen Elsa, why have my men been ordered to stand down, and surrender their weapons?”

Ice tickled her palm at the man’s harsh tone. All of his cool charm from before was gone.  

"Where is he?"

Taken aback by the question Fuchs’s brow furrowed into a deep crease.

"Where is who… ma'am?"

"Do not try my patience, Captain. You will not like where it leads. Where is Baron Ulstein?"

His face slipped into an emotionless mask. “He is somewhere in the mountains, chasing bandits, Your Majesty.” His attention turned to the children climbing from the rear of one of the wagons. "Who are all of these people?"

"Your victims." Elsa didn't flinch as she stared him down.

Faust's back stiffened, his eyes shifted to Viktoria. "I see you've met the local trouble maker. Your Majesty, whatever she has told you..."

“Captain,” Elsa’s voice was low, steady and carried a hint of danger. “I lost two good men today, and we may yet lose the Admiral. They were shot down by men in uniforms very similar to your own. After what I have seen today I would be justified in executing the Baron on sight. But since he’s not here, I would be satisfied to start with you. You and your men will surrender your weapons immediately.”

“You and your men can…” The younger guard took a step toward Elsa, only to pull up short. The threat died on his lips as he found himself staring down the barrels of two Shield rifles.

Fuchs placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and pulled him back a step. “Your Majesty, my men are soldiers. Do you not trust them to uphold their oath?”

“I don’t trust any soldier who would march on Arendelle soil, under any banner other than that of the Crocus Throne.”

"Your Majesty," the Chamberlain stepped in. "These men are the Baron's personal guard. They're loyalty is unquestionable."

"Do not lecture me on loyalty you, little weasel." The man drew back. "None of you know the meaning of the word. We'll see how loyal you are when faced with the hangman’s noose."

"Hangman?" The color drained from the Chamberlain’s cheeks. “Theft is not a hanging offense."

"Shut up, you fool." Fuchs hissed at him.

Elsa held Fuchs’ gaze. "Murder is."

"Murder? I've not murdered anyone." The Chamberlain drew back several steps. He drew back another as she turned on him.

"You may not have yielded the sword, but make no mistake there is blood on your hands."

The younger guard drew his sword. Fuchs stepped behind him, using him as a shield as he drew his own sword.

One of the Queen's Shield fired. The young man staggered back, managing to stay on his feet. His breath came in short, pants with the telltale gurgle sound of blood filling his lungs.

Fuchs shoved the dying man forward into the guard. Before the guard could react Fuchs struck him between the eyes with the sword hilt. Dazed the soldier fell to the ground, blood flowed from the gash in his forehead.

The first guard had not struck the ground before Fuchs lunged knocking the second guard's rifle barrel away with a stroke of his sword. The shot went wide striking the manor’s block wall, chipping away a chunk.

Viktoria drew the sword she had taken from the town guard. She moved to block Elsa from the fight, but the Queen raised a hand to stop her. Instead she settled for a position at the Queen’s side.  

Fuchs kicked the soldier between the legs. The man cried out dropping to his knees.

Olsen rushed in with sword drawn. He blocked Fuchs’s blade as he made to run the injured soldier through. His momentum carried him forward, and he drove his shoulder into the man, knocking him back several steps.

Fuchs’s lips curled back exposing his teeth. He set upon Olsen. His blade flashed at a blinding speed.

Olsen was good, but Fuchs was better. He drove the officer back, looking for an opening. It came when Olsen stumbled over the uneven ground.  

Fuchs moved in for the kill. With a twist of the blade he knocked Olsen’s sword from his hand. It landed several feet away. Unarmed Olsen’s drew back to put some distance between them. Fuchs’s smile widened as he lunged with the sword tip leveled at Olsen’s heart.

Before the blade could pierce the officer’s chest it was knocked from Fuchs’s hand, with such force it nearly pulled his arm from the socket. His sword landed a few feet away, encased in a block of ice. Even if it were not, he could not have retrieved it. He clutched at the wrist of his injured hand, trying in vain to close the cold, stiff fingers. Little patches of black covered the fingertips, a clear sign of frostbite. Even if the hand could be saved it would never again hold a sword.  

He spat several German words at Elsa, her language tutor had never shared. It wasn’t hard to decipher most of the curses, though there was one she was certain was physically impossible.

Rage burned in his eyes. "I'll gut you, you witch."

"Not with that hand you won't." Elsa allowed a smirk to play over her lips. She felt no regret for the man’s pain. “Captain Olsen, secure the prisoner and see to the wounded."

"Yes, ma'am." He motioned to several guards who had arrived during his fight. They collected Fuchs, dragging him away.

With Fuchs out of the way Elsa’s attention turned to the Chamberlain. “Where is Torill Sanka?”

The caterpillars disappeared into the man’s hair line. “Torill, ma’am?” He squealed as ice encased his feet and ankles.

“Do not play games with me! I know she works for the Baron.” The ice rose to his knees.

“I…please, Your Majesty.” Tears began to roll down his cheeks. “I didn’t know about…”

The words caught in his throat as an ice spike exploded from the ground. The tip nicked his throat drawing a drop of blood.

“Where is she?!”

“The kitchen! She’s in the kitchen, with your handmaiden.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, as a yellow puddle began to form in the ice at his feet.

“She’s with Gerda?” With all that had happened she was ashamed to admit she had forgotten about the handmaiden. Her chest tightened and ice sprang to her fingertips at the thought of one of the Baron’s cutthroats being anywhere near the woman. Years of court training and decorum vanished as Elsa hiked up her skirt and sprinted for the door.

“Queen Elsa, wait!” Olsen chased after her.  

Viktoria followed close on his heels. They struggled to keep up with her as she darted through the castle with surprising speed. Several times they nearly lost her as she cut through doors and side hallways.  

Her momentum carried her through the kitchen doorway as she slid to a stop.

The guard just inside the door came to attention.

It took a moment for the startled staff to realize who she was. Somewhere across the room a clay pot fell to the floor. It shattered against the hard stone.

Her eyes swept over the room. As she spied the green Arendelle castle staff uniform among the group the tightness in her chest eased.

Gerda turned from the stove, wiping her hands on an apron tied at her waist. “Queen Elsa…” She took a step toward the young woman, but caught herself. “we’ve been holding dinner for you, ma’am.”

Even from across the room Elsa could see the relief in the older woman’s eyes. “We were…delayed.” The warmth and promise of comfort those brown eyes offered drew her too them. Thoughts of comfort were squashed by the sound of running footsteps.

Behind her Olsen and Viktoria dashed into the kitchen, each taking a position on either side of the door, swords in hand. She could hear them panting from the run. “Viktoria.”

“Yes, ma’am?” She stepped to Elsa’s side.

“Is she here?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s her.” She pointed to a tall, middle aged woman, dressed in black. Her blond hair was darker than Elsa’s. It was woven atop her head in a stylish manner. She was a handsome woman and by the way she held herself she knew it.

“Torill Sanka.” Elsa called, turning her attention to the woman.

The kitchen staff moved from between the women. They pressed tight against walls and cabinets to give them a wide breach.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Her fingers were locked with her hands resting against her waist. A pleasant smile plastered on her lips.

It made Elsa’s stomach turn. “You are, Torill Sanka?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She curtsied.

“Or should I call you, Torill Troll?”

A collective gasp of horror passed through the young women.

Torill’s smile vanished. She straightened. Her lip quivered as the muscles along her jaw rippled.

“I understand you’re not use to hearing that name, at least, not to your face.” Elsa held her gaze. “Torill Sanska, you are accused of the abuse and murder of numerous children who had been placed under your care.”

“Murder? Who dares speak these lies about me? Was it her?” She pointed at Viktoria. “That lying little harlot can’t be trusted.

“Enough!” Elsa’s fist tightened against the ice raging to be set free. “I have seen the pain and suffering caused by your hand.”

The chill in the air caused Torill’s breath to cloud. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Do you deny taking children from their sick beds and abandoning them to die?”

Among the girls one cried out and the others moved to comfort her.

Torill’s hands came to her sides, clenched in tight fists. “The sick had to be removed so as not to infect the healthy ones.”

“You left them to die.” Elsa felt her control slipping away, not just of her ice.

“You should be thanking me.” She gestured to the girls scattered about the room. “Without me all of you would be rutting in the trash for your next meal!”

“You murdered children!” Elsa’s cheeks flushed. Her hands twitched at her sides. Magic sparked off of them to rain down to the floor in bright yellow flashes.

“They were orphans! No one cares about orphans!” Torill took a step forward.

“I care!” Elsa thrust out a hand. A blinding yellow blast of magic exploded forth. It slammed into Torill lifting her from the ground. She flew the length of the kitchen before crashing into a wall. Pots and pans fell from their hooks to clatter upon the stone floor.

Dazed the woman slid down the wall, to land in a heap.

“You enjoy hurting defenseless children. Let’s see how you fare against someone who’s not afraid to fight back. Get up!”

Torill rolled to her hands and knees. “Please, Queen Elsa…I was only…following the Baron’s orders.”

“Liar!” Elsa slammed her back into the wall. “You enjoyed hurting those children.”

Torill raised a shaking hand toward Elsa. “You don’t, understand.”

“You took children from their beds in the dark of night, and left them to suffer and die. Explain what part of that I don’t understand!”

“They were weak, a burden.” The woman glared up at Elsa. “I ended their suffering. I had the courage others lacked. It was the only merciful thing to do.”

“Merciful?” Elsa began to shake. With an enraged cry she swept the woman across the room with a wave of her hand.

The woman squealed as she sailed through the air to crash into the wall. Once more she landed face down in a heap on the floor. As she pushed herself up on shaking arms another blast of cold air tossed her across the room to crash into a large wooden table. Plates and spilled food rained down upon her.

Torill clawed at the table top for support as she pulled herself up. She brushed milk and flour from her face. With some effort she made it to her feet.

Elsa stalked toward her, magic danced from her hand to elbow. “Would that I could hang you more than once I would gladly do so.”

Brown eyes grew dark as Torill straightened to her full height. “Do you think I fear you, little girl? You may wear that crown, but you’re nothing more than a child pretending to be a woman. I’ve broken bigger brats than you.”

Gerda grabbed an iron skillet from the counter. She moved toward the woman, drawing back her arm to strike. Before she could reach her one of the servant girls rushed past her to stand before Torill.

Elsa pulled back her hand to avoid striking the girl with magic.

“Where is my brother?!”

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl.”

“You promised he would be taken care of.”

Torill chuckled. The sound sent a chill down Elsa’s spine. “I did take care of him.” She looked around the room at the other girls gathered about. “Just as I took care of all the other sickly, useless little brats like him.” Her gaze returned to the girl. “The boy was weak, and worthless. He was taking food and space from those who could work to earn it.”

The girl pounced on her with a primal scream. She clawed at the woman’s face and hair. Before anyone could intervene, Torill struck the girl across the face with the back of her hand. The blow sent the girl sailing into the table. She sprawled atop it face down.

Torill brushed hair from her face as she turned to the girls. “You need me. I have protected you. All of you would be dead now if not for me! Do you think she can protect you?!” She pointed at Elsa and laughed. “She’s as weak and helpless as the rest of you.” Without warning she lunged toward Elsa.

Elsa drew her hand back, ready to strike, thick ice coated her fist.

The attack was cut short as Torill crashed into the servant girl who had appeared in her path. She grabbed the girl by the shoulders, intent on pushing her aside. The girl would not budge. She held Torill’s gaze till the older woman looked down. It took a moment for her brain to connect the pain spreading through her body with the butcher knife handle protruding from her stomach.  

“My brother was not weak, or worthless. And I’ll fear you no more.”

Torill opened her mouth to speak. Blood gurgled up to run down her chin. Her hands slid down the girl’s arms as she dropped to her knees. The girl stepped aside as the woman collapsed face down on the floor. Her body shook with a shuttered breath before going still.

Silence hung in the room for several heartbeats.

Ice faded from Elsa’s hand as she lowered it. “Gerda.” She did not take her eyes from the dead woman.

“Ma’am?”

“There are a large number of people outside who need to be fed. Please, see to it. The Captain and I will handle finding them shelter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The girl dropped to her knees before Elsa. Tears streaked her flushed face. “I know the penalty for my actions is death. All I ask is that you make it quick, My Queen.” She bowed her head.

Elsa stared down at her. “Captain.”

Ma’am?”

“Have someone remove the body.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He motioned to the guard who went for help.

Elsa turned and walked away.

“Your Majesty?”

She paused in the doorway without looking back. “Yes, Captain?”

“What of the girl, ma’am?

“Leave her be.” She disappeared through the door before he could answer.

Captain Olsen hesitated a moment before following her.

Viktoria went to the girl and helped her to her feet.

“I…I don’t understand. She was supposed to punish me?"

Gerda handed Viktoria a clean towel to wipe the blood from the girl’s hands. "The Queen would never harm a child. Take her to the servant quarters and get her cleaned up. Try to get her to lie down and rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Victoria led her from the room, as she continued to ramble on.

“Come now,” Gerda clapped her hands. “You heard the Queen. We have people to feed.”

The servants returned to their tasks. Gerda stole a look at the empty doorway. She pushed down the urge to go after Elsa. She had never seen the young woman lash out at someone with her magic. Whatever had happened in town had unleashed the Queen’s fury. She prayed it would not unleash anything else. One thing was certain it was going to be a long night.

0000

As Elsa entered the Admiral’s chamber she was assaulted by the smell of blood and alcohol. She was thankful there wasn’t anything in her stomach to make her queasy. Such thoughts vanished as she spied Halldor lying in the center of the bed. Beneath his open shirt a bandage covered his chest.

She couldn’t help noticing how pale he looked against the white linen sheets. “How is he?” She asked as the medic rose to his feet to greet her with a bow.

His voice dropped low. “The bleeding has stopped, ma’am.”

“Stop whispering, man. Your Majesty.” Halldor tried to raise his head.

The medic hurried to the bed. “Admiral, you must lie still.”

Elsa followed after him.

Halldor collapsed back into the pillows. Sweat coated his face. His breath came in short gasps.

Elsa moved to the opposite side of the bed. “Please, Admiral, don’t strain yourself.”

His grey eyes took a moment to focus on her. “Queen Elsa, I’m sorry I can’t be of more service to you. I feel abit foolish about this, injury…seems I forgot to duck.”

“Happens to the best of us, Admiral.” She managed a small smile.

He snorted out a laugh. “Is there, any word, on the Baron, ma’am?”

“Not really.” Elsa eased into a chair at the bedside. “His men claim he is hidden in the mountains to the west of town, waiting for us to leave.”

“I’ve no doubt he’s waiting for us. Were it not for the ice barricades you created along the road I suspect he would have greeted us sooner.”

“It appears his men were mixed in with the ones who attacked us from the ridge. I’ve issued a warrant for his arrest. Once we return to Arendelle we can begin a countrywide search for him and his men. They will be brought to justice.” She reined in the anger that had driven her earlier in the kitchen.

“We will find them, ma’am.” His eyes closed.

After a moment she wondered if he had fallen asleep.

“How are you, Your Majesty?” His eyes fluttered open to focus on her.

“I’m fine.” The answer came without thought.

He chuckled. It brought on a coughing fit. The medic gave him some water to calm it. His attention returned to Elsa.  

“Queen Elsa, you’ve been in a gun battle, were nearly assassinated, and spent the day using a large amount of magic. The barricades around the town and manor, the ice alley you created to shield us on the road…your fight in the kitchen.”

Elsa’s head rose. “You heard about that?”

He smiled. “My Queen, it is my job to track you.”

A smile touched her lips.

“You’ve had a long day, ma’am. You must be exhausted.”

She shrugged. “As you said, it’s been a long day.”

“Indeed. If I may ask, ma’am, has using all that magic weakened you in anyway?”

“Admiral, I created a three day blizzard. What’s a few ice walls?” She gave a little wave of her hand to dismiss the subject.

His face contorted in pain as he fought back a laugh.

She reached out to touch his arm, only to pull her hand. “Admiral, how do you feel?”

“Well, I don’t recommend getting shot. But if one must it would seem I found the best method.” His eyes crinkled with amusement.

“How so?” Her attention shifted to the medic.

“The bullet passed through his chest, ma’am. It appears there was no serious damage to any organs or bone.”

“Will he recover?”

“Barring any infection I think he will make a full recovery. There will be some scarring and perhaps some permanent muscle damage.”

“How long before he’s back on his feet?”

The medic looked to Halldor. “It’s hard to say, ma’am. If all goes well, two maybe three months.”

“That’s a lot of ifs, Corporal.”

“Yes, ma’am. But it’s out of my hands now.”

“Queen Elsa.”

Halldor’s soft voice pulled her attention to him. “Since it appears I will be bedridden for some time, might I make some suggestions for my replacement?”

She nodded.

“For now it would be best to let Tollak handle the land forces. He’s a good man, but, he’s never had proper sea legs. Rear Admiral Raske on the other hand, has saltwater in his blood. He’ll do well to lead the fleet.”

“Both are sound recommendations, Admiral. I shall enact them once we return home.” Her gaze focused on the hands resting in her lap. Intertwined fingers turned white from the force upon them. “You are a fine officer, and,” With her head ducked her eyes rose just enough to meet his. “a trusted ally, Admiral. It would have been most disturbing to have lost your council.”

“You’ll not be rid of me so easily, My Queen.”

She chuckled.

Halldor relaxed into the pillows with a sigh. After a moment his breathing settled into a soft, steady rhythm.

She stood. “Corporal, please let me know if there is any change in the Admiral’s condition.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll be in my chambers if you should need me.” She made her way out the door as he answered her.

 0000

While her room was only a few doors down from the Admiral’s it had taken some effort to reach the door. The guards following in her wake took positions on either side of the door as she entered and closed it behind her.

As the door clicked shut she slumped back against it. She closed her eyes against the lightheadedness that threatened to bring her to her knees. Several minutes passed before she felt able to make the short walk to the vanity.  

 She sank onto the bench. The image staring back at her was almost comical, almost.

 Dust covered her clothes. Dark smudges of dirt streaked her cheeks. Strands of hair had escaped to point off at odd angles. For a moment she contemplated going to the royal bath, till she remembered it was on the far end of the manor. The thought of having to walk that far through the crowded hallways squashed the idea. Besides, all of the manor staff was busy caring for the orphans and soldiers. She would not pull them away for such a selfish indulgence.  

 With both hands she removed the small gold crown from atop her woven hair.

 She held it, turning it slowly. Some of the shine had faded due to the dust, but nothing a good polishing couldn’t fix. Oh, but it were so easy to fix the troubles of the world, she thought.

 Made of solid gold it was heavier than it appeared, but far lighter than the large, cumbersome crown her father had worn. Though, today it had bore down upon her with a crushing weight.

 Along one edge she felt more than saw a slight dent. It had been caused by a careless toss across the ice palace. The dent would have been easy enough to fix, but she hadn’t wanted to fix it. She traced her fingertips over it. Somehow the small imperfection seemed appropriate. “A damaged crown for a damaged Queen.” She murmured with a humorless chuckle.

 From the table she took a cloth and began to wipe away the dust. It would need a good polishing to restore its former glory, but that could wait till they were home. Home. For the first time in hours she thought of Anna. Thoughts of her sister had pulled her through the day. What she would give to curl up next to the young woman, and listen to her ramble on about her adventures over the last few days.

 She placed the crown in a wooden box, lined in green and purple silk. Once it was secure she snapped the lid closed, securing the latch.

 With some effort she moved to the wash basin and began to clean up. She struggled to change from her clothes into her nightgown as the muscle pain in her back had grown from a dull ache to a sharp stab when she moved.

 She pulled on her robe and tied it closed. With some effort she eased onto the bench and reached for the hair brush. Her hand hovered over the brush a moment before moving to one of several stacks of ledger books piled atop the vanity.

 After her encounter in the kitchen she had sent guards to retrieve the Chamberlain. They escorted him to the Baron’s study and retrieved boxes of books and records. It would take days, possibly weeks to sort through all the documents. But she knew it would be necessary for the trial. He would be held accountable for his crimes. Anger sparked at the thought of his atrocities. She squashed it. Her outburst in the kitchen, while satisfying had been uncontrolled and rash. Such eruptions were unseemly, and dangerous. Though justified she knew her father would have frowned on such an emotional display. “Oh, Papa, how I wish for your council in such trying times.”  

 With a heavy sigh she picked up one of the ledgers and began to read.

 0000

 From somewhere in the distance Gerda heard the chime of a grandfather clock. It was nearly midnight. She tsked at the sight of light from under Elsa’s door. After all that had happened she wasn’t surprised the Queen was still awake, but she had hoped the girl would get some sleep.

 She shifted the silver serving tray to one hand and knocked. “May I come in, Your Majesty?” A muffled yes answered her, and she opened the door. As the door opened a cold wall of air greeted her. She was thankful for the wool jacket of her uniform.

 Still a shiver passed through her as she closed the door and moved deeper into the room. “I’ve brought you a little snack, ma’am. You didn’t eat much at dinner.”

 “I’m not hungry.” Elsa didn’t turn from her work. Ledgers and scrolls lay scattered about the vanity.

 Gerda sat the tray down on a small table by a curtained window. “You’ve had a busy day, ma’am. It’s important you keep up your strength.”

 Elsa didn’t reply.

 With the tray set up Gerda turned to the young woman, and folded her hands against her skirt. “Queen Elsa, you need to eat, and get some rest.”

 “How could I have been so blind?”

 “Ma’am?”

 Elsa held up a ledger without turning. “It’s all here, months, no, years of stealing from the Crown and the people. All of it going on right under my nose, and I never saw it.”

 “Now you know the truth.”

 “How many people have suffered and die because of my stupidity?” She threw the book onto the vanity. It scattered several small glass bottles and sent a comb sailing to the floor. “I was a fool to think I could stay hidden away from the people.”

 “Please, ma’am. Just eat a little something. You’ll feel better.”

 “I don’t want to eat!” She slammed a hand onto the table, causing the bottles to rattle. With a sigh she lowered her face into her hands. “I can’t keep anything down.”

 Gerda fought the urge to move closer, she knew it would only make matters worse. As much as it pained her, she would respect Elsa’s need for distance. “It’s late, and we have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. You need to get some sleep.”

 “I can’t sleep.” Her voice was muffled by her hands.

 “You must, ma’am. We need you strong and alert. Your magic maybe all that stands between us and the Baron’s men.”

 “My magic.” The words left her lips with a snarl. She raised her head to stare at her hands. “This is why I’ve hidden from my people, my duties…my sister for the last thirteen years.” Frost coated her palms. “All this time I thought the damage was contained, that Anna and I were its only victims. But I was wrong.” Yellow and red magic began to swirl over her hands. “It has destroyed so much more.” She thrust a hand out to one side. A blast of ice slammed into the wall with enough force to rattle the window panels. Several inches of ice coated the wall from floor to ceiling.

 Gerda arched an eyebrow at the display, but said nothing.

 “They trusted me, Gerda. They believed I would save them.”

 “And you did.”

 “No!” She came to her feet and spun to face the woman. “No, I failed them. Ulstein and those other monsters terrorized them, and I did nothing to stop it. God only knows how many more are like them across the country.” Her arms wrapped around her. The palms of her hands tucked in tight. “Children have been suffering and dying, because of my weakness. I failed them. I’ve failed everyone, again.” The words left her throat with a hitch.

 “Then fix it.”

 “What do you thing I’m trying to do?!”

 “I think you are wallowing in self-pity…ma’am.”

 Ice spread over the walls and ceiling, Gerda fought not to shiver from the cold or the hard glare Elsa leveled at her.

 “Were you anyone else….” She let the threat hang unfinished.

 “Were I anyone else I would not know the woman beneath the crown. You are smart, and brave to a fault. You have such love and compassion for everyone, except yourself. If you had not been locked away perhaps you would have seen these atrocities sooner. But, they began under King Agdar’s rein, God rest his soul. If he did not see it, what makes you think you would have?”

 “Perhaps if he had not been so focused on me, he would have seen what was important.”

“You are important.”

Elsa shook her head. “Gerda, don’t. I know what a burden I’ve been to my family.”

“Burden? You and Anna were your parent’s most treasured gifts. Your father would have sacrificed everything for you.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have! He had a duty to protect his people first.”

Gerda’s back stiffened as she fixed Elsa with a steady gaze. “Would you sacrifice Anna to save the people?”

“What? I…that’s different. Anna…is my world.”

“You and she were your parents’ world. They would have given anything to protect you, both of you.”

Elsa’s shoulders slumped as she bowed her head. “Perhaps, but it doesn’t change the fact that people have suffered because of me.”

“Then be the Queen they need you to be.”

“I’m trying.” The room began to warm.

“I know, My Lady. You are the Queen and the people need you. But we need you healthy and safe.”

Elsa closed her eyes. “Are you still trying to get me to eat?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to put on a few pounds. You’re clothes are getting a bit loose.”

An eyebrow arched at the remark. Elsa allowed herself a small chuckle. “Fine, I’ll try to eat something.” She took a step forward and grunted, a hand going to her back as she hobbled several steps to the bed.

“Queen Elsa, what’s wrong?” Gerda was at her side in an instant, taking her arm.

“My back and ankle hurt.” She hissed through clenched teeth.

“Ah, I wondered when all that riding would catch up to you.” She helped Elsa ease down onto the bed. “I’ll draw you a hot bath, a good soak will help ease your muscles.”

 “No.” Elsa squeezed the arm beneath her hand. “Don’t, it’s late, and as you said it’s time to rest.”

 “As you wish.” Gerda stroked a hand over Elsa’s hair. Too her surprise, Elsa leaned into her. Stunned by the gesture her hand paused a moment before she continued to stroke the blond locks.

Gerda said nothing as the young woman trembled against her. She stopped when Elsa sat up wiping at her eyes.

 Elsa gave her arm a gentle pat. “It’s late. You need to get to bed.”

 “Once you are resting, ma’am. Now, let’s get you settled and I’ll bring the tray over so you can eat.”

 “Fine.” Elsa stood as Gerda pulled the blankets down. It only took her a moment to get settled. She bit back a smile as Gerda tucked the blankets in around her. As the woman turned away Elsa snuggled down into the soft pillows.

 Gerda made her way to the table. “I know your stomach is bothering you, but some tea should help that.” She picked up the tray and started for the bed. “You don’t have to eat much, just…” She paused at the edge of the bed. The corners of her lips turned upward as she looked down at the sleeping woman.

 Without a word she returned the tray to the table. She moved about the room extinguishing lights, sorting out items and rearranging Elsa’s clothes for the morning. Among the items she picked up the Queen’s jacket and attempted to brush some dust from it. Her nose crinkled at the smells coming from the garment. Dirt, horse sweat, and…gunpowder, her breath caught. Several of the soldiers had told her of the battle at the mine. The thought of her Elsa facing down armed men sent a chill down her spine. She lay the jacket down and moved to the side of the bed.

 Elsa was sound asleep. She thought back to the many time she had watched over the young woman as she slept. Even ready to offer whatever comfort the girl would accept. With Anna back in Elsa’s life the need to watch over her had waned.

 She pressed two fingertips to her lips, and then lightly touched them to Elsa’s temple. “Sleep well, my sweet, Elsa.”  

 She hurried to the table and retrieved the food tray. Careful not to make too much noise she slipped out the door.

 Elsa never stirred as the door eased closed.

 0000

 Baron Aksel Ulstein shivered as a cold breeze passed through the passage way. His lantern danced a moment with the air. He cursed under his breath which came out in a white cloud. No doubt the ice witch was behind his discomfort. Before the night was out she would no longer be a problem. He led the small group of men deeper into the passage.

 He checked his pocket watch, it was well past midnight. They should be asleep by now, he though. His men would take out the guards while he killed the Queen. Once she was asleep he would slip in, run her through and escape away into the woods beyond the manor walls. He and his men would have the perfect alibi. The bandits would be blamed. By the time word reached Arendelle of her death they would have signaled their allies to take the town.

 With a nod to the men behind him he started deeper into the passage. They had only gone a few yards when they came to a stop. The passage was blocked by a solid wall of ice. He reached out to touch it, and the cold radiating off it numbed his hand. He yanked it back. Damn, Witch, he thought.

 “She’s blocked the passage.” The man closest to him whispered.

“Give me that torch.” The Baron held out a hand. One of the men placed the torch in it.

He thrust the torch at the wall. It hissed and fizzled before going out. Upon closer inspection he found the end was frozen solid.

“What do we do now?” The man behind him asked.

“Nothing.” He tossed the torch aside. “We do nothing.” Without another word he stormed out of the passage into the dark woods.