#and how you should cherish every small moment (like the one depicted where sun is warm on your face)

[yuurionviktor]

Feeling warmth of the sun for the first time

Also this is a slight reference to my absolute favorite painting by Vasily Golubev (I even made a text version for Harrow)

(Text on the picture says «Хорошо, что вчера не повесился!» which means «Good thing I didn’t hang myself yesterday!»)

I really wish Harrow got to feel hopeful at least for a while

[therealjammy]

The Lady of Half-Death

Hi, hello, posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, in case you don’t feel like venturing to Ao3. 

This work’s alternate title: “Lucky One” 

Content Warnings: Very NSFW, a brief but graphic depiction of violence. (This work is meant for 18+ only!) 

It’s also told in first person POV, the Forbidden Perspective, so sorry if that’s not your jam.... Thank you for reading xx

--

I.

November, 1937

On a bitter November day, early in the morning, I was roused by the tinkling of the bell hanging beside my bed. Being Mother Miranda’s most competent servant, I was long used to a summons during the small hours of the dark. She was night’s creature, bent over her studies and her subjects until a bitter sun lit the sky, almost unaware of time’s passage, while her servants kept in perfect time with every striking hour. I splashed sleep from my features with bitterly cold water from the basin on my dresser and wrapped myself in my warmest robe. I lit a candelabra, savoring its small warmth as I donned my silver mask. It had frightened me at first, how the servants wore these metal things elongated into an elegantly startling bird’s beak, but when serving the Lady of Ravens, one had to know to whom they pledged their loyalty, both inside and outside the house’s grounds. Though the metal was light, it still made one’s head ache after only a few minutes of wear, and was a constant irritation after many hours. But like a pain that was more a nuisance than anything, it was easily set aside.

           I walked quickly through dark hallways and creaking staircases, passing through rooms whose furniture was covered in sheets and rooms whose contents were not. Each was quiet as the long-dead.

           The doors to the laboratory opened on soundless hinges. Inside, there was only a spotlight on the latest occupied table and the stoic figure of Mother Miranda leaning over it, her hands coated in deep crimson, her subject unmoving. Her face was drawn into a deep, displeasured frown.

           “What may I bring you, ma’am?” I asked carefully.

           “Tea, Trudy,” replied Mother Miranda. By the ancient tiredness in her voice, I knew the kind I ought to fetch.

           Staying true to her grief, Mother Miranda had a fondness for black tea, steeped for five minutes to be strong, made stronger with a dollop of Sanguis Virginis, a sweet but robust red wine made by Lady Dimitrescu. She kept the largest bottle for herself, but sent a smaller one to Mother Miranda every winter. The bottle was red and adorned with golden flowers crawling up its sides.

           By the time I brought the fresh tea to her, Mother Miranda’s hands were washed of blood, and the subject on the table was covered with a white sheet, slowly turning scarlet. I set the teacup and candelabra beside her and gave a professional distance.

           “The nature of science,” Mother Miranda said, picking up the teacup, “is to fail again and again.” She held it delicately. There was rage underneath that delicacy. “Every vessel thus far has been unfit, even if it’s accepted the Cadou, and with each unfit one I feel as if I am losing her more.”

           “You might feel like Tantalus, ma’am,” I said after a pause, “with your goals evading your grasp, but I rather think you must be like Orpheus.”

           “Attempt until death,” she murmured. “Yes, child, I believe you’re right.” A long sip of tea. Underneath her golden mask, her pink lips turned a deep red. She set the cup gently in its saucer and rose from her chair, black robes shuffling quietly. “Come. Let us begin anew.”

           I lifted the mutilated subject from the table, wrapping the sheet about her carefully, and carried her fresh limpness to the courtyard with the others. Her cooling blood seeped from the sheet and onto my robes, and it dripped onto the bricks and my feet, leaving a sticky trail. It was cloying, but it was a sweet perfume compared to the rich decay that wafted from the courtyard’s cold soil. In the dark, I saw there was already a space made for her. I lay her carefully in it. A good sacrifice deserved gentleness once the deed was done, after all. In that sense, I was more merciful than Mother Miranda. Once a body was no longer of use, she would carry it out herself and toss them hastily aside, for only one body mattered above the rest.

           “In life and in death,” I said over the grave, “we give glory to Mother Miranda.”

           I sprinkled a handful of dirt over the covered girl and left her to the bitter, near-winter air.

           Inside again, I scrubbed the table twice with soapy water and dried it thoroughly. I lit more candles, placing them around the table’s edges, away from the notes that Mother Miranda spread across the surface. While she organized them, I brewed another pot of tea, bringing it and the gifted bottle of Sanguis Virginis with me. When I had poured my own cup, Mother Miranda gestured to the wine. Pour that in, too. I obeyed without question. Grey eyes watched me drink, unchanging even when I made no face at the taste of wine and blood mixing with strong black tea. I’d learned long ago that reactions caused reactions. I remained impassive, though my stomach still curdled and rebelled at the taste of the sinful wine. To the others—Mother Miranda and Lady Dimitrescu— the wine was a sweet and prized possession. If ever it was sold, it would be incredibly expensive.

           I brought a chair and perched myself next to Mother Miranda. It was always a thrill to be at her side, to study her volumes of notes and drawings and glimpse the way her mind worked. But more than that, I cherished the nights like this, when it was only the two of us. I enjoyed her company. I desired more of it, because I desired her. At times I believed she knew this, but then she would dismiss me so easily, brush by without a care, and I’d question if she knew at all.

           Attraction, I reminded myself, was a science, too, and like an experiment gone horribly wrong, it was best if one didn’t share the results.

           I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair. “We should begin where this one failed,” I said. “Pinpoint a reason, compare it to the rest.”

           We pored over notes for hours, comparing observations, Mother Miranda writing furiously in her looping scrawl underneath a page titled Quinn. The candles burned low, and the sky lightened outside the laboratory’s several windows, revealing a cold, white-filled dawn.

           “The conclusion is painfully obvious,” Mother Miranda sighed at last, pushing her nearly empty teacup aside. It’d turned cold hours ago. “I must find a truly unique vessel. The village is rotting with diluted blood and therefore cannot be used again. Three of the Lords—those children!—were ones I found outside. Diluted in other ways, perhaps, but strong enough.”

           “Yet you declared them all unfit,” I remarked.

           “Because they were too much,” Mother Miranda said stiffly, “and the rest have been too little. They served their miserable purpose and now I must find yet another clean slate! And to think I’d chosen so carefully…” A hand curled into a fist, clenched improperly due to taloned fingertips.

           “Send me to the field, Mother Miranda,” I said. “I will search for you.” But it was the wrong thing to say, for her other hand darted quickly out and knocked her teacup and saucer from the table. They shattered on the floor, black-red tea pooling around their remains.

           “Do not be dim, child; it cannot be done by you. It must be me.” She paused for a long moment, coming back to herself with a single, sharp shake of her head. “Please,” Mother Miranda said around a breath, “forgive my outburst.” She moved smoothly to the shattered teacup just as I did. We knelt out of time but reached for the same piece, her gold-plated fingers brushing my bare ones, sending a brief, hot shock through my being that ended in my chest.

           “You need never ask my forgiveness, Mother Miranda,” I said, slowly withdrawing my hand and reaching for a different piece. “A woman in grief doesn’t know her own actions.” And it was her grief, I thought then, that made my heart ache for her. That made everyone’s hearts ache for her. Mother lost a child, they’d say. No greater tragedy exists. We must be kind.

           “Grief is some people’s undoing,” Mother Miranda said. She had stopped picking up shards of teacup, a few pieces cradled in a hand. Her gaze was on the puddle of bloody, wine-soaked tea. “It festers like a splinter left in too long, or a piece of metal unable to be dislodged, and it consumes, until its host perishes with it. I’ve known it for many stretches, but rather than give myself to despair, I have chosen determination; for the parasite cannot fully live while its host fights it. So fight I must.”

           Her face was a pale reflection on the tea’s surface.

 II.

The next morning, a snowy one, Mother Miranda went for a walk. In her absence, her rule passed to me, and then to the Head Housemaid Vera, a stout older woman who kept the other servants in strict line. I was, however, only consulted for advice or for orders. Other than that, I was blessedly alone, a spectre haunting the laboratory while I organized Mother Miranda’s notes and gave into my own musings, letting my mind take up the cluttered space. Many things ran through it: thoughts of my former life, of the people I’d once seen and never would again, and if I followed that line, I knew exactly how I’d come to be here. Sitting alone in a tepid laboratory, surrounded by paper, rotting with attraction.

           It’d been there from the beginning, for there was always attraction to a leader, and many reasons behind it. People were attracted to safety and to comfort, to promises and protection, but highest of all, a deity that preached all the above. People backed off their words more often than they gave in to them, but a deity never would; their word was given and kept. It was learned, it was ingrained, and so like everyone else, I held that same attraction. I gazed upon the same likenesses of Mother Miranda and prayed for protection, for strength. I prayed to one day work for her—the highest blessing of all!—and that prayer was answered. She came to my door in all her godly glory and the paintings held no candle to her real beauty.

           The attraction molted once I’d begun to work for her properly. She was aloof and cruel and methodical, but there was talent and beauty, too, and soon enough I began to realize there was a person underneath the deity. And it was the person whom I thought of, now, wondering where her walk was taking her, who she was talking to, what she was thinking. I imagined her underneath a cold white sky, ashy flakes of snow sticking to her black robes and veil, the harsh, mountainous landscape reflecting her own desolation back at her.

           I thought, as I filed the last of the notes away, that I would make her return easier. Oftentimes her walks changed her mood; one never knew the sort she’d bear when she walked through the doors. It could be the silent sort of rage, during which she’d seal the doors of her laboratory shut and refuse to emerge for days, or the one where she’d return with a deadly ice in her eyes and drag the nearest servant by the wrist to her chambers. Sometimes they’d be alive and shuffle from the room with their clothes barely on; other times there was an unfortunate mess to clear away.

           During my luncheon, I called Vera to me and ordered the most frequented rooms be given a thorough cleaning, excluding the laboratory and Mother Miranda’s bathroom.

           “And her dinner?” asked Vera, once she’d given the orders to four maids. “Something comforting, I assume, as the latest loss is still ripe in the courtyard.”

           “Yes,” I agreed. “A shepherd’s pie with marmite in the gravy, and the bottle of Sanguis Virginis.”  

           “Very good, Miss Bevan.” Vera bowed her head and left.

           I went over the bathroom myself, being careful to put every object in its proper place. I drew a bath, the water unbearably hot, but by the time Mother Miranda returned, it would be perfect.

           I loitered for a long while in the bathroom’s silence, sat on the chessboard floor, gazing out the window to the snow-covered hills, the occasional drip, drip of the tub’s taps serenading me into a trance, filled with visions of blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and impeccable hands.

           I wasn’t the first to think of her in this light. Far from it. Worship came in many forms, after all, and many people fell to this one. Except mine was to the woman I knew, not to the idol emblazoned on a shrine dangling from a peeling wall.

           Unable to think of nothing but the bathroom’s suddenly stifling heat and the absent Mother Miranda, I left, unaware of where I was going until I collapsed on the chair I’d occupied earlier, everything about me aching for someone who saw me only as a servant in high regard—but a servant nonetheless. The fact, I thought, unbuttoning my uniform enough to feel cool air caress my chest, made me desire her all the more.

           I propped a shoed foot on the seat’s corner to give myself better access and began my pleasure gently, my head falling against the back of the chair once the rhythm was established, my free hand indecisive on where it wanted to stay—a breast, the chair’s edge, the table; at least until my mind offered me a vision of Mother Miranda ordering me, from between my thighs, to keep it planted firmly on the chair’s edge. There it stayed while my other moved, and behind my closed eyes I saw a skilled tongue working me up, teasing, licking slowly as if to claim ownership to even that part of me; I saw intense eyes meeting my own, telling me to give myself over; in my mind I whispered my glory to her. I twitched erratically, my movements almost clumsy; a few moments more and I’d be tumbling into the blissful void—or would have, had I not heard the door open and the familiar, near-silent movement of the woman living in my head.

           The silence that beat between us lasted only a moment and yet it felt like centuries. Mother Miranda’s eyes narrowed to deadly slits, and before I could manage to stumble out an explanation, she strode to me in five heavy steps.

           “You dare defile this space with your musings?” Mother Miranda hissed, her grip on my wrist vicelike. “Do you not know how ill I find this gesture? How ill it makes me to think you care naught for the meaning of this room?” Claws slashed at my cheek, the first sting of it only surprise at first; it burned when I realized she’d cut flesh. I felt blood welling, but I could not bring a hand up to staunch its flow. Nor could I staunch the fresh wave of heat that pooled in my core at Mother Miranda’s fury. Cold eyes darted from my still-wet hand to my face. Mother Miranda scoffed, roughly releasing my wrist. “Attraction is a damned wicked creature,” she said. “It morphs perspective and thought. It makes one act rashly, makes one believe they’re subtle. You think I’ve not seen your lingering gazes, child? How you bask in my company the way you would underneath the sun? How you are afraid of my rage but it arouses you all the same?” She chuckled lightly, dragging gold-tipped fingers over my cheek, the metal blessedly cool against my heated skin. Having spent so much time in close quarters with this woman, I was no longer terrified by the talons. Their scraping made the coil in my belly curl tighter, and if she were to slip bare fingers against me, she would find me all too ready for her. I met her eyes with a steely look of my own, hoping she wouldn’t see shame, but Mother Miranda was wise in ways I couldn’t fathom. She saw through people as if they were cheesecloth.

           She hummed, fingers roving lower, tracing my pulse hammering in my throat. “Is there any shame about you, Trudy? I should think so, as you are not my equal.” Moving lower still, to the buttons I hadn’t undone, hovering like she wished to tear them—and perhaps she did, for her hand gave a small twitch. “I am higher than you will ever be, yet you stand here, gazing at me so defiantly, trembling with your want of me… Do you think it will make you rise to my level?”

           Her words were fog clouding the forests of my brain. I could think of nothing but how I wanted to serve her, to fall to my knees and pledge fealty, even if it was sworn with her hand guiding my mouth between her thighs. I said, “No, Mother Miranda.”

           “No, indeed. But,” a taloned thumb slid over my lower lip, “it’ll bring me pleasure to see you try.”

           When she kissed me, it was with a slowness that one could believe was care, but I sensed the possession. I opened my mouth to it, leaned into it, every nerve alight at the thrill of kissing someone I had once dreamed of serving under. Her hands drew me close to her, splaying across my back, bunching up my uniform, and her kisses became rougher, filled with need. I met every one with a need of my own, my shaking fingers undoing the rest of the buttons down my front. The movement caught Mother Miranda’s eye; she pulled back, her gaze intense, the color high in her cheeks, watching intently as the top half of my uniform parted and revealed bare skin. She reached out, two fingers gliding smoothly over my collarbones, my sternum, tracing the swell of a breast; gooseflesh rose in the touches’ wake, and my breathing trembled.

           “You are practically untouched,” Mother Miranda said quietly. There was, to her, no greater sin than a specimen that remained unstudied and uncatalogued.

           “Only practically, Mother Miranda,” I returned.

           She leaned down, burying her face against my bloodied neck. Lips pressed softly, tongue lapping slowly— tasting me. “Have you not known love?” she said. “Or devotion?”

           “Fleetingly.” There was the blacksmith, Cristian, in whose strong arms I felt safe. There was Tatiana, who made me feel at peace even after our desperate acts. But with this life, they were fleeting. To serve one of the Lords or Mother Miranda herself, it was until death. “The only devotion I know,” I continued, my voice growing thinner the lower her mouth travelled, “is to you.”

           Mother Miranda hummed against my chest. “You worshipped well, then, Trudy,” she said, rising, taking my chin between two fingers and tilting my face up to hers, “but what of now? How shall you prove your worth to me?”

           I grasped her unoccupied hand and pressed it against my breast, holding it there. I wanted her to feel it, to feel my heart underneath it, to know she could reach in and take it because I offered it to her. “Take what you will,” I said.

           What was left of her resolve crumbled. Mother Miranda swept me into her arms with a low growl, lifting me as easily as she would a child and setting me hastily onto the table we’d cleaned the night before. Impatient fingers worked the rest of my clothes away. She tossed them aside and pressed me into the cold wood, impossibly dark eyes drinking me in, lingering on my neck, my breasts, my thighs. Places I hoped she would kiss. Places she did, in that order, her mouth untamed, leaving harsh love-marks behind. Throughout that act, she didn’t once touch me; I was strung so tightly that even one finger tracing me would’ve been my undoing. It was a sort of torturous study, I realized, clamping my tongue between my teeth when it nearly made me beg for release; she was seeing me as a case, testing my own resolve. How long could she make me wait before I begged forgiveness? Time ceased to exist. I could not tell how long she made me hang.

           When she finally did touch me, I was relieved. Instead of a sigh, a long whimper escaped my mouth. Mother Miranda groaned in response, her fingers twitching and pausing against me, surprised at the slick want they found. Her second touch was heavier, more confident. My hands couldn’t help but cling to the back of her neck, which was covered by a thick cotton veil. I realized I’d touched her without her consent, but when I made to pull away, her free hand came to rest over both of mine, and together we slid the veil from her head.

           Blonde hair, a darker gold in the dim light of the laboratory, fanned around her face, gracing my bare forearms, soft as silk. Without the veil, it was tantamount to seeing her naked.

           “Cling to me,” Mother Miranda breathed.

           It was as much permission as I was going to receive.

           I buried my hands in her hair and leaned up to kiss her. I accepted her tongue when it slipped between my teeth. I opened for her when, at last, she slid fingers inside me.

           And when she truly took me, she devoured me, sprinkling evidence of her use across any expanse of skin she could reach, uncaring if teeth dug in too much, if my back was rubbed raw from the wooden table, if her golden talons left angry scratches. I clung harshly to her during my crisis, my cries only winding her further, for when I was barely limp, she withdrew entirely and carried me to her own chamber. Deposited on her bed, I watched through bliss-filled eyes as she undressed.

           Black robes pooled at her feet. In the blue-white moonlight, she was harshly ethereal. Everything about her seemed to glow, including her eyes. And sprouting from her back were five pairs of midnight wings. I wanted to catalogue it as a dream, a delusion caused by a mind still recovering from an intense crisis, but the wings, like Mother Miranda’s arms and legs, were very much a part of her.

           “Look while you can,” she said. “Commit it to memory, for true revelations are rarely given so freely.”

           She stood for study, allowing me to take in every inch. My eyes lingered where hers had lingered on me.

           “Do you reject me, Trudy?” she questioned softly.

           “No, Mother Miranda,” I replied. I offered her my hand. “I’d fall to my knees in prayer if I were not otherwise occupied.”

           She accepted my hand and leaned over me on her bed, naked and otherworldly, and in my long, exquisite worship of her, I met death eye to eye and thought there would never be another equal.

[ddaenggtan]

monachopsis | knj x ksj

seokjin knows - has known, for years - that his life will be like this forever. there is no more sea, there is no more swimming, there is no more of anything he used to know. this is life - wake up, go to a shoot, try not to piss giho off, go home, sleep, wake up again. because he was caught. because giho owns him. because he can't. 

but then he meets namjoon. and seokjin starts to realize that maybe...just maybe. he can.

pairing | namjin

rating | sfw (some swearing & violence, so T for teen)

wc | 5.7k | cross-posted to ao3

warnings | mild violence, allusions to violence and physical abuse, a very brief depiction of said abuse, non-sexual choking, non-sexual slavery in a way, selkie!jin, aquarium worker!joon, marine biologist!joon, model!jin

a/n | hi this is for fwl’s Luv Library project, for the Fantasy & Fairytales section, and its also the first mxm i’ve ever posted so it might be a Little Rough but i am very attached to these characters and also i Love Selkies SO you get selkie jin!!! special super shoutout to @personawife​ for reading through it and also giving me the title!!!! im luv u!!! i hope u like the surprise ending that you didn’t get to read bc it was a surprise!!!!!!! ALSO added shoutout to user @jamaisjoons​ for the SUPERB banner she made!!!!!!!! im in love!!!!!!!!!! sol i do not deserve u!!!!!!!!!!

 He misses the sea, sometimes. 

He misses the refracting light and the weightlessness and the bubbles. He aches for the days he could swim, for miles and miles and miles, without getting tired. He misses the way his hair would move in the water, the way it felt to lay in the sun to dry off, the warmth that came with it all. 

Seokjin wraps his sweater more tightly around his torso and forces the thoughts away. Remembering gets him nowhere, he scolds himself. This is his life, now and forever, and he’s got to accept that if he wants to survive long enough to see the sea once more. He can do this. He’s strong enough for this.

The chill of the winter air is strong, too; it seeps into his bones and roots in them, lingering long after he’s made his way inside the studio. Giho is already there, berating some poor girl for her outfit choice. When he sees Seokjin he stops, waving at the intern. She runs out without even looking up. 

“You’re late,” Giho says with a sneer. They both glance at the clock on the wall. 11:55.

“You said noon,” Seokjin responds. His tone is neutral, a carefully constructed skill that has saved his life many times over the years. 

Giho tsks, likely because he can’t outright smack Seokjin with so many people around. Still, Seokjin can feel the old man’s eyes on him as he strips out of his clothes. 

The cold is prominent against his naked skin, and it doesn’t ebb as he slides the new clothes on. Giho is already yelling again, at the stylist this time, and it’s a familiar background noise. It’s still going on when he gets on the set, face in the perfect mask that everyone seems to love. 

The photographer barely needs to direct him; he and Taehyung have worked together for months now, and it only gets easier. Tae knows his best angles, his best lighting, how to highlight the cold expression he wears in shoots so the audience can interpret it their own way. 

Seokjin doesn’t know where Giho found this kid, but Tae is lucky the old bastard can’t keep him.

“To the left,” Tae mutters, and Seokjin does so without a word. 

The hours pass quickly. Between outfit changes and makeup retouches and actually shooting, the day flies. Before he even knows it, the clock is striking ten, and everyone is packing up. 

Jin changes quickly back into his sweater, the ever-colder air chilling him once more. Giho is off to the side with Taehyung and the Artistic Director, Hoseok, all three of them conversing quietly as they look at the photos from today. There’s no need for Seokjin to look; he knows how he did because Giho’s hands are kept to themselves. 

Checking again that they’re all suitably distracted, Seokjin turns to leave. He promptly stops, because he runs almost directly into someone coming through the door. Hands dart up to catch him, big and strong and warm as they wrap around his elbows for a second longer than they should, and there’s a muttered “Sorry,” from the guy in front of him. 

“Careful, hyung,” Taehyung’s voice calls. “Don’t damage the moneymaker.”

Seokjin’s eyes meet the man’s - a warm brown, one that reminds him of chocolate and muddy snow and love - before he physically pulls himself away. He doesn’t have to look at Giho to know what he’s thinking, what his paranoia is telling him about, and Seokjin needs to be able to eat tonight.

“It’s fine,” Seokjin says in the same unaffected voice he always uses around sets. “Barely touched me.”

The man frowns - probably because Seokjin is lying - but he lets it go, and Seokjin is thankful for it. Small mercies. 

“Jin,” Giho calls. He stops and turns. “Eleven, tomorrow.” He nods and leaves, ignoring the exhaustion in his bones and the familiar sorrow that fills his chest as he passes the all-too-familiar trunk by the door.

In the studio he leaves behind, Namjoon shares a look with his brother, who very minutely shakes his head. Namjoon knows that look, created that look to warn Tae off the ones that were more trouble that he could handle. Namjoon always wondered why his little brother never listened to that look. 

As he and Taehyung head to dinner, passing billboard after poster after billboard with Jin’s face on it, Namjoon thinks he might understand. 

The guy shows up more often. Seokjin knows his name, has said it a thousand times in his head over the weeks, but he won’t let himself acknowledge it. He can feel the guy’s stares on him, every time he arrives to get Tae at the same time Seokjin is running out the door after a shoot. He feels the interest, he’s intimately familiar with how it feels to have someone’s eyes running up and down his body, and he knows exactly what kind of danger that puts the both of them in. 

Giho sees it too, he’s sure. That’s the most dangerous part of it, the thing that could be the end of them both. He hasn’t said anything - yet - but Jin is positive as he switches poses for Taehyung that Giho can tell. 

He can tell that Namjoon - the guy , Jin corrects himself - is showing up earlier and earlier, more and more often, often hanging out beside the photo monitor and talking to Hoseok while he waits. That his eyes linger, long after the model is gone, and that they wonder, about everything. That he’s interested . 

Seokjin doesn’t like to remember what happened to the last man that was interested in him. 

It’s pouring rain. There’s a fog over the city that clouds vision and hushes conversation. There’s damp in the air, a wetness that seeps into each breath and covers the earth in its scent. It’s like a blanket over everything, making it all grey and dark and quiet, and Seokjin lives for it. 

It reminds him of the sea. How it would churn and darken and crash before a storm. The way the salt spray would hit the ice, the smell of the lightning in the air, the way he could just let it carry him wherever it wanted him to go. 

He stands outside the studio. Giho left hours before, for some important networking dinner. He’d tried to drag Seokjin along with him, until Taehyung offhandedly mentioned needing to reshoot a couple things. Giho had sneered and stormed out and that was that.  

Now he stands outside, in the rain, with his back against the building. The trunk is just on the other side of the wall; it lingers in the back of his mind, taunting. He can feel it. He knows it’s there. 

It’s a testament to how thorough Giho is in his punishments that Seokjin doesn’t attempt to claw it open and instead just tips his head back, eyes closed, basking in the water soaking his sweater and the pull he can feel in his stomach. 

He should be swimming.

“Do you need a ride?”

Seokjin doesn’t even open his eyes; he knows the voice. Has spent too long hearing it murmur on the sidelines of photoshoots, has watched its owner as his lips form words he isn’t supposed to listen to. 

He should ignore it. That’s what Giho would warn him to do.

“Jin?” 

He flutters his lids open, casting a glance at where Namjoon and Taehyung stand. Taehyung has his camera out, and Seokjin has no doubt he’s already snapped a few photos of their surroundings out of habit. 

“I’m fine,” he says softly. His voice is slightly hoarse from disuse, but Namjoon doesn’t even flinch. Taehyung is fiddling with his camera, oblivious to the way Namjoon’s eyes search Seokjin’s face for the lie he won’t find.

The rain is the only solace that Seokjin gets; he cherishes these nights. He won’t cut it short, especially not for a human.

“I’m fine,” He repeats. Against his better judgement, he continues, “I enjoy the rain. It’s refreshing.”

“Refreshing…” Namjoon echoes quietly. Neither of them speak, for a long moment; Namjoon continues to look for any sign that Seokjin is lying, and Seokjin continues to pretend the streaks on his cheeks are from the raindrops. 

“Walk Jin home.”

They both turn at that, to where Taehyung has his camera pressed to his eye as he frames some shots. When he’s finished, and there’s been no response, Taehyung looks at them both. 

“It’s bad weather,” Taehyung explains, “On a dark night. It’d be rude of us to let you walk home alone when anything could be lurking in the shadows.”

Namjoon looks at Seokjin, practically begging for him to agree. He should say no. He should walk himself the ten blocks to his apartment, and pretend neither of them ever said anything, and continue on with his life. Giho would go berserk if he ever found out, would never allow it, would do everything he could to prevent it. 

“Sure,” Seokjin says. He’s tired of doing what Giho wants. He’s tired of being without the sea, being kept landlocked with just the rain to remind him of home. “It’s this way.”

Namjoon and Taehyung share a look, but Seokjin pays it no mind as he heads down the street. 

The rain is coming down in sheets, and his clothes are soaked. They rest heavy against his skin, and it just makes Seokjin miss the ocean more. He misses how it felt to be weightless, constantly; to feel so powerful and strong and capable. He never feels that way on land. 

“How long have you been a model?” Namjoon eventually asks. For a moment - a split second - Seokjin considers ignoring him. It’s what Giho would demand he do. 

“Too long,” He says instead. 

“You don’t enjoy it?” Namjoon asks, surprised. Seokjin shakes his head, just slightly. 

“I do, it’s just…” He searches for the words. He can’t tell anyone about it, has no one to talk to, no one that would believe him. He’s never even felt the urge to share it. Until now. “It’s not what I would have picked for myself.”

Namjoon is silent beside him, and Seokjin can feel the question on the tip of his tongue. He’s going to ask why he does it, why he would bother being a model if it isn’t what he wants to do, and then Seokjin will be forced to come up with an excuse. 

“What would you have picked?” Namjoon asks instead. 

It brings all of the thoughts in his head to a standstill; all the worry and anxiety and stress stops, distracted by the thought that he had wanted, once upon a time. It takes a long time for Seokjin to find words, to find something that could translate into human language. 

“To swim,” He says simply. “To be in the ocean, or with my family. Something.”

“You aren’t with your family?”

“No.” He debates how much to say, but eventually, Seokjin decides, fuck it . He’s been quiet for long enough, and something about Namjoon is comforting, and soothing, and encouraging. “I lost them, when I was very young.”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon says, and Seokjin thinks he actually means it, even if he doesn’t know the real truth of the matter. How Seokjin strayed too far from them, despite the warnings he’d been given his entire life. How he wanted to stretch human legs and snuck away and got caught by someone that recognized the coat drying on a rock and what he was. 

How Giho locked it away, for years, and forced Seokjin to be his ticket to wealth. 

“So am I.”

It becomes an irregularly regular thing, Namjoon walking him home. 

He can’t do it every night. They’re both too aware of the way Giho watches them, though for different reasons. Namjoon doesn’t know what Giho has done to others in his position, the lengths he’s gone to ensure Seokjin stays his. 

But the nights when he can, when Giho leaves for some dinner or event or something and Taehyung can come up with a believable excuse...those are the nights that Seokjin starts looking forward to. 

He learns so much about Namjoon - that he studied marine biology in school, got his doctorate in it as soon as he could; that he visits his parents’ grave every Wednesday morning, leaves flowers for them when he has the money; that he wants to travel the world and help endangered species everywhere, wants to take Taehyung with him as a nature photographer; that he’s the best man Seokjin has ever known with the biggest heart and the most patience that he’s ever seen. 

Namjoon doesn’t question why Seokjin only ever gives vague answers, or skirts around mentions of where he comes from, or why he doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t ask Seokjin to let him up into the apartment, or answer his questions, or explain why he stays at arm’s length despite leaning closer because Namjoon is warm. 

He doesn’t question any of it, and it makes Seokjin’s heart flutter dangerously in his chest, and it means that when Namjoon asks if he has a free day anytime soon, Seokjin only hesitates for a second before he responds. 

“Giho has a business trip coming up,” he tells Namjoon. “As long as we have three full shoots, he won’t suspect anything.”

“Will you come with me?” Namjoon asks. “I just want to distract you for the day. I’ve seen your life, what you do, so much. I’d like to show you mine, if you’ll let me.” 

He should say no. He shouldn’t go with him, he should say no, and stop letting Namjoon walk him home, and let Giho move them across the country again.

“Sure.”

The day comes. Seokjin dresses nicer, though he’ll never admit it. A nice button-down, black slacks, hair styled, sunglasses to combat the glare in the sky. Giho is gone for three days - three marvelous, liberated days - and Seokjin can use that time to come up with a believable excuse if he’s recognized.

Namjoon looks like he always does - warmth and welcome and strength. It settles in Seokjin’s chest the second he sees Namjoon, and he wonders if this is what people meant when they say they found home in someone.

He doesn’t ask Namjoon where they’re going; just follows him onto the subway, and off, and on, and off again, listening to him talk about this cafe and that bookstore and the busker on the corner. He gets the full experience of Namjoon’s commute, and he couldn’t be more in love with him. 

With it. He’s in love with it , the commute, seeing what other people do each day. That’s all, because that’s all he can let himself have. 

When they arrive, Seokjin stares. He doesn’t know why he didn’t know, why he didn’t put the pieces together from all the times Namjoon has mentioned his work and his degree, but he didn’t...he didn’t think , didn’t even consider, and now he stands on the sidewalk, staring at the large building, and Namjoon is waiting for him. 

“Seokjin?” He asks softly. “We can turn around right now.” 

He looks at Namjoon - really looks at him. Takes in the nice turquoise shirt and the cuffed slacks and the dress shoes, the glasses that are so thick Seokjin wonders how he sees without them at all, the way there’s already disappointment clouding the acceptance in his eyes. 

“No,” He says. “No, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

He shouldn’t be here, his mind tells him throughout each exhibit. Not just because of Giho this time, but for himself. 

Namjoon is so excited about each exhibit, telling him about each creature as they go through. He mentions how each one has its own name, though they get confused sometimes for the larger populations. How so many have been released into the wild successfully, how so many have been rebuilt and are on the brink of non-endangered status. 

He talks about the sharks, and how Louise and Wheein haven’t been getting along, but that Yari and Chainsaw are expecting a pup soon; he talks about the penguins and how Potato keeps stealing extra fish but he does it to give to Frenchie, so they let him get away with it; he talks about the jellyfish, and the rays, and the octopuses, and everyone and everything, and it’s nearly too much for Seokjin, but he manages. 

He gets through nearly the entire aquarium, exhausted but content with the happy grin on Namjoon’s face, but he stops, because Namjoon has mentioned Maple throughout the entire trip, has talked about her before. Seokjin knows Maple’s history better than his own, almost, but he never realized…

Now he does. He watches as Maple dives back down off the landing, flipping and turning in the water. They stand in a viewing area, a room long and tall and tinted blue with the water at the bottom of the tank. It gives way to land halfway up, is more than generous for the lone animal that dances through the water. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Namjoon asks. “She’s the one we’re working hardest with. Hawaiian monk seals are critically endangered, so when she was brought in as a pup, she took first priority. We’re doing everything we can to get her back up to breeding standards. She keeps getting sick, though, and no pregnancy has been viable so far.”

Seokjin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. He doesn’t know this seal, not really; she’s just a seal, she’s not like him, she’s not even the same species, but a human wouldn’t know that. Especially not a human like Namjoon, completely out of the loop on all of it. 

“She wants to be free.”

He can see it when Namjoon turns to look at him, confused. Watches the reflection in the glass as closely as he watches Maple’s mourning dance. 

“Her environment is larger than most,” Namjoon says. “She’s got plenty of room to swim and we’ve got activity sets throughout so she’s mentally stimulated as well. She eats, probably more than she should, and-”

“A cage is still a cage, no matter how pretty it is.” Seokjin can see it, can hear Maple’s call, can feel it in his very soul as the urge to respond grows. She spots them standing there and swims closer, and Seokjin places a hand on the glass wall. “She wants to be back in the ocean.”

“It’s dangerous for her there,” Namjoon says quietly. He says it like he knows, like he’s always known, what she needs, but doesn’t want to admit it. “There isn’t enough food, humanity keeps taking their territory...she’s sick. She wouldn’t survive out there.”

Better to die free than spend eternity in a cage, Seokjin thinks bitterly. He takes a breath and reminds himself that Namjoon cares. He’s helping, in the only way that he knows how. 

Maple spins when she spots Namjoon, clearly excited, but when her eyes land on Seokjin, she stills. 

“Ah, she’s not always friendly to strangers, so…” Namjoon trails off. His reflection shows his jaw slack, open in a surprised o , because he’s wrong, this time. 

Maple lets out a whistle - long, and low, and haunting in the stillness of the building. Her nose is nearly against the glass, she’s so close, and she looks straight into him. She sees him, recognizes him for what he is, and uses the call. 

Seokjin can feel the snap as his soul breaks; what little was left of him shatters, into pieces. He can’t return her call, he can’t tell her that he sees, that he knows what she’s feeling and will do what he can to help her, because he can’t . He can’t help her, he has no way to save her from her cage because he’s stuck in his own. 

She must see it, somehow, because her song trails off, and Seokjin hates himself. He hates himself for being here, for allowing himself to get close to Namjoon when he can’t, for not being able to even hear her song the way it deserves to be heard. 

“Hey,” Namjoon calls, soft and quiet. His thumb brushes hesitantly along Seokjin’s cheek, carrying a tear with it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“I’m fine,” Seokjin tells him. “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, to do the shoots, so I’m gonna head home.” 

“Do you want me to go with you?”

He turns on his heel and walks out, ignoring Namjoon’s question entirely. He can’t lie right now, he does want Namjoon with him, but he can’t. It’s too dangerous, and seeing Maple just reminded him of it. 

He can’t let Namjoon get hurt just because he makes Seokjin feel marginally better. 

In his wake, Namjoon sighs. He turns to Maple, wishing he was up top in his wetsuit so he could run his fingers through her fur the way she likes. Her eyes are big and sad, more so than usual, and Namjoon thinks maybe he understands her for the first time. 

“I’ll try,” He tells her. “I’ll try.”

Weeks pass. Months fly by. Shoot after shoot after shoot gets published, and Giho rakes in the cash from them. Seokjin stays in his small apartment, watching the light reflect rainbows through the window pane. He stopped letting Namjoon walk him home when Giho got back, and nearly ripped part of Seokjin’s hair out with fury that he’d gone out. 

The only reason it wasn’t worse is because Seokjin managed to convince him that it was promo for the upcoming swimwear collection, and good press about the humanitarian efforts of the label. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Namjoon stopped showing up after a few days. Seokjin refuses to ask Taehyung why, because he shouldn’t care. He can’t care. Not with Giho hovering over his shoulder at every turn. 

One day, for some reason, things change. Giho gets less certain, more fidgety. Starts looking over his own shoulder. Stops threatening Seokjin with every glance. 

Stops glancing altogether. 

It just makes Seokjin worry more; if the one in charge is afraid of something, everyone else should be as well. That was the first lesson his mother taught him. 

Seokjin gathers his things. Packs them all back into his suitcase, keeps a single change of clothes out and starts washing them every day. Giho looks ready to run, and Seokjin knows by now that he needs to be ready when it happens if he wants to keep any of his things. 

Then Giho disappears. 

Giho disappears for a while . 

He doesn’t take Seokjin with him. He just disappears one night, when everything is quiet and still. The calendar is still booked with shoots, so Seokjin just keeps working. One night, he and Taehyung go out for Korean BBQ. The entire week after that, Seokjin expects Giho to pop up and berate him for doing anything that isn’t working, but it never comes. 

A few weeks later, they go on a day trip to a mountain and walk the trails together while Taehyung takes pictures. Neither of them mention Giho or Namjoon or anything except the way the leaves fall. 

Life goes on. For months, Seokjin begins tiptoeing across the line. He goes out more often. The time between shoots gets longer and longer, and Seokjin begins to enjoy things. He goes to see movies, and shopping, and eating, and travelling. He starts doing the things he wants to do. 

He sees Namjoon again. 

They get dinner together, whenever they’re both free. It starts with Taehyung inviting him for drinks, and turns into them meeting each other at the cafe on the corner that makes the good boba. They talk for what could be hours, or what could be minutes. Seokjin never knows, because everything else seems to stop when he’s with Namjoon. 

He says as much as he can, as much as he dares, but it never seems like it’s enough. Namjoon takes what Seokjin gives him, more than happy to be included again, but they both know that there’s a time limit on it. Still, Seokjin fools himself into thinking that it’s become an if , instead of being a when . 

He fools himself into thinking that this can be his life. 

It takes almost four months. It’s been nearly a year since Seokjin first met Namjoon - he refuses to acknowledge that he remembers the day. Giho returns in a whirlwind. 

He interrupts the shoot, throws the clothes around, breaks some mannequins, it’s all out war on the set, and they all watch silently. The only thing that keeps him from breaking Taehyung’s camera is the look on the younger’s face when Giho goes for it. 

But of course, nothing lasts forever. He spots Seokjin, sitting as still as a statue in the makeup chair, and that’s the beginning of the end. He recognizes the feral rage in God's eyes, has seen it barely contained too many times before, and he’s clearly not holding back this time. 

He has Seokjin on the ground, under his shoe, with a cane against his throat when the door opens. The others have tried to help, but Giho is surprisingly adept with a cane when he wants to be, and as such, no one has gotten close. But Seokjin can guess what time it is, he knows in his bones who just walked in, and he refuses to let this happen.

“You,” Giho hisses. The pressure on Seokjin’s throat disappears as Giho stands; the model coughs, several times, choking down air even as his hand darts out to wrap around his owner’s ankle. 

The elder crumples to the ground, kicking at Seokjin’s steel grip, but it’s useless, because Seokjin is tired. 

He is tired of being afraid of a bitter old man. He is tired of being without the sea. He is tired of not allowing himself to be happy. 

He’s on top of Giho before he even realizes he’s moved, prying the cane from his hands and holding it steady over Giho’s windpipe. He doesn’t press down, not yet; just holds it there, like the threat it is.

“You will not hurt him,” Seokjin commands. “And you will run, as far as you can get. You will run to the ends of the earth, and then, God willing, you will run further. You will leave your wealth and your fame and everything I have made for you, and if you dare to show your face among humanity again…”

“What?” Giho spits, a smirk growing on his face. “What is a defenseless little pup like you going to do?”

Seokjin leans down, letting the cane choke the man below him as he drops his voice. “I will find my brethren, and I will tell them what you have done. They will spread your story far and wide, across every ocean, over every continent, and when they find you, they will remind you why we are considered predators.”

He sits back, letting the cane go and allowing air back into his lungs. He stands on his own two feet, the legs that have carried him for so long, and he looks around. 

“This shoot is over,” Seokjin says. “Everyone get out.” 

The people scramble, even Taehyung gathers his things to leave, and the room is empty in seconds. Only he and Giho remain. 

The elder lies on the floor, still catching his breath, as Seokjin tosses the cane across the room. He looks around, spots an old iron trash can from a shoot last month, and starts toward it. 

“It won’t do you any good,” Giho says. Seokjin ignores him and hefts the can up, carrying it across the room. “You won’t get anywhere. You can’t just disappear, not when the world knows your face.”

“Maybe so,” Seokjin says as he positions himself. “But at least I’ll have the choice.”

He brings the iron can down with all his strength. There’s a colossal crash as it connects with the old padlock, and it only gets louder with the next one. It takes seven hits for the lock to break, and the sound of it clattering to the floor isn’t one he’s likely to forget.

When he opens the trunk, however, it’s empty. 

“I told you,” Giho hisses triumphantly. “It won’t do any good.” 

Seokjin resists the urge to curse under his breath and forces himself not to sob as he looks back at Giho. 

“Then it won’t do you any good either.”

The sand is warm beneath his feet. The setting sun paints the sky a myriad of colors, orange turning into red bleeding into purple shifting into blue curling into black, all of it reflected in the cool water below. The tang of salt wafts in with every breath he takes, and just confirms that this is right. 

“Thanks for meeting me,” Namjoon says from behind him. Seokjin didn’t hear him approach, but he didn’t need to. He knows Namjoon won’t hurt him. 

“Thanks for calling,” Seokjin responds. He feels the tide tickle his toes, and he knows that this is best. “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

“I think I should go first,” Namjoon’s voice is firm, but hesitant. Like he doesn’t want to say what he’s saying. Seokjin turns, frowning slightly when he sees the other. Namjoon looks troubled, looks like he would rather be anywhere else, and that doesn’t bode well for Seokjin. 

Still, he gestures for Namjoon to continue.

“Tae pointed it out,” Namjoon eventually says. “He mentioned how you looked at it, and thought maybe...maybe it had passports or something inside, something you could use to get away. So when he left, and we thought he might not come back...I opened it.”

A weight settles in Seokjin’s throat. 

“Opened what?”

“The trunk,” Namjoon says. “I broke in and I picked the lock and...I didn’t know it was...I didn’t think he had it….” He sighs and pulls his hands from behind his back, and there it is. 

Seokjin’s coat. 

It’s silky and smooth and soft and perfect and exactly as he remembers it. It’s bigger now, grown with him, and the sight of it in the light is enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

“He had some kind of alert on the trunk,” Namjoon continues, “So when I opened it he knew. That’s why he came back. I didn’t know he would come back.”

“Namjoon…” Seokjin looks at him, eyes wide and tear-filled, and for the first time since they met, Seokjin is scared. His life is here, right in front of him, but he doesn’t know if he can have it. 

Because now Namjoon knows. He knows what Seokjin is, he’s fully aware that Seokjin can’t leave without the coat in Namjoon’s hands. He could keep him forever, just as Giho intended to do. 

“I didn’t know,” Namjoon says again. “Or I wouldn’t have taken you to the aquarium. I wouldn’t have done that to you, I wouldn’t have hurt you like that, and I am... so sorry, Seokjin. I’m so sorry that I did that to you, I-”

“Namjoon, you didn’t know-”

“But now I do.” Namjoon sniffles slightly, and his hands shake, but he extends them, holding the coat out to Seokjin. “And I’m sorry.”

Seokjin’s fingers curl in the fur, almost reverently, as he takes it. It’s still warm, and it feels like water in his hands, and it’s everything he’s missed in his life. 

“Namjoon, I…” He trails off, because there’s nothing he could say. No words fit this gift, this release; there’s nothing he could say that would properly convey the emotions building in Seokjin’s chest. 

“I know,” Namjoon says. “You’re not in a cage anymore. You’re free to go and do what you want to do.”

Seokjin strips his sweater off and wraps his sealskin around his shoulders. It’s the perfect size for him, exactly what he needs, and when he crashes waist-deep into the surf, it keeps him warm. 

He turns, though. Namjoon stands on the shore, just out of reach of the tide, and watches him. There’s a smile on his face, small and sad, and Seokjin wants nothing more than to wipe it from his lips, but he can’t. 

Because he’s free. 

He turns, wrapping the skin tighter around his shoulder. When he gets under the water, he can feel it in his hair and he can feel the water against his tail and he’s almost home. 

But something is missing. 

There’s warmth and weightlessness and the setting sun painting the water a rainbow , but the buzz in Seokjin’s chest isn’t full. There’s something not right, something not quite perfect about this moment that he’s been dreaming of for years, and he can’t figure out what. 

Namjoon stares at the horizon, wondering how far Seokjin has already gone. He sends up a small wish, a hope, that Seokjin can live his life, free and happy and himself. That he can find his family, see his pod again. 

His heartbeat turns painful, something constricting his chest and making it difficult to breathe, so he turns away. The crash of the waves covers the sound of his shaky breath, because of course, of course , he would find love in a man that couldn’t stay. 

Fingers tangle in his own and Namjoon turns, shocked, to see a wet Seokjin, hair damp with his sealskin around his waist. 

“W-What-”

“I can’t,” Seokjin says softly. “I can’t go back, I can’t find them, I don’t know how to do that without…”

He trails off and Namjoon stares because this is it, he thinks. This is everything he’s been waiting for his entire life, here, right in front of him. He just has to let himself have it. 

Seokjin’s hand pulls away from his and Namjoon mourns the loss for the brief moment it takes for the selkie to pull his sealskin off and place it carefully in Namjoon’s arms. 

“Namjoon,” He says, voice hushed and serious, “I want you to...because I…” 

He’s never Seokjin this unsure, this at a loss, and the way he keeps starting sentences that have no end is undeniably endearing. But he can feel Seokjin’s growing frustration at his inability to articulate his thoughts, so he just smiles. 

“I know,” Namjoon says. He takes the coat and places it back in Seokjin’s hands, covering them with his own. The heat from their skin combines and warms Namjoon straight to the core. “And I love you too.”

[targsdaenerys]

show me the sun ch.(3/20)

pairing: Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin

rating: Mature

summary: Clarke, the princess of Arcadia, had been imprisoned in immortal walls by her own mother. Four thousand years after her release date, she is found by those of the new world. In the orders of survival, she is forced to stay in the home of Bellamy Blake, a new guard in a mystery industry. between adjustment and hatred, Clarke needs to see what exactly is meant with imprisonment.

words: 10,000

chapters: 3/20

read: Ch.I / Ch.II / Ao3

warnings: 

there may be a slight trigger warning for suicidal thoughts in this chapter

Graphic Depictions of Violence

The next time Clarke woke up, it was different again. She wasn’t in a chair or a cot, but something soft, and warm.

She still had a headache, though. That was still there.

Along with other things, Clarke noted, like the fullness of her bottom lip that wasn't there before, or the pulsing in her side.

Behind her eyelids was yellow, a yellow tone, and it made her open her eye. In front of her were a quilt like she had never seen and a floor of unusual beige texture.

Across the quilt - it was dark blue, contrasted with smooth, gray walls - was light. Yellow light that glowed, and when she ran her fingers over it, warm... Sun.

Sunlight.

Clarke’s head whipped to the wall with a window - ignored the bite at her neck - where the sun was oozing in. The sun.

Sun, sun, sun.

It was covered by a thin curtain but defeated any purpose of keeping the light out. She threw the quilt off, desperate to move the curtain, to let any sunlight come in, no limitations, no barriers. The sun should not be treated like a prisoner.

Cool air bit at her exposed thighs.

Clarke slung her feet over the soft cushions to place them on the beige floor. At first, it was soft, but the texture was scratching her knees as she fell before she had time to cherish it.

She kept going. Not letting her legs that had given out stop her, nor the burning in her side. Speaking of, it was uncomfortable and itchy. But the sun was close, so close, and she just wanted to see it…

“No!�� thick fingers grasped her small shoulders and pulled Clarke back. Her fingers were ghosting the curtain, so, so close… but not anymore. “You can’t -”

Clarke turned her head to look at the being who pulled her away from the light.

She caught herself looking at the same brown eyes of the young man who rescued her. Not wasting a second, she shrugged him away. The man sat back on his heels, looking at her with wide eyes as his hands dropped beside him.

She breathed, shaking her head the slightest. “What the seven hells…-”

“You can’t look outside.” he sounded breathless. Actually looking at him now, more in disbelief than intent, she realized his hair flung a few droplets as his head moved to the side. Like he managed to dry everything but his curls after walking through a rainfall. Cadet B. Blake glanced between her and the window. “I’m sorry, but you...can’t.”

I’m sorry . In her first prison she couldn’t leave, and then she couldn’t move, and now...she couldn’t even look out a window. Might as well be her third.

“You really have a habit of apologizing before imprisoning people, don’t you,” Clarke spat at him. His lips formed a thin line, but Cadet B. Blake didn’t do much as stare.

“This isn't a prison.”

“Then let me look at the sun .” Cadet B. Blake cringed, his eyes incredibly soft as she stared, waiting for his answer. It was another moment before he did.

“I want to, trust me -”

“So let me,” Clarke cut off.

“But if you want to live,” his voice rose . “ And not have this building raided, you cannot open that curtain.”

Clarke blinked and took the silence to take in the room she had been settled in. She had expected things in the world to be different from the last time she saw it, but this…

The walls were smooth and gray. They were bare, save the surfaces pushed against it. On the wall opposite of the window, there was something she could only address as a door from the handle, but could very well be another contraption.

Her fingers brushed the floor beneath her. That was what was confusing her the most - what was it?

Clarke's eyes retreated to his.

“What…” she swallowed the rest of the sentence she was going to say, mostly because it was rather a jumble of words with no coherence to each other.

“I know, you’re probably confused.” He paused. “really…”  she glanced away. “Confused.”

She positioned herself on her knees, suddenly aware of her bare legs as they rubbed against the itchy floor. Clarke hadn't been dressing like a princess in years and years and didn't really mind it, but… she was feeling a bit exposed. It was apparent the clothing has changed, more or less what is expected of both men and women. She acknowledged that much from the tight, plain shirt that Cadet B. Blake wore and how he didn't seem to mind with her ankles, or shins, or thighs on bland display, but...still.

Clarke pulled the big shirt, that looked similar to Cadet B. Blake’s, over her knees, looking down.

A blanket was placed in front of her instead.

Hesitantly she reached her hand out, grasping the knitted fabric in her uninjured hand. Not but a few fingertips away was a large, dark one, sprinkled with freckles, starting to pull away from it.

Clarke retained her focus to him as she wrapped it around herself. He gave her a moment.

“Let's get started with names. I’m Bellamy. You’re Clarke, correct? Clarke Griffin.” She mostly ignored him, seeing if his face’s freckles would connect into constellations. If she were to paint a line from the bridge of his nose to under his eyes and then connect that to one on his cheekbone…

Clarke abandoned her vision, looking down and her hand. The fabric was the same white fabric, it was clean. She almost felt guilty about how much she probably had wasted them. But then Clarke remembered it was their fault, it was their fault she wouldn’t ever paint again, and it was -

“You manipulated me.” she could see him move in her peripheral. “I can see that now.”

“I didn’t want to,” Bellamy responded, rather... softly. Clarke continued.

“I should’ve seen it - I did, until you showed up. It was too good to be true.” she tightened the blanket around her shoulders due to a sudden chill in the air.

Frankly, Clarke had no idea what to do. She always planned her release would be full of a the immortal princess has been found and releasedambiance. Like the Rapunzel story. But she was in a place she didn't know, in a time she didn't know, with a man she didn't know, besides the discernible fact that he had trapped her. Twice.

She didn't know anything. She was screwed .

Clarke didn’t know how long she sat there, wondering why she hadn’t given up while ago, why she rationed to stay painfully hungry rather than not have any pain at all. She didn't know, she didn’t understand, she was s tupidly hopeful.

When she looked up, finally, Clarke was alone.

+

Clarke looked around.  At first, she spent a haze in the same position Bellamy had left her, all until her feet numbed and she crawled to the wall next to the window. It was a pathetic amount of time that she rested there, her back against the wall, looking at the light shining through the curtains fabric.

The more she stared, the more she was convinced. What bad would it be, opening the curtain? All she wanted to see was the sun. After that, to the hell’s with surviving, or the building raided. She lived long enough, and this man deserved nothing but dying right along with her.

But then Clarke remembered snow. She remembered how cold yet beautiful it was, and the whiteness it covered the earth with. Almost like it came in for a while to purify the lands again, just for awhile, before the chaos re-instilled. Her mother was always setting the reality for her; that the only reason there was peace during those long nights was because people were either freezing or starving. But Clarke was a child; even at seventeen, she would simply look out the window by her fireplace and see a snowy owl, or a white rabbit's tracks, and settle into her world of solitude.

The light coming in from the window was too yellow for it to be winter. Unless winter didn’t even come around anymore.

She had gotten up to walk around, testing her stance after days of others walking for her.

Things had changed. A lot.

It’s not like she imagined they didn’t. Surely, some things must have changed, otherwise, mankind had been rather lazy for the past seven thousand times.

But the paintings.

She had painted every day for seven millennia, and still , she was nowhere near to what these paintings looked like.

Of course, Clarke hadn’t had much practice with constructing faces. Sure, fictional, but the company in her prison lacked, and painting her own face upset her.

But the detail.

It was impeccable. The artist caught every pore, every background detail on a canvas no bigger than her hand. The quality of paint had surely developed. Compared to this, Clarke was a seven-thousand-year-old child.

She recognized Bellamy in the painting. He was smiling, the bastard, with a woman next to him Clarke didn’t know whether or not to call a girl.

Her hair was dark, darker by his; but only by a small fraction. The girl's skin was fair, and her eyes -

Clarke recognized those eyes.

The proprietor had been the one who stabbed her.

Her side pulsed in reminder.

She was screwed . Trapped in a makeshift prison with both her attacker and kidnapper and they might as well be partners. Was she being held for some reward? Were they holding her until the highest bidder came along?

She needed to leave. Clarke needed to go, far away - if that even still existed. She doesn't care about imprisonment, about being injured, Clarke saw it as a minor inconvenience. But being sold was a different story, it was a different line she would not even risk staying on the edge of.

Thinking of it more deeply now, being sold was probably already achieved. Who knew, her mother may have sold her back when she was three, to a marriage to an Emperor well more than double her age, before her powers started to surface. Clarke wouldn’t doubt it. It would not be the first time her mother had crushed her wish well before she knew she had even had it.

She rose from her hovering stance over the small paintings on the drawers. At least that hasn't changed. She wants to open them, to see what these people may be hiding.

Not far to the left of the drawers was a door. It was white.

The tendency to open it overcame her, to see if she could open it, or if it was just another locked door like those in her past. Clarke stared at the knob for a while. It was another to-do, not-to-do situation out of the countless that have been put in front of her.

The blanket was making her hot and the tense knits weren’t the most comfortable on her sharp shoulders. Clarke wanted to let it slide off desperately, not used to heat after being at the same temperature for such a long time. But she kept it tightly around her shoulders, the long excess dragging heavily behind her as she walked around.

The friction was going to kill her. She needed it off.

Blandly opening the door, so unexpectedly, too - it would cause an alarm. Her breathing a little offset, she raised her fist and knocked - twice. Before she heard any response, her fist was tucked into the opening of her safety blanket, to her chest.

Now that she was listening to the other side, she could hear rustling, faintly. a creak, groan of a bed, maybe, but no response.

With now a now trembling wrist, she knocked three more times.  The creaking had stopped before she had, the person most than likely in their decided position, but the rustling had continued.

The rustling slowed.

She felt still to knock again, but Clarke did it anyway - twice. When the noise tics had stopped completely she raised to knock again. But the surface of the door moved away before she could meet with it.

Bellamy stood there, his waves now dried into curls.his damn eyes were wide like they were when he left her to herself.

“You okay?” Clarke peeled her eyes away from him to take the chance to look at further surroundings. The still smooth walls - the color lighter, though, and shiny, puffy chairs that she wanted to read in. the floor matched the room she had been in, with the bed.

She looked at her left shoulder and down at the blanket.

“I - I’m...hot.” She averted her gaze but roamed over his shoulders.

“I was wondering how long you’d last with that blanket. It’s the middle of July, for the Hell’s sake.” Clarke didn’t say anything. She detected Bellamy thinking. “We - I, uh… I can get you something, then. Just - I’ll be right back.”

She nodded solemnly and closed the door, softly. She could feel the weight of his hand still embraced on the other side.

Clarke played with her hands as she waited, seated at the end of the bed. It felt different from her bed back at her palace, but it was too long ago for the distinct compare. But better than her worn-in cot. That wasn’t difficult.

She looked at the window again. Under the blanket, she now avoided the patches of light that the sun coated the room with. It made her sick thinking of any more heat.

Her hand hurt. Playing with her hands consisted of fidgeting with the cloth wrapping it, which she probably shouldn’t have been doing. The friction in between had it burning, and her palm was itchy. But the thought of scratching it made her sicker than sitting in the heat. Clarke gagged.

It was just there . She couldn’t do anything about the pain, just bite back and hope it numbed out. She would forget about it until she remembered again as if her nerves only worked when she gave enough effort to realize they do.

The lacerations she had earned had scabbed over as well. They all made her face tight and uncomfortable to move, like any may start bleeding as soon as she lifted an eyebrow. It made her feel as trapped as she was in this room, literally trapped in her own skin.

Everywhere, everywher e, Clarke was trapped. She couldn’t get away from it. At this point, she would be able to start a game. Or start another tally to go along with her hundreds.

The only problem with that idea was that Clarke had no idea where to start.

Because she had come to the conclusion that she was trapped countlessly. At birth, she was trapped in life as a princess; at five, she was trapped with a ruthless power and the fear of herself and everyone around her from it; at eighteen, she was trapped in a situation, not able to go anywhere but the wrong path, that nothing but trapped her in a prison.

Should the prison count as multiple tallies? One seemed a little understated for the seven thousand years she was trapped in that one. Trapped. The word was in every knick and corner of her corner of her mind. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped .

Clarke calmed her breathing. Not now, not in a place with a person who had hurt you before.

She settled, as soon as the door swung open. The sound made her jump.

“Okay, I have a couple clothes that may fit you. I don’t know, though -” Clarke turned. That voice did not belong the Bellamy. It belonged to a girl.

Clarke’s stab wound stung as she looked into green eyes, like the ones in the paintings. The eyes that were greener than her own.

[raindrenchedstories]

Brave little knight. 3

All was quiet. Archibald was presumably asleep, and Neil was just finishing his lever system. THIS should work. It had been a few days now, since his capture.  Every day was spent trying to escape. When he wasn’t doing that, Neil was sitting through strange lessons.

Archibald would sit him down, and have him identify different creatures out of a book. Their strengths, weaknesses, ecology, biology, everything. Rather, he’d repeat what Archibald told him they were. Most of those lessons were Archibald sitting and reading out loud to him. As Neil couldn’t read or write on his own. Most of the time he just spent looking at the pictures.

Neil began pulling hard on the lever. The glass from his cage began to slide open, allowing him the ability to slip outside. The fall spell came in handy here, as he stepped off the edge of the floor into the abyss. Landing again on his rear. “Owww. Fucking giant.”

As it turned out, the landing was pretty much a result of the spell. No matter what, if falling from a great height, Neil would land on his ass. Unless it was a dire matter. Archibald made no excuse for this, admitting fully that he’d thought it was adorable.

“Anyway. It shouldn’t hurt too much. In comparison. You still have incentive NOT to fall from high places.”

“Ass hole.” He grumbled, trying to make his way for the first air vent he could feasibly reach.

“You rang?” Neil flinched, head swivelling every which way. Eyes darting in opposite directions, where was the fucker? “Is that healthy?”

Neil groaned, holding his hands up in surrender. He couldn’t out run the giant. Couldn’t avoid capture. At this point, it was just easier to give up and try again later. From the shadows, a hand descended upon him, lifting him carefully.

“Flops. You have to work a little harder. What if it were a manticore instead of me?” He was transferred to an open palm.

“I wouldn’t have seen it anyway. They attack from behind in order to get a fatal bite and snap the spinal cord.” He grumbled automatically. Archibald nodded once then sat down with Neil at the table.

“Well, at least you’re learning.”

“What’s this all about anyhow? You keep telling me you’ll release me. That it’ll be fine. That you’re helping me. But how does any of THIS help me?” Neil attempted to squirm free now, trying to reach the table top.

Archibald was silent, taking hold of Neils hands with some difficulty and lifting him. The man yelped and began to pick up his struggles. The titan just stared for a moment, no emotion behind his gaze. In the dim light of the room, all one could really make out were those golden eyes.

“HEY! Hey come on! This isn’t comfortable you know!?” Neil twisted at odd angles, trying to wriggle free. Archibalds free hand rose in front of him, and pinched lightly at his middle. He was then set back on the table.

“Well... First off. You’ve picked up some weight. That should help. Second, you should know enough by now, to avoid being eaten by something bigger than you.” The giant slowly placed a glass over Neil. Standing once more and turning to the cupboards.

Eventually he set a small pile of kibble down on a napkin, sitting in front of Neil and releasing him. “I don’t expect you to take much longer. I think we’ll change up your studies tomorrow.”

“Joy...” Neil snatched up one of the dry flakes, and grimaced. He could hear the small snicker from the giant as he took a begrudging nibble.

“Gods. I think next time I’ll invest in cookware and ingredients.” Neil spat a bit, glaring at the giant.

“NEXT TIME?!” He stood up waving the kibble at Archibald. “There won’t be a next time!”

Archibald leaned back, folding his arms. A brow quirked upwards. “Oh~ There will. You will see me again, after I release you. And a few more times after that. I’m not going to put so much work into this, then let you go and die.” He reached for Neil once more, and the man tried to bolt.

He didn’t get far, as Archibalds finger bowled him over, lightly rubbing from his head to his back. Affirming who was in charge.

“Any how. I’m tired. You’re probably tired. I think we should sleep.” Neil was scooped into a loose hand and returned to his cage. This time the glass was sealed in with stone facets. Neil would not be removing them easily.

Giving the glass a few good kicks, before storming off, Neil gave no thought to the change in his ‘studies’. No point in worrying. He couldn’t change anything. His sword was taken day one. Giving him no form of retaliation.

Best way to pass his free time was to attempt escape. Even though he was constantly told he’d be freed. He didn’t truly believe Archibald. Especially now.

The next morning he woke to a clattering by his blanket nest. Startling him from his sleep. He pressed against the wall, grimacing. Slowly eyeing the surprise wake up call. There, glinting in the soft light of the cave, was a sword. A new sword.

Sturdy, with a fresh leather bound handle. The hilt had small etchings in it. Overall however, it was visually unimpressive. Nothing like the sleek, gilded blades the elves used. Nothing like the knights, had in the picture books Neil so cherished as a child.

The only thing that stood out, was the surface of the blade itself. It shimmered with an odd, sun spun sort of glow. Just flickering in and out of existence once in a while. Almost like Archibalds constant glare. “Well?”

Neil jolted once more, staring wide eyed at the giant gazing down at him. Neil just stared back, bewildered. “Well, pick it up. The sooner you learn to handle that thing. The sooner you get what you want.”

“You’re trusting me with this?” Neils hand hovered over the hilt, trying his best to make out signs of a trap.

“Yes. You notice that shimmer?” Neil nodded. “Good. That’s a bit of magic woven into the blade. It won’t cut anything that hasn’t earned it...Barring survival needs.”

“Again. YOU’RE trusting me with this?” He folded his arms, glaring at the giant.

“Just take the damn sword. Or I swear, I’ll stick you in a pink sweater and adopt you off to a girls club.” Archibald stormed off, dragging back another box. This time not kibble for once, but a sort of cornbread.

The threat meant very little. Neil doubted Archibald would actually carry through. Lifting the blade, Neil stumbled, grunting a bit. “What did you stuff an entire mine in here!?” He spat.

“You’ll grow stronger.” Archibald spoke dryly.

“Can’t survive if I can’t even swing the damn thing.” Neil hauled the heavy blade up. It came squarely to his shoulders, requiring two hands to wield. A scabbard was tossed in as well, but went unused so far.  He pulled this up as well, sliding the blade into it with little grace.

“Okay. Well... Thank you for this.” He spoke with little enthusiasm, however, the blade was useful. It was a nice gesture. Neil made his way over to the feeding dish with a grimace. He HAD picked up weight and he intended to keep doing so until his release.

A funny little squawk escaped him, however, as Archibald plucked him from the enclosure. “My gods, you CAN show gratitude. However, you’re going to be learning how to use that thing for the next few days.”

Neil flailed and hissed his distaste. “FINE! Alright. Let me at least have breakfast first.”

“Not yet. You’ll get sick.” Archibald deposited Neil on a freshly made table. Tall pillars of stone poked from it’s surface.

“Fine. But out there, I won’t be able to wait ‘till an hour after din-din to defend myself. You know that, right?” Neil waved a hand in the general direction of the doorway.

Archibald leaned back on his heals, pondering. “That’s a fair point. Yes, I believe you’re right.” Neils shoulders dropped and he let himself have a small smile of appreciation. The bastard admitted a flaw. “However. For right now, you’re growing into your sword. I’d rather we be as safe as possible in this case.” The giants hand waved over the table, several stone statues rose, looking like a crude depiction of elves. And... The faces were off.

They had the right shape, but the features were comically disproportionate. Some of the stone elves even had humorous expressions. It was probably meant to be a war face, but to Neil, it was the ‘I just heard a funny joke’ face.

Neil covered his mouth trying not to laugh. Before remembering who he was with and letting lose. “You can make anything you want out of stone! HOW did you mess up a face that badly? Are you TRYING to make me laugh?!”

The titan huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Magic is a creative expression...I just don’t do faces well. Or ANYTHING kind of humanoid shaped.” He folded his arms grumbling.

The rest of the morning was spent with Archibald attempting to instruct Neil on swordsmanship and failing. The size difference proving a bit too much for him to effectively work with Neil. As well as the wary man attempting at any chance to plunge that blade into Archibald.

To both of their surprise, the blade cut him once. Though every other time, it did not. “Chalk it up to I earned one?” Archibald mumbled quizzically.

“Yeah. For kidnapping me.” Neil attempted to wave the blade one handed at Archbiald. His arms felt like jelly, unable to lift the blade much longer. Even still he attempted to work through, only to find himself even more exhausted.  Finally, Archibald threw his hands up after another misunderstood direction.

“Okay! You know what? I’m finding you a better teacher for this!” Neil was snatched up, and hauled back to to his cage. Placed in front of the food dish. “Eat. Studies are later.”

“Do you even have a job?” Neil turned away from the meal. Opting to spite Archibald and drink instead.

“Yes actually. I’m a sorcerer.” The giant threw a dismissive hand in the air, though his tone was quite annoyed.

“That’s a job?” Neil snickered, finally getting Archibalds goat.

“Yes. I’m in charge of literally creating new spells. This would be easier with a familiar however.” The giant tapped his foot idly looking over a few books.

Neil leaned back laughing. “A fucking Brew-chew?”

“Ugh. No slurs please.” Brew-Chew was a term used regarding Familiars. Particularly intelligent familiars. As the idea that people would willingly be used for magical spells and rituals was appalling to some folk. The term derived from one Familiars description of a brew his master had him test.

And Neil was NOT shy about using this term. He just laughed to this. “What? Ooooh where you planning on getting a cat or something? At your size?”

“Oh? Did you want the job Flopsy?” Archibald hissed. Neil quieted down after that. Dipping his head back under the water tap. “At least use a glass.”

The man casually strode over and began eating. Ignoring Archibald.

The day continued. Studies were much the same. Name the species. Look at the pretty pictures. And describe weaknesses and appropriate reactions. Though he grew more and more frustrated by the hour. Snapping his answers and sighing often. “Alright. What’s wrong?”

“Same as always. I’m your damn prisoner.” Neil tossed his hands up.

“Yes, well. Once we finish with your sword training, you’re free.” Archibald sighed. “Now,  About Gordylie.”

“Okay, HOW do you get those sounds out of those scribbles eh?” Neil wailed. Archibald seamed to pause, glancing down at the man. Before flattening the book on the table, and lifting Neil. Placing him on the paper.

“Do you want to learn?” He folded his arms, getting on level with the man. “How to read I mean.”

Neil locked up. Licking his lips. “I...Well.” He shuffled. It WAS a life long dream. And books were meant to pass down useful information. Maybe one day he could write his own book. Pass on what he’s learned and help people stay alive longer.

“You aren’t going to keep me longer or anything are you?” Neil gave a wary look.

“No. It would actually get you out faster if you did more studying on your own.” Archibald gave a short nod.

“And... You’ll teach me how to write, as well as read?”

“They generally come hand in hand. Yes.” The giant nodded.

“Okay...Okay yes. I would like to learn how to read.” He took an unsteady breath. And the giant smiled brightly.

They worked late into the night. Neil grew frustrated a few times, with his progress going a bit slower than he felt it should. Sometimes he outright lamented it. Oddly enough, Archibald was patient, and encouraging.

“Nothing can be learned in a few hours. It takes time. And patience.  But look! You’ve already got a few small sentences down.” He pointed to the scribbles on the paper. To Neil, it was chicken scratch. Nothing like the letters Archibald had printed out for him.

But the change in the giants demeanour was... refreshing. Neil sat up eyeing the giants smile. “You... Like teaching people. Don’t you?”

The man nodded. “It’s fun to watch thing fall into place for them. To see that sense of accomplishment. It’s why I like non magical beings so much. They live shorter lives, but they never stop learning. They find everything new amazing. Us magical beings just kind of, live so long nothing impresses us any more.”

Neil paused. Looking over the paper he’d written on. “Looks like a few things still impress you.” With that, he continued writing. Trying to form some of the more complicated words onto the paper.

The next day. Neil awoke to a tapping on the foot. He grumbled turning away. “What ever it is, it can wait.” He huffed.

“Nope. It can’t. Get up lad.” The voice was unfamiliar. Neil sat bolt upright eyes wide.  Before him, standing hardly to his torso while upright, was another gentleman. Hairy with a beard that was braided six times over and pleated back into his hair at some points.

Oddly, his hair was sort of layered in colour much like a grey wolf’s would be. “You’re goin’ to be calling me Sir, or Foreman. And I’m here to learn ya’ swordsmanship!”

“...Archibald gave up?”

“Archibald gave up.”

Under Hectors tutelage, Neil started to grasp the idea of the sword just a bit better. As apposed to the stone figures, he was fighting some kind of mechanical opponent. It spun at odd sections, jerked forward and back. Always changing up its movements.

“Remember Flops. That sword is meant for stabbing. Not slashing.” Hector chuckled, watching as Neil was slammed onto his backside.

“How’s that going to help me!?” He flailed back onto his feet. Swinging the blade again.

“Well for one, you’re still slashing. STAB lad. STAB! Go for a weak spot!” Neil bounced on his feet, finding the joint in his mechanized opponent. Right in the middle. With one strong thrust He lurched for the core and~

One of the machines arms spun at the same time he attacked. The gears unrelenting as the solid rod slammed into Neils arm. He could hear a snapping sound, followed by a hot pain coming up his arm. The man fell to the ground screaming.

“FUCK FUCK! My arm! My damn arm!” He gripped the limp limb close, pulling himself away. Hector barked a command that stopped the mechanical menace before trotting over on his short legs.

“Alright lad. Alright. Let me take a look.” He reached forward only for Neil to cringe back, hiding his face.

“No. Nono. Please just leave- Just make it quick.” He shut his eyes, dreading the next few moments. To have a limb broken, or lost. To be injured like this, in mankinds nomadic lifestyle, it was a death sentence.

“You’re over reacting lad. It’s okay.” Hector turned him over, with a surprising amount of strength. Neil opened his eyes, feeling his arm go ridged. The pain faded. Looking down at the injured limb, he found a minty green light spreading over it’s surface. It started at some form of bracelet he didn't’ remember putting on. Ever.

Hector just laughed. “Archibald is a smart old bugger. Gave me a few healing charms. Just in case.”

“...How do you know him?” Neil complied as the dwarf positioned his arm so it would heal correctly.  Sitting still.

Hector just smiled kindly. “My people have known both he and Bear since the war. Archibald is funny, as earth giants go. Doesn’t like much contact around his stones.”

“His w-”

“The outcrops on his shoulders. Don’t be crass.” Hector corrected. “Dwarves and Earth giants go way back. At first, we used to be enemies. Then, we found we could help one another. Most Earth giants like having a dwarf or two around. Kind of like a shaving kit.”

Once the arm was finished healing, Hector manipulated it. Making sure it healed properly and had a full range of motion. “We use the stone to enchant items, being non magical ourselves. And the giants get the weight off their backs. Shoulders. Ya’ name it. Arch though... He doesn’t like it. Sure. He comes in for a trim now and then. But doesn’t like being fawned over.”

“...So, Dwarves and giants have a symbiotic relationship?” Neil tilted his head. “But Archibald doesn’t like it. Any reason you can think of?”

“Aye. The fuckin’ elves attacked him and tried to use him as a living mine. Now he doesn’t trust anything small around his wrists or-...Symbiotic? First time I’ve heard a human use THAT.”

“Blame Archibald. Those classes of his are working.” Neil grumbled. “Any reason why he’s doing this?”

“Eh. He agrees with ya’ to some extent. You people have it rough. The fact you asked me to kill you after your arm broke is a good example. We won’t speak a word of this to Arch though. Okay?” Hector smiled, pulling Neil back to his feet.

“Because I got injured on your watch?” Neil smirked.

“Because if he knew how you reacted, he’ll want to protect you. If giants knew things were that bad for your people. There will be a mass round up. You don’t seam to want that.” Hector smiled sympathetically.

“No one’s let slip before?” Before Neil got his answer, the cave opened. Archibald strode through, another earth giant by his side. This one had some form of gauntlet over his arm. Fixed with clockwork and gadgets. They dropped their ‘groceries’ on the table. Archibald giving a wave to the two smaller folk before leaving the room. The other giant approached.

“Ready to go, big brother?” He held his hand down, and Hector climbed right up.

“Yup. Now lad, remember. STABBING blade. Not slashing.”