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slasherrabbitmadness · 3 years ago

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Victorian DILF Brahms x Female Reader

Slasher Victorian AU series Featuring Brahms Heelshire.

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Series: Don't forget who you belong to.

Chapter 1

Prompt: 79

Brahms taps his foot under his large, dark oak desk. He taps his pencil on a stack of papers, legal documents for his clients, ranging from the mundane like Mr. Krueger complaining about his neighbor Mr. Voorhees, ranging from 'standing there, menacingly' to ' He breathed in my direction.' To the extreme as an abuse case against a young vulnerable girl named Carrie.

Brahms pinches the bridge of his nose, the paper in front of him the most important and he was to not be paid for solving the problem. He picks up the paper to re-read the sections that stuck out the most.

We are advising you on your son, Lawrence, we regret to inform you of his wild, ruckus-filled behavior. We understand that young boys have a degree of tomfoolery to them but he, Lawrence, is turning out to be one who fancies himself an urchin.

Brahms grunts, eyes scanning the page,

He recently had put candy, that was similar in appearance to the headmistresses medication.

Brahms chuckles,

He also has set up a boxing club. He charges the boys a pence a piece for admittance and takes bets against the two boys fighting.

Brahms bit his lip, his cheeks turning pink. He clears his throat as a co-worker glances his way.

His face fell as he re-read the final line.

If these behaviors fail to be corrected over the upcoming break, we recommend a crammer school for young Lawrence.

Brahms slams the paper down on the desk, he leans back in his chair, gripping the arm of the chair, "Crammer school" he seethes. Brahms made a vow to Gerti, to never let their son end up at such a place, he was to be a gentleman and a gentleman comes from a gentlemanly background. Not a Crammer school for the slow and sluggish, a Gentleman's brute offspring to be fed into the army for slaughter.

"Any plans for the night?"

Brahms snaps his head towards his co-worker, Mr. Bates.

"Any plans for the night, Brahms? Taking the maid out for another moving picture?" Mr. Bates grins and nudges Brahms's shoulder with his elbow.

"Ah, no, she's been," Brahms twirls the pencil in his fingers, "Busy."

Brahms glances at his desk, the picture of his late wife and son.

Mr. Bates's eyes follow Brahms's, "You know, I'm sure Gerti doesn't mind. Lawrence adored her, yes, I'm sure that boy is dying for a new one," He rests his clammy hand on Brahms's shoulder, "After all, a boy's best friend is his mother."

Brahms recoils, "By God, Norman, listen to yourself," Brahms brushes off Norman's hand as he stands, "A Boy needs friends his own age," He grabs his important papers, stacking them loosely, he yanks his briefcase from under the desk to slam it on his desk, "Not a mother as a friend."

You gleefully prepare the ginger beer, the old beige and brown bottles embedded with the Heelshire name. You scan the current bottle in your hands, "1771" you read aloud, "My goodness."

You delicately place the plates on the table, humming as you admired the beautiful set. "This costs more than one week's wage." Another tentative glance, "Which is why..." You twirl in the drawing-room, "I'm getting another job!"

Your mind raced back to last week...

The carriage ride was bumpy, every bump from a pothole to a large rock made your already uneasy stomach flip.

"Almost there, miss!" The coach called out to you, "Sorry for the ride, Daniel has made a donation to get the road fix, beautiful ain't it?"

"Yes, that's very kind of him." You opened the flyer in your hand, you read the bold letters over the top,

Apple Pickers wanted weekend work. Only at Daniel Candy's Farm

"Tis nice of him to hire those with no work history or those already with a job, ain't it?"

"Yes, that's very kind of him." You repeated. You brought your attention to the upcoming estate, the large white manor stood out among the hues of greens, from the grass to the pine and oak trees in a neat line leading to the entrance of the manor.

The coachman helped you out of the carriage, "Now, miss, memba' to curtsey and all that."

"Thank you, and thank you for being so kind."

"I only hire the best."

Your breath caught in your throat, eye bugged out to the tall man who appeared to appear as if from nowhere. You looked up, the source of the voice, the deep baritone still carried itself within you.

"My coachman, I only hire the best, shall you prove me right?" His voice was like thick honey, his onyx eyes were warm, his hand was large with not a hint of labor upon it.

You froze, swallowed a hesitant hello, hand reached for his, "It's is very nice to meet you," His hand melded in yours, his thumb rubbed the back of your hand in small delicate circles, "Mr. Robitaille"

"Daniel works just fine." He flashed a bright smile, his eyes twinkled as they stared into yours.

"Daniel," you bite your lip, "It's nice to meet you, Daniel." and curtseyed.

He led you along a light dirt path adjacent to the abundant apple trees. The birds in the trees sang a beautiful melody, they danced between the trees, the songs becoming more jovial as you and Daniel walked.

"You'll be working for the next three weeks, Thursdays," He waved to one of the workers picking apples, "Fridays," He nodded at a male with a wheelbarrow full of apples, "and Saturdays." He placed his large hand on your upper back, "If that is alright with Mr. Heelshire?"

You squeaked at the mention of Brahms, "Ah, yes,"

"Hesitation my dear, would he not be so accepting of a free woman working where she pleases?"

You shook your head, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "It's not that, he just..."

"He doesn't know." Daniel finished for you with a knowing laugh.

You shied away from his words, eyes took in the mass of workers, happily picking apples, chatting with one other, the made it look easy being up twenty feet high on the ladder to pick the apples.

"Pray tell," Daniel removed his hand from your upper back, "Why do you need this job?"

"Well, money." You said earnestly. "I could use the extra money is all."

"For family?" He asked, accepting an apple from one of his workers. He admired the deep red color, "A gift for Mr. Heelshire?"

You wrung your hands together. You chocked in a breath, "It's private."

Daniel stopped, a low chuckle as you had noticed he stopped. He grinned as you fiddled with your fingers, face turned to the ground, a coy smile over your delicate features.

"What's his name?" Daniel stepped to you, his baritone sent a shiver down your spine. "I'd like to hear it be spoken from such shy lips." Daniel rolled the apple in his hand, nudged it towards you, gesturing for you to take it.

You hesitated, your hands shook as you tentatively grabbed the apple. You stared at the red fruit, the color deep and rich, "His name is Daniel Cain, well, Dan, he goes by Dan."

A startled laugh erupted from Daniel. You jumped, eyes darted to the workers around you, their eyes fell upon Daniel. "Do tell, does this Dan Cain happen to be studying at University of London?"

You stammered out, "Yes,"

"How admirable. So tell me, a gift for the young man?"

"No, it's." You roll the apple in your hand, you looked up at Daniel, "A new dress, I wish to look beautiful, well," You grimaced, "At least while with him."

Daniel frowned, his hand reached for yours, you gasped as he held firm, "Pardon for being cliche, but you are already beautiful, How your hair shines in the sun, to how the sun lights up your eyes, your timid nature is quite endearing." He winked at you.

"Come," Daniel gestured, "I shall introduce you to Carrie, she'll be your site boss for the next three weeks."

You jump from the front door slams open, Brahms shouting as he entered, "Please come to the foyer, my love."

You cringe, the nickname spills so easily from him, saying it like it was second nature, "Yes, Sir, be there soon."

"This instant, my love. I need you here."

Your eyes linger on the half-set table, too busy with your dancing and reminiscing to fully finish your job. "Coming, Sir!"

You walk out of the drawing-room, feet picking up pace as you make your way down the narrow hall, the green carpet embroidered with gold string, bought in Egypt, fairly recently. The walls a dark wood, matching the soil in the garden. The small lamps light up the hallway in a yellow hue. The walls lined with portraits of Heelshires past, their eyes unnerved you with every quick walkthrough you made through the hallway.

Brahms sighs and lets his shoulders relax as you step into view. He removes his jacket, tossing it on the coat rack, "Are the Victorian sandwiches done? Is the Ginger Beer ready?" He asks while loosening his tie, his adam's apple bobbed, "Hm?"

You wince "I was a little distracted, I'm terribly sorry, Sir."

"Brahms, we've been over this, my love, you may call me Brahms."

"Sorry, Brahms." You choke out his name, "Is there anything you need of me at this moment?" You place a warm smile over your face, eyes looking at him as he took off his custom-made shoes.

"Is it so bad for a man to want a woman to greet him when he's come after a hard day's work?" His bright smile made rock in place, heart thumping rapidly in your chest. "You know how good it feels to see your warm face as I get home?"

"I can't say I do." You answer earnestly.

"Do you not feel a sense of joy as I come home?"

You squint your eyes, gaze adverting his, you cough "Yes, I do." You look back at him, "I am simply your maid, Si-Brahms." You gesture to him to follow you down the hall, "I feel great joy when I see you come home to your...home."

"Our home. This place is just as much mine as it is yours." Brahms steps in front of you, gesturing for you to follow him. "You sleep here, eat here, are here every weekend..." He glances at the paintings in the dimly lit hall, "I mean, you must like it if you are here in your free time."

You flinch, nails scratching in the back of your hand, "Uhm, Yes."

Brahms reaches the table as he stares back at you, his eyes narrow, "Sit." He pulls out the ornate chair, his hand padding down the expensive leather, "Enjoy lunch with me."

You smooth your dress from behind as you sit, scooting up as he pushed you closer to the table. Brahms rounded the table, a jovial smile as he sat himself across from you, delicately placing a napkin on his lap.

"Now, how has your day been?" He starts, shoving a victoria sandwich in his mouth, rolling his eyes in ecstasy, "Mhm, my love this is delicious, you outdid yourself."

You giggle, shaking your head, "No, Brahms it's nothing. Just same old same old."

"You sell yourself too short." Brahms clears his throat, "This weekend," He wiped his hands of crumbs, "My son is coming home, he hasn't been excelling at school like he should be," He took a sip of the ginger beer, an approving smile after he gulped, "So I shall be sending him to a nearby crammer school."

You nod, "I'm sure in the end it'll work out for the best." He sips the beer, letting the taste linger on your tongue, "After all, probably be for the best he comes back home. I can imagine boarding school can be isolating after a death," You froze, eyes wide in panic as you glance at Brahms, "I'm so sorry." You place down the glass of beer.

Brahms laughs, the corner of his lips pulling up, "No no, don't be sorry, it's very true." He sips again, "Very true. Ever since Gerti crossed onto the other side, little Lawrence has been lost." He coughs, "He'll be more than thrilled to be home, hid loving father, his second favourite lady ready to greet him with open arms."

"This weekend?" you ask, "This Saturday?"

Brahms stills, his eyes squint, "Yes, I already said this weekend."

Your throat constricts, a burning sensation spreads throughout you. You look away, eyes catching on the ornate couch.

Brahms reaches his hand out to you, his thumb running on the back of your hand, "My love, what?" He raises his brow, leaning in, "What's the problem with Saturday?"

"I have something private to attended to." You state, eyes falling back to his, "I won't be here to greet Lawrence." You swallow, the burning searing through you, "I'm terribly sorry."

Brahms stood up, one stride and he was at your side, "Tell, why won't you be there? It mustn't be family matters, they live awfully far away, days by train." He leans in, "Something in town perhaps?"

You nod with a smile, "I shall be away this coming Friday and days thereafter, a flower picking job just a town over, the lady of the manor is allowing me room and board, very sweet of her." You sip more ginger beer, hands shaking as you brought the glass to your chapped lips.

Brahms places his large hand on your upper back, "Flower picking job?"

"Yes."

"What flower?"

"Excuse me?"

"What flower are you picking?" Brahms leans in closer to you, his other hand resting on the table, "I'm sure you know."

You grin at him, "Narcissus, beautiful flowers." You gulp back more ginger beer.

"That's a nice flower. Beautiful." He leans in closer, his eyes holding a critical glint. "Pray tell, how will you be picking a flower out of season?" He smiles down at you, licking his teeth, his hand clenches around yours. Your mouth agape, breath held. You choke as he leans closer to you, "I know apples are in season."

The air felt thick, the air from your lungs fell from your mouth in rapid breaths, the grandfather clock ticked, each one was felt in your spine. You jump as the grandfather clock thunders out his five pm chime.

You breathe in, "It's only for three weekends," You start, "No more than that."

Brahms chuckles, his fingers pressing into your back, "No more than that...why?" He rests his elbow on the table, chin in his palm, "Why the work when I could easily up your pay."

Your lips in a tight line, eyes dry, bugging out as you stare into his, "Savings." You lie.

Brahms slides his arm around your shoulder, his bicep flexing on the back of your neck, his hand running up and down your arm. He leans into your ear, "If by savings, do you mean Dan?"

#Brahms heelshire #Brahms x reader #Brahms x you #Brahms imagine #Brahms heelshire x reader #Brahms heelshire x you #Brahms heelshire imagine #Female reader #sfw #Candyman #daniel robitaille #Victorian era #Victorian AU #edwardian era #Dain Cain

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impaladolan · 4 years ago

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Le Goût - Grayson Dolan

summary: as previously discussed, allison arrives at Le Goût the following friday, but she’s not as shy as she seems to be..

a/n: i think this is gonna be one of my favorite parts, even though allison comes across a little bitchy, but I swear she’s not!

UNLIKE most people, Allison had always been overly punctual. She hated when people would show up awkwardly late to an important meeting or event, so she always made it a task to come at least 5-10 minutes early to everything. When she arrived to the famous Le Goût restaurant and saw that the lights were all on and one of the tables were neatly decorated, she couldn't help the sheepish smile that came over her face. The last time she had laid eyes on him, she was in immense pain and agony, but now that was gone, except for the few lingering stitches. She was hoping and praying that he was as equally nice and comforting as he was when she first met him. And ever since the hospital night, she had been pondering restlessly on what the hell his name could be.

With the freshly cleaned shirt, purposely scented with her perfume, squeezed in her hand, she finally exited her homely vehicle and made her way into the very familiar restaurant she could almost call home. As a child, her and her brothers seemed to always be there, playing their childish games and causing a few interruptions with the customers. She loved the restaurant and the family heritage it had, but she rarely ever attends any dinners there anymore. Mainly because she doesn't want to ruin the "special magic" of the place by overly eating there. But tonight was an exception, for mr. nameless, that is.

So when she glided through the front doors, wearing a simple short dress and her heels clicking against the nicely tiled floors, her eyes only landed on the small note placed atop a porcelain white plate right in the middle of the table. Her brows crinkled for a second, her thin fingers reaching out and pinching the thick, cardboard like paper and pulling it up to eyesight level. She then read the scribbled black writing right in the middle;

find me in the kitchen & bring that shirt of mine ;)

— GD

Her smile seemed to stretch all the way to her ears, reading over the sloppy writing again and again before setting it back in its original place. Her hands tightened around the shirt once more before she turns on her heels, walking in the familiar direction of the noiseless kitchen. She pushed the swinging door in slightly, peeking her head in just to see if he was actually there. And just as the note said, he was facing the wall opposite to her, his veiny hands wrapped around a wooden spoon and a skillet full of delicious looking vegetables. She almost scoffed when she recognized that he was shirtless, yet again. Though, she didn't mind it too much, the mere sight of his backside was enough to satisfy her. But that changed when he turned around, his godly face and torso now in her full view, his enticing smile corrupting the entirety of his face, it seemed like.

"I take it you don't like wearing clothes too often?" Her strongly held voice ponders aloud as he fully turns his body to address her, his eyes looking up and down her body in pure amazement and adoration, seemingly the same as he did only days ago. “They shrivel up and turn to dust somehow when I'm around you." He shrugs, her arms being crossed as she finally lets herself grin at his smooth words. "I'd rather not be distracted all night, so here's your shirt you asked for.." Allison unfolds the neatly cleaned white t-shirt, waving it in the air for him to retrieve. The mystery man quickly pivots in his stance and turns the oven's burners off before striding over to her, reaching out for the shirt he had kindly asked for. But before his fingers could grasp the soft cloth, Allison pulled it away and behind her back, a sneakish grin presiding on her plumped lips.

"Name, and I'll give it to you." She pesters, looking up into his eyes that were almost hidden by the rising smirk in his face. He knew that he'd rather not have the shirt at all, or if he did really want it, he could forcefully grab it from her. But he had played his games long enough and was very much ready to hear his own name roll from her tongue. Her sweet sounding voice was lready vocal in his nightly dreams. "Grayson." He keeps his stare, not changing his emotions whatsoever while Allison almost happily sighs. What a dreamy name, right? She couldn't help but feel a bit smaller now, knowing his name for some odd reason. It sounded familiar, she was almost sure Marcus had maybe brought him up in a conversation before, but only briefly.

"Shirt?" He extends his arms out to her, raising his pointy brows in question. "I think I change my mind, I like the view." She winks, quickly refolding the shirt and tucking it under her arm. "That's not fair for me.." He mumbles, blowing a straggling piece of hair away from his beautifully shaped face. Her only reaction is to roll her eyes, his little seductive mumblings always seeming to get to her. He had a bad habit of doing that around her, speaking his sometimes filthy mind when it came to things. Hopefully it wouldn't get too out of hand the longer he hung around her, for his mouth would soon find him in a bit of trouble if he kept it up.

Allison felt so confused and flustered as her body heat continued to rise. She didn't understand how attracted she was for a man she barely even knows. Her mind was like a rollercoaster, doing loop-de-loops around her brain the more she thought about him. And for Grayson, it was ten times harder to keep his hands to himself. He kept imagining endless scenarios that ended with an orgasm for the two, but he shook his thoughts when she effortlessly draped the familiar cloth over his shoulder.

Suddenly, like a burst of confidence within her, she trailed her index finger softly over the protruding bumps of his muscled shoulder, continuing it across the ridges of his upper back and down his indented spine. Grayson's body began to shiver with thrills, her soft touch sending his foggy brain to an unfamiliar euphoric altitude. She studied his flawless backside, taking note of each tiny little freckle or mole that she'd find hidden around the curvatures of his shoulder blades. She continued her flirt-like admiration as she slid her finger up his thick neck and to the fringe of his hair.

Standing up on her tipi-toes, Allison lets her cool breaths fan against his ear before she spoke; "Thank you, Grayson, for the other day.." And with that said, she took a couple steps back and brushed off her ridiculously clean frontside. Grayson was extremely flustered by her sensual actions, his cheeks possibly a tomato red while the "mind of its own" between his thighs began perking upward to her tainting voice. He only turned to look at her when he heard the click of her heels walking in the opposite direction.

"I'm leaving for the restroom, I'll be back in five." She sighs, her excited expressions held back until she fully exited the kitchen and made her way into the pristine bathroom decorated with a luxuric touch.

ALLISON wasn't trying to "get in his pants," but having a bit of dirty fun wouldn't do any harm, right? Well, in Grayson's eyes, it was totally wrong. Her little stunt that she recently pulled on him basically had him on his knees begging for her. Grayson thought himself more of the dominant type in a relationship, and to be so belittled in a short amount of time of vulnerability certainly didn't set well with him. So the only way to make things right, was to tie the game that the two were subsequently playing.

So when Allison had finished up in the ladies restroom, she made her way back to an empty kitchen, the remnants of the dirty pans he had just used cluttered in the enlarged sink. She retraced her steps to the dining area, a few candles lit and placed around the area where a grinning Grayson was sat, his eyes trailing her body once more. Her mouth slightly gapes in awe, the table gorgeously decorated and the food almost too stunning to eat. "You made all of this?" She slowed her walk once she fully approached the table, Grayson's eager self jumping up from his seat. Like the gentleman he is, he gladly pulled the chair out for her, nodding to her question as he did so.

"Did you expect any less?" He curved one of his eyebrows upward, the distraught shake of her head solving his pondering. Once she was sat in the chair, he easily pushed her under the table and took his seat again. Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back in his chair, eyeing Allison with his lustful stare. "Dig in." His distracting voice almost demands, Allison hastily picking up the neatly placed fork beside her plate. Without another warning, she "dug in" and placed the food in her mouth. Flavor began to roll throughout her taste buds as her pearly white teeth chewed on the wondrous food. "Grayson, this is wonderful.. How'd you make it?" She quickly asked before taking another large bite. He only shrugs, his very familiar smirk rising on his lips.

"Don't know, I just happen to be the head chef here." She froze in her place, her eyes widening as she looked at him. "You're that Grayson?" Allison finally recognized the man sitting across from her. He was Grayson Dolan, head chef at Le Goût, one of her brother's best friends, and her saving grace from the gallery. She was shocked that she hadn't truly known who he was the entire time. Her father has spoken about him before, as well as Marcus and even Andrew, but she didn't take to that fact that that was him.

The new information in mind, she continued to eat the delicious food, moaning almost intensely as she chewed. Grayson's grip on his fork tightened, his ears almost perking to the sound of her oblivious breathing. He had trouble even focusing on his food, let alone eating it.

And the night continued on, Allison antagonizing Grayson unintentionally while he struggles to keep to himself...

(masterlist)

#dolan twins smut #dolan twins #dt #ily #grayson #ethan dolan #ethan grant dolan #grant #grayson dolan #impaladolan #graysonbailey #grayson dolan smut #grayson dolan fanfic #graysondolan #Grayson #grayson and ethan #chef!grayson #grayson x OC #Le Goût

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artemis-entreri · 6 years ago

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Entreri, flatly: "Where did you get that?" Jarlaxle, 'innocently': "I should think it would be obvious, abbil." "Put it back." "Don't be silly." *deploys wand, summons apparently nothing but a small raptor-shaped shadow on the ground.* Jarlaxle: "Hmm..." *looks disappointed.* Entreri: *looks up.* "Jarlaxle..." "I'm disappointed. ...Hmm?" *the shadow rapidly grows less and less small. Quite large, soon, in fact. Distressingly so.* "JARLAXLE." ((slightly too long -- to be continued))

“I still fail to see why you could not simply order your pet psionicist to make you a new one.”

The diffuse light in the spiraling stair column was so scant that only the assassin’s furrowed brow and prominent cheekbones would’ve been seen by normal eyes. However, Artemis Entreri didn’t need light to clearly discern his feathered companion nestled snugly in his left palm, but he wondered if the transformed Jarlaxle could, in turn, see him just as well.

Not that the drow-turned-hummingbird seemed particularly interested in looking at the human. Those ruby eyes, clever even in their smaller incarnation, darted to and fro, and Entreri resisted the urge to clap his right hand over his left one, lest the troublesome mercenary spot something else “interesting”.

Troublesome indeed, the assassin thought with a scowl. His body was still taut from the earlier ordeal imposed upon him by his now feathery handful, and this was compounded due to his inability to employ his left arm thanks to it being the new home for the trouble’s originator. Finally, that inability to shed tension from his form only served to prolong his feeling of needing to sneeze.

Back in the room with the endless glassy pairs of beady eyes, Entreri had been at his wit’s end, keeping his legs underneath him in the wake of Jarlaxle’s relentless “onslaught”. Thankfully, the transformed drow had apparently overestimated the amount of energy that his tiny body possessed, suddenly falling onto his side, then rolling onto his back with his sprig-like feet stiffly clawing the air. When the bird didn’t respond to his pokes, Entreri had started back for the wand, and his fingers even brushed it before his keen eyes noticed the faint rise and fall of the iridescent chest.

A tingling in his palm called the assassin back from the memory.

“Not again!” Entreri’s glare shot to his companion, and his mouth opened to berate him, but then noted that in lieu of the precise, deliberately measured strokes that the bird had performed before, now, Jarlaxle was flailing his wings and kicking his feet. The perplexed human wondered briefly if the transformed mercenary was attempting again to fly, but there was no buzzing.

Realizing with a start the alternative possibility, Entreri hastily set the bird down on the next step, hopping back as soon as Jarlaxle rolled out of his palm. Even still, he wasn’t swift enough, for the drow reverted back with a loud “pop!”, then promptly vomited onto his companion’s boots.

“Seriously?” Entreri exclaimed, disgusted, but also surprised at the lack of rage in his own tone.

Jarlaxle was leaning heavily against the wall and retching. A stray ray of sunbeam caught his slender form as it convulsed, and the assassin wondered if the mercenary had always looked so delicate.

Entreri eyed the puddle running down the stairs and plotted a way around it. He began moving towards his companion. “How fare you?”

Jarlaxle had drawn a handkerchief and was wiping his mouth with it. He’d begun to stagger to Entreri when his eyes bulged.

“Privy?!”

“What?”

To Entreri’s great astonishment, Jarlaxle charged past him back up the stairs, the abruptness of his rush forcing the assassin to reflexively jump aside.

Unfortunately, the drow’s earlier discharge was directly in his chosen trajectory, and the poor man had to forego his usual grace in order to save his boots from being further coated by his companion’s ejecta.

Although no stranger to tainted environments, the assassin reluctantly set off after his companion, preferring to draw his quickened inhales in cleaner air. His steps were slowed, however, by the painful moans echoing through the stone corridor. He wondered where to stop, to grant the drow proper privacy, and more importantly, not subject himself to a different but equally unappealing odor.

Thankfully, Entreri didn’t need to contemplate the matter too much, for Jarlaxle, a shaky, unsteady Jarlaxle but Jarlaxle nonetheless, awaited him around the stairwell’s next curvature. The mercenary’s usual obsidian-black skin looked ashen as spent charcoal.

Entreri shook his head and sighed. Without a word, he firmly seized his companion’s left arm, threw it over his own shoulders while his right hand simultaneously caught the drow’s waist. He knew Jarlaxle’s weight well enough to discern that the mercenary was leaning heavily on him, the sensation heightening the uneasiness that’d been stirred by his recollection of the room full of lifeless stares.

Wordlessly, the assassin eased them both down the long, spiraling stairs. More than once, he wondered if the shallowness of his own breath was influenced by the drow’s soft panting.

“Kimmuriel is preoccupied with other tasks,” Jarlaxle croaked.

Entreri flinched, the drow’s soft tones cutting through the rhythm of their shuffling steps.

“Why didn’t you just use your portable hole?”

Jarlaxle craned his neck up to regard his companion with a raised eyebrow. “Unthinkable! Surely, you know of how often I use it as a pass through!”

“So, before the next time you use it, clean it.”

The drow shook his head. “There might not be a chance to do so. Before our journey’s end, we might have need of it, employing it in its proper custom. Besides, I would not so mistreat that which I’d often use to store precious things.”

“Such as myself, I presume,” Entreri intoned sarcastically.

Jarlaxle hid a laugh in a cough. Entreri knew it to be fake, but still, he could feel the occasional shudder coursing through the body against his own, and knew through their proximity that those convulsions were involuntary.

“You’re fortunate that I haven’t dropped you,” the assassin nonetheless rebuked, scowling.

“I’d never doubt you, my abbil.”

“Which is why you held your tongue until after we’d long passed your earlier discharge, and all of its propagation.”

“If you ask me, this one might be beyond him,” Jarlaxle continued as though Entreri hadn’t responded. “I didn’t ask you.”

“Yes, because I asked you.”

“And I foolishly agreed to help you.” Entreri snorted. “Never do I seem to learn my lesson, although I hope that you’ve learned yours.”

Jarlaxle didn’t respond, and Entreri knew that he wouldn’t get an admission out of the prideful mercenary. They’d finally reached the bottom of the long and winding staircase anyway, and the assassin was more than a little eager to leave behind the eccentric wizard’s beady-eyed hoard.

The assassin wasn’t comfortable in the woods. Rather than the irregular alleys and rickety walls describing every city block, nature made its own maze following a logic that he did not fully understand. But his companion, who was now leading the way, seemed confident enough, and he was further galvanized with each step that separated them from the tower.

By the time that they finally emerged, Selûne’s glory shone across the deep tapestry of the night, and the lack of any of her trailing tears allowed the assassin to judge the the hour to be not so late as the darkness implied. He frowned. Despite his ability to see perfectly without Selûne’s light, Entreri was more attuned to brighter circumstances at this hour, an effect of the conglomerate of light sources melded within a city’s walls.

Jarlaxle, on the other hand, hadn’t bothered to look up at the moon or the sky at all, but had already made his way far enough out of the woods that he wouldn’t start a fire. As the drow bent to set down his obsidian figurine, the assassin saw, descending fast from the sky and headed right for Jarlaxle, a swarm of large birds. Entreri began to call out, but his words died in his throat, as each member of the flock gracefully circled his companion before beating their wings to retake their altitude again.

The bewildered man couldn’t believe his eyes at first, but after blinking, even rubbing them with both hands, did he ascertain, even if his mind couldn’t quite understand it, that most, if not all, of the birds had pointedly turned their heads to study the drow.

Jarlaxle was patting the back of his neck, studying the airborne visitors as they resumed their journey when he felt Entreri’s hand land on his shoulder, heavier than a plate pauldron. His cheery countenance turned to meet a taut deadpan.

“Who was the wizard whom we’d just called on?” Entreri bit off every word.

“Ah, the bird enthusiast?” Jarlaxle raised both white eyebrows, his smile wide and innocent.

Entreri nodded, his unblinking stare locked upon his companion’s ruby gaze. “Yes. What did you call him? Something… thologist?”

Those ruby eyes wanted to dart out of that awful stare that captured them, but Jarlaxle knew that even the slightest shift would give him away. He held out both hands helplessly – slowly and out very far from his body, the assassin noted.

“…Ornithologist?”

[[ To be continued... ]]

#ama #Artemis Entreri #Entreri #Jarlaxle #Jarlaxle Baenre #Forgotten Realms #legend of drizzt #prompts #fanfiction #Wand of Avian Wonder #everandel

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illusionsofdreaming · 7 years ago

Note

So I don't know the difference between a prompt, a headcanon and an imagine... But how about a cute AU where Robin wasn't found by Chrom and made a life for herself as a baker in a village, and Gaius meets her through her shop? Feel free to improve the details of course to make this more enjoyable for yourself :)

Notes: Honestly, sometimes I get confused myself haha the lines that separates imagines and headcannons can blur. But basically imagines are longer, fully written scenarios/flash fictions (so this one is technically considered an imagine request and these) and headcannons are bulletpointed and gets right to the point (these). You can find a better explanation between the differences between these two types of writing I offer in the rules page :’3Anyways. As I was writing this, I imagine that this AU is set after Robin and her mother fled Plegia but before she lost her memories. The imagine was actually several sections longer but then it.. got too long so I just left it at this. :’D Enjoy!

Ft: Gaius

The shop was quiet and empty, peaceful even but you daren’t fall in love with this quaint little village for fear of heartbreak as you knew you’ll have to leave it one day. Constantly having to move and say goodbye was painful but it was a small price to pay if it foiled the plans of your maniacal father who’s hell bent on raising the God of Death itself.

The little village you and mother happened across straddled the borders of Plegia and Ylisse. Since you knew a little of baking, you had offered to help out at the local bakers for some extra gold.

Business was not exactly roaring and rarely do you find new faces visiting the store. Which, considering your situation, was a blessing in disguise as it meant father would be no closer to discovering the whereabouts of his runaway child and wife. The less new faces you meet, the lower the chances were of someone recognizing you or your mother’s face. Perhaps this little village was the sanctuary you and mother have been looking for all along.

You were reflecting on how you could get used to the peace and quiet when trouble and mischief brought itself crashing through the doors. Immediately your hand brushed towards the Thoron by your side but before you could question or even threaten the intruder, the man had all but vaulted over the counter to your side, pressing his back against the thick hard wood and pressing a finger to his lips in the universal sign for silence.

Not a moment later, the door swung wide hitting the back of the wall so hard it rattled the shop.

“Where is he?” The one leading the charge into the bakery yelled.

You resisted the urge to glance down towards the side as you felt a light pressure against your boots. “Who?” You managed pleasantly as you adjusted the strawberry cake on the counter.

“The man with red hair! The candy loving dastard of a thief took all our spoils!”

You frowned, not liking the fact you could be harbouring a thief but hating the temper of the man before you even more. Just when you were musing on the beauty of a peaceful village too.

“Whoever it is you’re looking for it’s clear that they’re not here.” You stated softly.

“What do you have to worry about! We’ll be out of your hair soon enough!” The thug hissed as he jerked his shoulder forward, a motion that seemed to signal to his friends to start turning the bakery upside down.

“All the ruckus you’re causing is bad for the business, I haven’t seen the man enter and the shop clearly only has one entrance. Your thief’s not here, you should look elsewhere.”

“Or else what?” Big, mean and ugly taunted and immediately got a blast of magic scoring past his face in response.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.” The Thoron tome was out on display now, pages flickering with magic as lightning crackled at the tip of your finger tips.

The bandits seem to understand the threat you pose as all movement ceased. Starting a fight in such cramped spaces would be disadvantageous for the thugs, especially with a counter between the two parties. Your magic would easily take all of them down before they could whip out their swords and cross the barrier.

“This is not the end of things you meddling witch.” the leader spat before turning around and leaving the premises, his two lackeys slinking off following his shadow.

You waited a good ten seconds and then another ten to make sure they weren’t coming back before turning to face the one who started this mess in the first place. “Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t just turn you over to the authorities right no- Hey! Those are for the customers!” You snatched the plate of half eaten cream puffs from his hands, horrified to find most of them gone.

“Got to give it to ya, those are some of the best pastries I’ve ever had.” the man grinned, licking the cream off his fingers.

“These were for Mrs. Betson! And you ate all of them!” Your face paled, as you picked at the remaining puffs on the platter, realising none of them are salvageable.

“That means you’re making more right? Then excuse me as I finish the res-“ He hissed in pain as you slapped his greedy fingers away and levelled your magic tome at him.

“I knew it! I should’ve handed you over to them, you’re obviously nothing but trouble!”

The thief stumbled back, eyeing the Thoron book nervously - obviously he hadn’t been too busy snacking on Mrs. Betson’s cream pastries to miss your magic show. “Hey, hey, hey Cinnamon, why don’t we all calm down and talk things out yea? You don’t seem like the type to go blasting your guests.”

“You want to test that theory out?” You snapped, wielding your tome high, ready to use it as a blunt weapon. “You crash into the bakery bringing menacing thugs along who stalk around causing a ruckus and threatening to tear down the store.” You took a step forward which the thief echoed with one step backward. “You made me pull out my weapon and make enemies of them who no doubt will be coming back for more and you ate all the customer’s pastries that took me all morning to pipe!” There was a soft thump as the man bumped against the edge of the counter, cornered.

“Is it just me or does it sound like you’re more heartbroken over the buns-“ The thief yelped as he dodged your book in an impressive feat of acrobatics, summersaulting backwards over the counter, efficiently placing some much needed distance between you two. You however was not to be so easily deterred nor have need for such parlour tricks, you simply lifted a flap on the counter and crossed over to the other side, inwardly smirking at the crestfallen expression that came over the other’s face.

“Wait, wait, I know how it looks but I swear on all the sweets I own, it’s really not as bad as you think!”

“That’s rich coming from a thief!”

He scrunched up his nose in offence at your tone. “Believe it or not, even a petty thief like me have morals and follow an honor code too. I don’t steal or hurt the defenceless, women or children. These guys took advantage of a merchant who’s cart had fallen over when its wheel broke. Robbed him blind they did, old man was crying like a newborn babe. Stuff like that just ain’t my cup of chocolate you know? I did what had to be done, return his precious cargo and sent him on his way, even got a pretty sweet tart out of it. But as you can see, Brandon an’ the others didn’t really appreciate it all that much.”

You paused, considering his words carefully. You did hear from the others that a large merchant cart had fallen over on it’s side, blocking the road a few days ago but you have no way to confirm that it’s the same cart this man was talking about. You lowered your tome but your eyes remained locked on the thief’s every movement.

He must have noticed the distrust still in your eyes because the sigh he let out next was tired and exasperated. “Yeesh Cinnamon, you don’t have to give me that look. I get it, I brought them here so I’ll deal with them, make sure they won’t be coming back for seconds. I’ll even throw in one of my precious custard pies for those cream puffs you mourn, happy?” He grumbled as he drew the collar of his heavy cloak up to his chin.

“Fifty gold coins.” You returned sharply, gripping onto the edge of his cloak, holding the man back before he could escape.

“Fif-Fifty?” The thief spluttered and you can hear the sharp crack of his lollipop as he snapped the stick in his mouth. “Are your cakes made of gold? They taste pretty damn amazing I’ll give ya that Cinnamon but fifty gold coins? You might as well take out a dagger an’ tell me you’re robbing me now!”

“Fifty gold coins barely covers the cost of ingredients and labor put into those dozen cream puffs you devoured in less than five minutes flat!” You snapped, tightening your grip around the stretch of fabric you held. “I haven’t even charged you for the physical damage done to the shop or the emotional damage I suffered from having criminals crashing into the store!”

The smile on his face was tight as a muscle underneath the man’s eye twitched. “Yeah, cuz it’s clear handling Brandon and his goons took a real toll on ya.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, not appreciating his sarcasm but neither did you want to bother with explaining your situation to a shifty thief. If wasn’t that you wouldn’t be able to deal with the thugs if it came down to a fight but it would definitely ruin your image as the very average, unassuming new neighbour in town. If word of a powerful mage was hiding in the small village got out, you’ll be forced to leave your home again!

“Deal with your friends and fifty gold for compensation or I’m calling the authorities.”

“Can’t you put it on my tab or something?”

“You’re not even from around here!”

“You drive a hard bargain, Cinnamon! What about two custard pies? I’ll even throw in several honey cakes!”

“Are you going to pay or not?” you growled, raising your tome once more ready to knock the infuriating man out.

“Alright, alright! You win! Take it!” From underneath his cloak he grabbed a small pouch and tossed it at you. You caught the heavy pouch with one hand, releasing your grip on the other’s clothing. “It’s one of my most precious collections and I can assure you that I don’t have anything on me worth more than that! I’ll have you know that you won’t find anything like these on the market anymore! The craftsman retired several years ago and I’m the only customer he still entertains from time to time. Hopefully this will satisfy your greed for now!”

You loosened the string holding the pouch close to peer inside to judge its contents. If the items within were really that precious then perhaps you could sell them to cover the costs for repairs. “Wait a minute.. aren’t these candies?” Your gaze snapped up but it was already too late, the thief had long vacated the store the moment you released him from your grip.

“Dastard! Come back here!”

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writesandramblings · 6 years ago

Text

The Captain’s Secret - p.101

“The Memory of Your Heart”

A/N: There is a scene referenced in this chapter that took place in episode 15 and was not included in this fanfic. Just want to make sure the non-show watchers know they didn't miss anything I wrote; the scene didn't really fit in this story except as a moment of reminiscence. If you rewatch this scene with a mind towards the context it's presented here, though, it really is pretty unnerving.

I'm at the big Star Trek convention in Vegas if anyone wants to drop me a line.

Also, hey, did you catch that the titular captain is Saru? Yep. Planned that one from day one. He ended up with a different secret than originally intended because Lorca lived, but it was Saru all along.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 100 - The Captain’s Secret 102 - Only Then Am I Free >>

The lobby of the opera house was stunning. Swirl-patterned windows rose three and a half stories tall with terraced levels of curving wood and white walls that caught the reflected light of the moonscape outside. Blue and purple plants native to Vorasa system cascaded down like a waterfall of life from the top level, weaving down towards the garden on the first level with bursts of orange and green flowers.

"This is incredible," breathed Tilly, barely able to catch her breath at the sight of it.

Next to her, Stamets was more concerned with the tickets. He smacked his hand twice on the side of the holoticket and the seat numbers fritzed into view along with live directions to reach them. "There we go."

"Couldn't you just live here? If there were beds, I mean, and..." She trailed off, uncertain what else living in a space this immense would require.

"It is stunning," admitted Stamets. There was a time when he might have come here and found the architecture preferable to the music. Now he felt capable of appreciating both.

"Wow," said Tilly, head tilted up towards the ceiling, her feet following the movement of her eyes across a series of rippling metal ribbons arranged along the ceiling. There was a soft impact as she backed into another guest, almost tripping over the trailing hem of a gown. The Bolian she had collided with turned to look at her with wide-eyed surprise. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking—"

The Bolian smiled at Tilly. "It's fine," the woman assured her, sweeping the shimmery, peacock purple fabric of her floor-length gown to the side. "Your first time?"

"Yes," Tilly nodded, excitement overcoming her fluster.

"Enjoy your visit," said the Bolian kindly and resumed her conversation with her companion.

Stamets watched the exchange with a smile of his own. "Making new friends everywhere we go," he gently teased. "Shall we find our seats?" They followed the instructions on the ticket to the middle terrace level and the far left of the auditorium. The theatre itself was shallow but tall—as tall as the lobby—with multiple levels of seating stacked almost on top of one another so every seat had a view of the stage, with the preference being for the audience to be above the performers but a stone's throw back, rather than deep and far away as most theatres on Earth. Elegant scalloping behind the stage directed the sound from the base up towards the top. At the moment, the sound consisted of a gentle, whispering murmur of patrons seeking seats and the orchestra members taking their places, punctuated by notes of instrument tuning,

"We're so high up," said Tilly, feeling slightly queasy. It was impossible not to feel a momentary sense of acrophobia. The theatre was the polar opposite of Discovery's low, modest ceilings and the scalloped back wall of the room created the illusory sensation of leaning over the stage below in a mild optical illusion.

"At least we're not on the front row," said Stamets, because merely standing at the front row of any section was enough to create the sensation of teetering at the edge of a cliff. Species prone to inner ear imbalances like humans were advised to avoid those seats entirely.

They took their seats, Stamets smart in his tuxedo and Tilly looking the picture of elegance in a long black dress and attached capelet. Her red curls were pulled back into a ponytail big enough to be a halo. Stamets listened to the whisper in the air and for a moment it felt like he might hear Culber if he listened closely enough. "Thank you for doing this with me."

"I'm honored you invited me," said Tilly, consulting her program.

The conductor arrived to brief fanfare. As the lights dimmed and the stage came to life, a triumph of horns and flutes played their spirited invitation to the world of Puccini's La Bohème and were joined almost immediately by the voices of the performers.

The notes floated upwards through the air. The movements of the singers were balletic when viewed from above, carefully choreographed to suit the swirling aesthetics of classical Kasseelian culture, and Tilly was soon lost in the music even if she did not understand the exact words.

Stamets was lost in the music, too, but he could barely see the performers through the watery field of his eyes and soon closed them, imagining he was in another time and place with a different companion. He settled back against the plush velvety material of the seat and heard partly the music and partly the memory of Culber, his mind's eye picturing the doctor's smile and the brush of stubble across his jaw. The opera house was forgotten in favor of the soft blue lights of their shared quarters late at night. Moonlight settings they had called it, and the singing became a backdrop to a far more beautiful moment.

Stamets’ eyes only opened when the version of Culber in his mind said, "Come on, we're missing the show."

At intermission, they refreshed themselves with a pair of drinks as Tilly fretted about the wisdom of drinking at all. Taking a bathroom break while the performance was ongoing seemed a terrible social faux pas.

"You're overthinking," Stamets told her.

"You know what? I am!" She downed her drink in one go. "Whew!"

Tilly turned, looking across the crowd to see what else people did during opera intermissions besides imbibe alcohol and saw something on the far side of the terrace that made her face light up with recognition. "Is that..."

Stamets turned in the direction she was looking. Even across such a large room, it was hard to mistake the form of a lului as anything else and impossible to deny the familiar shade of grey-blue epithelial tendrils beneath the gossamer strands of the lului's semitransparent shawl. She was stretched up to the height of a human with the support of a cocktail table. Beside her stood a humanoid in a full environmental suit leaning with one arm on the table and the other on his hip, an angled black cape hiding the slight offense of the environmental suit's vulgarity against the sea of well-dressed operagoers.

"I think it is! Lalana!"

"Don't—" But it was too late. Tilly was already waving her arms to get Lalana's attention and the lului, with her massive eyes that took in whole vistas at a glance, had seen them first. Stamets felt his heart drop.

Approaching the table, Tilly was startled to find she recognized the alien's style of environmental mask. She had seen one exactly like it once before. "Hello Sylvia and Paul!" said Lalana. There were three empty drink tumblers on the table, though how many had gone to Lalana and how many her companion was unclear. (The answer, of course, was that none of the alcohol had gone to Lalana.)

"Fancy meeting you here," was Tilly's cheerful reply. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Omen. May I introduce Paul Stamets and Sylvia Tilly. They were with me during my time on Discovery."

"Pleasure," said Omen, his voice a low metallic timbre that seemed to hint at a darkly wry tone.

Stamets considered the masked figure. The height and build checked out. "I think we've met once before," he ventured. "You were with Lalana when she came to visit my research station the first time. Before Discovery."

There was no audible reply, but the masked figure tilted his head to the side and Stamets could well imagine the dry and disapproving frown.

"Was that where you got the idea?" asked Tilly. Lalana's head twisted in a manner indicating confusion. Tilly gestured to her own head to supply some visual context to supplement her verbal deficiency. "The—Memory Alpha."

"Why, yes," said Lalana. "Omen's species was the source of the design." She began clicking her tongue in a private joke. Lorca figured it out after a moment and shook his head with annoyance at the lameness of essentially saying the design was a human one.

The coincidence was too much. Stamets shot Lorca a sidelong glare. "What brings you here?"

"I am very much a fan of live music, especially singing," Lalana answered. "Gabriel and I used to attend concerts when we would visit Risa."

"Lorca liked opera?" said Stamets, incredulous.

"You're telling me people enjoy this caterwauling?" shot back Lorca, absolutely confirming his identity to Stamets.

"People with good taste," Stamets retorted, though Culber's love of opera had not been something they shared while the doctor was alive. It was only now that Culber was dead and the sound of opera brought him back to life in Stamets' mind that the engineer found he could appreciate the genre fully. "I wouldn't think this would be of interest to... someone like you."

"Likewise," was the response from under the mask. Tilly reacted with momentary surprise at hearing the word, which she associated with O'Malley.

Lalana was untroubled by the tenseness between Lorca and Stamets and said, "I am enjoying it very much!"

"Me, too!" bubbled Tilly, launching into an excited discussion of the specifics with Lalana that lasted until the lights flashed to signal the end of intermission, another one of those Earth customs that had successfully migrated across the Federation as an easily understandable universal cue.

Lalana's presence Stamets could almost understand, but he seriously wondered what Lorca had been doing there. Thankfully, when he and Tilly returned the following year for what soon became an annual pilgrimage, Lorca and Lalana were both blissfully absent.

2259.

They had unleashed a monster into the galaxy. Philippa Georgiou, every bit the bloodthirsty, murderous, opportunistic tyrant she had always been, spent the first few months learning the ins and outs of the universe she had landed in, playing along with the charade requested of her by Starfleet, and when she was satisfied she had enough of an understanding of her circumstances and her enemies, she left a trail of corpses in her wake that sent a ripple of fear across the whole of the Federation.

For the first few weeks after the initial refugee camp massacre, no one suspected it was her. It was not until the massacre repeated in another system, on another planet, that the rumors began to swirl across subspace of a great Starfleet captain gone inevitably insane after a full year of Klingon prison.

Then the rumors shifted subtly, the fringes of the story changing as a new version emerged. Georgiou was not insane, they said, but rather, the sanest person in the universe. She had seen the truth of what was required in the wake of the Klingon conflict and hers was not a way of madness but of strength: a galactic necessity if they were to prevent the Klingons from reorganizing against them in the future.

The Federation, these rumors further claimed, was being taken advantage of by the Klingons and various non-member states. The aid being offered to others was not being returned with anything of value and non-citizen refugees were illegally flocking to Federation worlds, straining resources already depleted by the recent war and taking what rightfully belonged to the Federation's full, legal citizens.

Georgiou was like a virus, her actions and ideas a contaminant, but this time, her contamination had spread far beyond Cornwell, Sarek, and the other wartime leaders who had approved her hydro bomb proposal in the waning days of the war.

Some flocked to this bold legend, exactly as Georgiou knew they would, because they saw the recent Klingon conflict as a sign of things to come and they longed for the authoritarian strength of someone who would crack down on the Federation's enemies in every way possible.

Others retaliated to this evolution of the narrative by doubling down on the claims of insanity. There could be no other explanation for a mental break so total, so complete, and so bloodthirsty.

A further subset of the population saw this new version of Georgiou as proof of the dangers posed by humans and their viral genetic instability and wondered if perhaps the solution to the problem was something else entirely.

Then there were those who knew the truth of who and what Georgiou truly was.

"You must track her down," ordered Admiral Sherak. "You are the only crew who understands what we are dealing with."

"Yes, admiral," Saru agreed, but after three weeks they were no closer to stopping Georgiou and the death toll had risen to seventy-two. Saru and Burnham were forced to confront the fact their knowledge of this universe's original Philippa Georgiou was not translating into an understanding of the Terran emperor.

In the ready room, Burnham standing across the table from him and a fresh cup of salted tea between them, Saru decided it was time to consider a more drastic measure. "Perhaps it takes a Terran to track a Terran," he mused.

Petrellovitz's little behavioral experiment—approved by Sarek at the time of its proposal—had lasted only seven months on Discovery. In the end, it was not Petrellovitz's lack of morals and systematic disregard for experimental safeties that had doomed the venture, it was Michael Burnham's enduring tendency to regard herself as knowing better than everyone around her and correlating habit of inserting herself into every aspect of ship missions and operations under the auspices of this assertion.

Put another way, Petrellovitz could not get along with this universe's Michael Burnham, and Burnham equally did not get along with her. Petrellovitz was used to a version of Burnham that relied on her for science, not one that tried to tell her how to run her own projects. The two were constantly at odds with one another in a way that went far beyond the rivalry Burnham and Saru had been locked into back on the Shenzhou.

They might have continued in this battle of wills indefinitely but Burnham and Petrellovitz were both too clever for that and had come to the mutual conclusion they simply needed to be on different ships. That, thought Saru, was an exemplary conclusion to the experiment that reflected well on both of them. Petrellovitz had since transferred to the USS Lemaître, where she was now a chief science officer.

"I mean, I can help you, but you should ask Omen," Petrellovitz told them over the holocomm. "Keeping tabs on the emperor was never really my thing." Her thing had been the opposite, avoiding the emperor at all costs.

That was what Saru had been afraid of. It seemed there was no way around it in the end. "I assume you can still contact them?"

Petrellovitz hummed and bounced slightly. Being in this universe had revealed an irreverent edge to her personality that had never been able to fully manifest in the mirror universe. "I can. Mac likes to hear from his sister every now and again. In return, I'd like the full, unredacted mission report from your recent jaunt on Nirros V and detailed scans of the next five magnetars you encounter. I'll send my specifications."

"I agree to your terms." Nirros V was more a curiosity than anything else. The incident was not classified, but several personnel details had been purged to protect the privacy of those involved, piquing Petrellovitz's interest. Saru knew she would keep the salient details to herself. She might even reply to him with some insights into how the crystalline entity had caused the polarity instability in the transporter stream.

"What do you think this means for our old experiment?" Petrellovitz wondered aloud.

"It means all Terrans are different," said Burnham, "same as all humans." Petrellovitz smiled at Burnham and terminated the call.

"Send Petra a copy of our Nirros V report as soon as possible," ordered Saru, but Burnham could not leave until she had asked one more question.

"Who or what is Omen?"

"That information is highly sensitive. There is still a chance they will not respond to our request. If they do not, then there is no need for me to tell you."

Four hours later they had coordinates for a rendezvous and Saru was forced to reveal the truth. The look of horror on Burnham's face made clear she interpreted this as a betrayal. "I saw his body."

"What you saw was Einar Larsson. A gruesome ruse on Lalana's part, assisted by Mr. Groves."

Burnham shook her head, still reeling from the shock. "The Lorca I knew would never have been able to lie low this long." In her ideation of Lorca, he was a self-aggrandizing, egotistical manipulator who had thrust himself to the forefront of the Federation's war with the sole intent of using that mythos to schism and conquer the Federation once the Terran Empire was under his sway. At least, that was what she had to believe to justify the way she had watched Georgiou stab him through the chest. Sometimes she still saw his face in her dreams, his eyes twisted with pleading desperation as he reached towards her.

"Perhaps you did not know him as well as you thought," suggested Saru.

"How could they keep this from me?"

Saru sighed in almost human fashion. "I know it has always been a great difficulty for you to 'put yourself in another's shoes,' but I implore you, attempt to do so now. There was no benefit to telling you this. A decision was made by persons higher-ranking than either of us that Lorca's existence must be kept secret. It was my duty to abide by it."

"You know how he was—is obsessed with me."

"I am your captain," said Saru, but warmly, in a tone that felt like a knowing smile, because theirs was now a long friendship centered around mutual respect. "Captains must be able to keep secrets. I have not held many, so I hope you will forgive me for the one. If I thought he posed any threat to you I would have told you regardless. If you do not wish to be present when he is, there is no need for you to see him."

"No," said Burnham, "I'm the first officer on this ship and I'm the reason Georgiou is here in the first place. This mission is more my responsibility than anyone's."

She was worried, though, what seeing him would do to them both.

They waited at the rendezvous point for hours. Even Saru began to doubt if anyone was coming. Then a small, V-shaped cruiser devoid of any identifying marks and with a disabled transponder dropped out of warp almost on top of them and requested to dock. Saru and Burnham waited at the airlock.

None of the three figures on the other side of the airlock were entirely familiar. There was a pale, yolky yellow lului with a splash of darker yellow on its chest and red on its hands, tail, and head. Beside it stood a humanoid in a black and grey environment suit and rebreather helmet with silver latches. A tall grey alien with long, raven-black hair and red eye slits dressed in a navy-blue gown brought up the rear of the group—a Misellian.

"Greetings, Captain Saru," said the lului. "I am Lolalen, and these are my companions Omen and Aeree."

"Changed my mind," remarked the helmeted alien beside the lului in a metallic voice, turning on his heel.

"Captain!" said Burnham. The helmeted figure paused mid-stride. There was a chance that word had not been for him, but Burnham could imagine he wanted it to be.

"Perhaps we should convene in the conference room to discuss the specifics," suggested Saru.

Once the doors were closed and the official record disabled, all pretext was dropped. Lalana shifted back to her usual blue-grey and Lorca hesitantly removed his helmet. There were streaks of silver peppered throughout his hair and the years had crinkled some new lines onto his face, but the eyes were the same.

He did not hold Burnham's gaze. Half a second after their eyes met he looked away, focusing instead on the polished sheen of the conference table, the objects on the side of the room farthest away from Burnham, and finally the stars outside the window as he went and stood there with his back to the assembly. When he spoke, he addressed and responded only to Saru and his crewmates, treating Burnham as if she were some sort of void in the room.

Burnham did not take her eyes off him. She could not understand his behavior.

"We don't need your help," Lorca declared. "We can get her on our own."

"Then why haven't you gone after her before now?" challenged Burnham. "I thought you hated the emperor."

Lorca's fingers twitched behind his back. Burnham could just make out the enduring frown of his reflection. "Why indeed," he sighed to no one in particular, as if her question had come drifting in through the window on some cosmic wind.

"Because there could not be any question as to who had killed her," said Lalana. "We will help you, but only if you leave us out of all reports, official and otherwise, and take all credit for stopping her."

Burnham was confused. "You don't want people to know it was you."

Truth be told, he had always been a self-aggrandizing, egotistical manipulator, and he still was, but he had been forced to temper this against the realities of living on the fringe.

"It would be counter to our role in the universe," said Lalana.

"I was addressing Lorca."

At last he spoke to her, but his eyes remained locked on the stars outside. "Then you're shit out of luck, Burnham, 'cause there is no Lorca. But if you want to put a line in there about the great and mighty Captain Omen, you be my guest."

"Omen," said Burnham. "As in a portent of fate. You haven't changed at all."

Lorca snorted so hard he got saliva in his nose. Burnham was entirely missing the trick to the name. He turned away from the window, keeping his back to Burnham, and addressed the Misellian sitting at the conference table. "Ree! You handle the specs." He grabbed his helmet from the table and stormed out.

"Let him go," Lalana advised Saru and Burnham. "He did not want to come."

Burnham looked at Lalana with pity for how little the lului knew about anything. "That may be what he wants all of us to believe, but that does not make it true. The Gabriel Lorca I remember was obsessed with me."

"Oh, Michael Burnham, it was not that he was obsessed with you, it was that he loved someone who had your face. And when you have lost someone you love, it is such a comfort to still be able to see their face."

The problem, Lorca informed them all once he had calmed down, was that they were trying to track Georgiou down. "You don't track Georgiou, you draw her out to you."

They knew roughly what region of space she was in. From there, it was a simple matter to falsify a set of refugee transfer records, disguise the stealth cruiser as a transport, and fabricate a distress signal for a fake engine emergency.

"Can't be subtle about it. She doesn't go for subtle. Whatever you put in that message, you gotta clobber her over the head with it."

"If it's too obvious, she'll see through it," said Burnham.

"Trust me," said Lorca to Saru. He was still pointedly avoiding looking at Burnham.

While the real refugees hitched a ride on Discovery to somewhere more welcoming than this region of space, Burnham and three of Discovery's security officers boarded the cruiser.

"Welcome aboard the Hayliel," said Lalana.

The ship was dark both inside and out. Its interior felt like being in a hole deep underground rather than the infinite reaches of space and the passages that made up the ship's veins were so narrow Burnham and her entourage could only walk in a single file. It was claustrophobic, dimly lit, and eerily quiet. It felt very Terran.

They arrived in the cargo bay and encountered a fourth crewmember: a young human woman who smirked up at them as she expertly cleaned and reassembled a rifle weapon. "The great Michael Burnham," said the woman, identifying herself as "Simi the Starkiller."

The security officers were permitted to wander the ship freely because, as Lalana said, "Anywhere that you are not allowed, you will not be able to enter." It was an opportunity to familiarize themselves with the layout of the ship and prepare for the coming trap.

Lorca was on the bridge, sitting in the captain's chair and gnawing on his finger in agitation. Burnham took up a position just off to his right, almost but not quite in his eyeline, and kept watch on him from the corner of her eye. He remained clearly displeased by her presence even if he was refusing to actively acknowledge her.

He was not the only one to take issue with the mission. "I am under no obligation to help with missions I do not agree with," said Aeree from what appeared to be an operations station. "That's not the deal. Give me the shuttle. I can still make the rendezvous with Jochrat and complete our objective."

Most humans would not have recognized what Lorca and Aeree were discussing, but Burnham had grown up on Vulcan and knew a Romulan name when she heard one. Exactly what had Lorca and his friends been up to?

"I'm amending the deal," said Lorca. "You want Mac to find out what you did to that cat? No? Well then, you're staying here."

Aeree said in a tone so cloyingly sweet it felt like it was dripping sugary ichor, "You cannot hold that over my head forever, Omen."

"You don't eat a man's cat!" Was that anger or exasperation in Lorca's voice? Burnham could not decide which.

"Even I know that, and I once ate a man," clicked Lalana from the helm controls.

Aeree hissed softly. "Very well, but you are warned," she said nebulously. Burnham was reminded of Lorca's time commanding Discovery. Then, as now, he had created a highly contentious ship environment. She failed to realize that this was a game to them all, and that it had been a game back on Discovery, too, with the sole difference that all the participants on the Hayliel knew they were playing. In time, Lorca would do something that Aeree could hold over his head and the balance of power would be restored between them and perhaps even tip in the Misellian's favor.

They waited. And waited. Lorca's agitation grew to a boiling point and Burnham felt it necessary to point out that the reason the ploy had not worked was likely him. "Our message was too obvious," she announced. "She realized it was a trap."

Lorca jumped up from the captain's chair and stormed out of the room.

"Why did you do that," Aeree hissed at Burnham. "Do you think Omen does not see that possibility?"

"It needed to be said," said Burnham.

Aeree's reply was unequivocally firm. "If everyone in a room knows something, it does not need to be said. You only say things when you think people need to know them and do not already. Do you think we were born yesterday, little Earth child, or that there is any thought in your head that has not already filtered through ours? What are you in the face of a thousand years of experience?"

"Ree, that's enough." Lorca had turned around almost immediately after leaving the bridge and heard most of the exchange from the entryway. "Burnham, with me."

The cruiser was not very big and there were few places to go. Burnham put a hand to the phaser on her hip as she trailed Lorca. She couldn't tell Lorca's mood completely from his back, but his voice was grimly resigned. "Sorry 'bout that. Aeree's a little protective. I'd say she's harmless, but... Her bark is entirely less than her bite."

"If you try anything, I will defend myself," Burnham warned.

Lorca did not respond. Their destination turned out to be a tiny mess hall, surprisingly bright compared to the rest of the ship, with white walls and silver fixtures. A silver table with bench seating took up most of the space. Lorca hit a switch just inside the door and the lights dimmed halfway, shifting the room from glaring white to a more neutral warm cream color he found tolerable. He slid past the table and plucked two cups from a storage cupboard. "When my Michael got tense, it was usually because she was getting peckish."

Burnham watched Lorca's shoulders as he poured coffee into the cups and rummaged for something to serve with it, settling on some sweet rolls. "I'm not your Michael."

"Ree's not wrong. When everyone knows something, sometimes it doesn't need to be said." He pushed one of the coffee cups towards her and sat down at the table.

At last they were sitting across from each other and it became clear the reason he had been avoiding her so thoroughly. He gazed at her with a mixture of melancholy, longing, and relief. A faint smile touched his lips.

This time, Burnham looked away. He sniffed in mildly derisive amusement at her discomfort. "So this is what it's come to. You hate me that much."

When their eyes met again, hers were steady and cold. "I barely think about you. You're nothing but a bad memory that I put behind me a long time ago."

He frowned in annoyance, a frown she remembered from seeing it many times on Discovery, and Burnham was glad; she knew hearing she never thought about him would hurt more than suggesting she possessed any emotion towards him at all. "After everything I did for you," he said, shaking his head. "Without me, you'd still be languishing in Federation prison. Your adopted dad'd be dead in the Yridia nebula, and you wouldn't be back in Starfleet serving as first officer on that ship. A ship I gave you. You ungrateful..." He grabbed his roll and bit off a large chunk, chewing on it angrily.

Burnham was shocked. "You expect me to thank you?" she realized.

He washed the roll down with a swig of coffee and sniped at her, "That'd be a start."

"After everything you did." Burnham shook her head.

"Because of it," he countered.

"You lied. To me, to Starfleet, to everyone."

"What was I supposed to do? You think if I'd waltzed up and said, 'I'm not from this universe,' they'd've given me a ship? I'd have been poked and prodded like a goddamn specimen. I only did what I had to do to get a command."

"You were using us to get back to your universe."

"As if!" He rolled his eyes. It had been the plan, and then it wasn't the plan, and then it was again. The plan had therefore existed in a state of Schrodinger-like uncertainty, both true and untrue, until events had forced it to become a last-ditch desperate effort to retain control of his own destiny. That was all he had ever wanted, really. Control for himself to make up for a life where he'd had none. "I just wanted to keep my goddamn ship." He sighed. "Maybe win that war for you. The right way."

"By bringing the Terran Empire here to 'save' us just so you could turn around and crush us beneath your heel and become emperor of two universes."

"Now that," said Lorca, "sounds like something the other you would've come up with. Maybe I could've managed it. Imagine, the might of two universes united, the possibilities." That was one way things could have played out and he would have been entirely satisfied to make it so. There was no denying it was a solution he had considered. "But if I had..."

If he had gone through with that course of action, he would have lost her. The only thing he had left of Michael. In the end, he'd lost her anyway, but at least it was not because he had intentionally set them down a path towards that inevitability.

"Then what was your plan?"

"Well, now you'll never know, will you."

Had he been feeling more generous, he might have told her his secret. There had never been one plan, there had always been twenty. His brilliance was in coming up with plan after plan so that in the moment, he could make the most of whatever fate had presented him in a way that seemed intentioned. He made the plans and fate chose among them.

Burnham glared at him as she sipped her coffee. Despite his denials, she felt she knew the truth. He was a liar and had always been.

Another sigh. "I didn't bring you in here for this. When I first became this universe's Gabriel Lorca, someone gave me a gift. A story. Funnily enough, a story was the gift I gave my Michael. It's time I gave you one, too."

A lie, she thought to herself, but the story he told felt true.

"I've got a scar on my back. From an agonizer, handheld. Spot where it is, can't quite reach it myself. Which is exactly what the person who put it there intended. She liked to put scars in that spot so her victims would have to debase themselves by asking for help to get rid of 'em. I even did a few times. I hated that scar so much. Every time I got rid of it, she'd put it right back. The last time she put it on my back was just before I came here. Now, I coulda had someone in this universe remove it the minute I arrived because no one here knows what the scar is or what it means, but I didn't. You know why?"

Burnham waited, sensing he did not require her to ask the question.

"She had the same scar on her back. My Michael. I swore I'd keep it until I took down the person who gave it to us both. So thank you, Burnham. It looks like now I finally get that chance."

Knowing that Georgiou was in the habit of marking people on their backs like chattel was disturbing but Burnham held herself firm and said coldly, "That doesn't excuse what you did. Georgiou told me how you groomed the other me."

Lorca's stare was uncharacteristically surprised. "Did she? That's funny. You ever think Pippa mighta been describing herself?"

Until this moment, Burnham never had, because she couldn't possibly imagine the original Captain Georgiou doing anything like that.

Then she remembered a moment before she, Georgiou, Tilly, and Tyler had beamed down to Qo'noS to deliver what turned out to be a hydro bomb. How Georgiou had lit up at the sight of Tilly, stroked her hair, called her "Killy" in a way that sounded like a personal pet name. A knot of revulsion formed in Burnham's stomach. "No. You tricked the other me."

"You don't give the other you enough credit. I couldn't make that girl do anything she didn't wanna do. You have that in common. And she... she always knew she had me wrapped around her little finger." Lorca smiled, his eyes faraway as he recalled his Michael. He had committed a cardinal sin where the other universe was concerned, just not the sin Burnham thought he had. Sins were defined a little differently for Terrans. "She was the one wanted to be emperor. I was just happy to help."

Burnham instantly saw the flaw in the logic he was offering. "She was the emperor's heir. She didn't need your help."

"You think she was Pippa's one and only? Georgiou was fickle and vindictive. Still is, thanks to you. Michael and I lasted longer than most. Didn't mean we were safe. So we took a gamble. Together." He closed his eyes. "I still see her sometimes. My Michael."

If only Burnham had stayed with him in the other universe and taken up the mantle of emperor. He wished he could have seen some version of Michael on that throne. His end goal had always been to remove Georgiou and replace her with someone who would not debase him, threaten his life constantly, and take away the things he loved. Someone who would allow him the autonomy to fly freely across the expanse of the stars. Michael had exceeded his expectation in every regard.

Aeree's voice came over the comms. "Omen, we detect them."

Lorca's eyes snapped open and he smirked confidently. "Time to put on a show."

At the show's conclusion, Georgiou was flat on her back in the middle of the Hayliel's cargo bay, pinned mostly beneath a cargo crate, with Lorca's boot on her wrist and a Romulan disruptor pistol aimed at her head. Burnham stared at this reversal of fortune with panic. "No!"

"King of the misfits," Georgiou said venomously, reviving an old nickname of Lorca's. In their universe, that was what he had been: leader of the aberrations who pursued things other than power. People like Matthew Kerrigan, Jackson Benford, and Emellia Petrellovitz. There were plenty around him who were there for power, but enough that weren't to earn them revulsion.

"Emperor of nothing," he responded.

"Do it," Georgiou hissed.

Burnham walked slowly towards Lorca, her hands outstretched in a plea, her own phaser set to stun. "There's no reason for us to kill her."

"She had her chance," said Lorca. "You really wanna give her another one, Michael?"

"Yes." A chance to go to Federation prison, but a chance nonetheless.

"You didn't give me a chance."

Burnham stopped. There were always signs, of course. Pahvo, the Yridia nebula, Corvan, his attempts to rescue, protect, and help her. Moments that to Burnham were obfuscated by his darkness, his cruelty, his contempt for the people around him, and his apparent obsession with her.

She raised her phaser into the air in a sign of peace. "I'm giving it to you now."

He holstered his disruptor and stepped away. At last, long last, Burnham could see who he was.

At the end of it all, Burnham made an offer she did not expect to make. "I cannot offer you what you had with your Michael, but... If you wish to communicate..."

"No. You've been talking to Lalana." He turned towards her, years of sadness reflected in his eyes. "You know what the worst thing in the universe is? Watching the face of someone you love turn against you. I look at you and I see..." His voice began to break. "You standin' there, staring at me... I just wanted one more moment with her. One last moment. I gave you back the stars and you wouldn't even give me that!"

She could see that moment, too. A terrified face, staring at her with shocked betrayal, falling to the floor with a wound worse than the physical hole in his chest.

"I don't want to see you. I don't wanna be near you. I wish I'd never—" But he couldn't finish that sentence because it wasn't true. "I wish things had been different. But I want you to know, I forgive you."

Burnham stared at him, confused.

"For thinking the worst of me."

2260.

"We are not far from Risa," said Lalana. "We should visit Sollis and Caxus. They have been asking to see you." As with Stamets and Tilly and that seemingly calculated encounter on the Kasseelian moon, Lorca was abiding by the strict rules set out by Starfleet. He scrupulously avoided contacting anyone from his time on Discovery or the other Lorca's life.

Lalana had made no such agreement. When O'Malley mentioned where Tilly and Stamets were headed, Lalana brought Lorca to give him the chance to antagonize Stamets one last time as a small consolation gift. Also because, as much as Lorca loved pushing Stamets' buttons, he still liked Stamets in his own way.

The thought of visiting Risa made Lorca uncomfortable. Out of all the people who had known the other Lorca, he had not managed to trick any of them for very long, and by all accounts, Sollis and Caxus knew the other Lorca very, very well. He pointed this out.

"Do not worry," said Lalana. "It is you they wish to meet. I knew they could keep a secret and so I told them who you were."

"That wasn't your secret to tell," Lorca chided.

"Wasn't it?"

In the end, they could not go to Risa because it was too much a risk. Sollis and Caxus came to them, beaming aboard the Hayliel after very carefully confirming Lalana was standing far enough away that there was no danger of materializing where she was standing. Lorca shielded his eyes from the blinding white light of the transport. Since they were not headed down to the planet, he had seen no reason to spray his eyes that morning and now he was being rewarded with a wincing pain for his sulking laziness.

"Sollis and Caxus, it is so wonderful to have you on my ship at last. May I introduce Gabriel Lorca?"

Lorca lowered his hand and squinted at their guests, unsure what to make of them as his eyes adjusted.

He froze with his arm hovering in the air. It was her. Impossibly, unbelievably, and miraculously her, and because Risians lived much longer than humans, she looked much the same as she had back then. Those unmistakable emerald-green eyes, the cascade of wavy honey-brown hair, sun-kissed skin and a smile that made you want to drop everything and run to wherever she was.

These details had been entirely diminished in the version of her he had once known, but here they were presented in full radiance, and she was even more stunning.

"You're Sollis?" he asked.

Sollis smiled. "Like the word 'solace' in your language, meaning comfort."

Lorca had never known her name. In his universe, it was likely she had never had one. Many slaves were never given names or were taken from their parents at such young ages they never knew them. If he could have chosen a name for her, though, it would have been exactly that. Solace was what she had been, the other version of her, for that brief moment until Georgiou took her away and created a wound that lasted until he found new purpose in Michael. Now, here she was again, entirely restored. He could scarcely breathe at the sight of her.

Sollis could tell there was something more to this than a mere first meeting. She could see the pain and shock and sensed it was connected to her. There was a lopsidedly helpless yet hopeful smile on Lorca's face, a wish he could not speak, and a despair just beneath it.

She decided to do something about it. She approached, arms raised, and hugged him. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said.

He wrapped his arms around her after a moment, returning the hug more tightly than he should have. Her hair smelled faintly of flowers and the sea. Destiny, he decided. It was destiny. "I've missed your face," he said softly in a whisper only she could hear.

She smiled and closed her eyes, because even if this was not her friend Gabriel Lorca, there was no denying she felt the same. "I missed yours."

Standing to the side, Lalana and Caxus watched this display of desperate familiarity without judgment. Caxus touched a finger to his lips in a pensive motion Lalana recognized all too well. "This Gabriel is a little more of a one partner person," she advised.

"That's disappointing," said Caxus mildly.

"Nn. He is a very good Gabriel Lorca, but he will never be our Hayliel, not entirely."

Caxus reached over and twined his fingers around Lalana's tail. "There was only one Hayliel Lorla."

Watching Lorca and Sollis with unblinking eyes, Lalana pressed her hands together thoughtfully. She was reminded for a moment of Mischkelovitz's sacrifice—a sacrifice intended to save some other version of Gabriel Lorca in what Mischkelovitz believed was the original timeline. If Mischkelovitz was right, then maybe there were two Gabriel Lorcas in the world she had gone to, and maybe one of them was Hayliel.

Except John Allan had gone back in time to the Triton and put Hayliel in Lalana's path. That probably meant in the original timeline, Lorca and Lalana had never met and shared the things they shared here. If so, there was only one Hayliel Lorla, and he was gone.

How happy she was to have ever known him. How much she wished to see him again. All she had left was his reflection from the other universe.

Part 102

#Star Trek Discovery #Star Trek #Discovery #Paul Stamets #Sylvia Tilly #Kasseelian opera #Mirror Gabriel Lorca #Michael Burnham #Captain Saru #Saru

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