#and never will now that I have this bundle of information infesting my mind

[salem-sapiens]

Did you know that frollo canonically has a daughter called Claudine in the descendants series?? He even owns a creprie

Just what was going on in the producers' mind...?

P1: We need to insert this villain and a relative of his for the series. I don't really remember the movie but I know he's french and, uh...he likes singing by the fireplace, I think.

P2: Just give him a daughter, that goes well with any character. I'm sure his background and personality won't be a big matter.

P1: Aight, now since all the villains are exiled on this island we should give him something to do while he's there.

P2: You said he's french, right? Make him work in a bakery, he will sell baguette-croissant-tatin kind of stuff.

P1: Isn't that a bit stereotypical...?

P2: What about a creperie?

P1: PERFECT

But I suppose Frollo could have a daughter.

If he wasn't a misogynist.

And a bigot catholic prude.

And a pompous ass who thinks he's too good and pure compared to others.

So essentially, if he wasn't Frollo.

[iimuchakk]

Seven seas babies AU - The Journey

Hinahoho’s babies xxx

The five little beans and their father are so excited to go back to Sindria to see Kikiriku and the other’s it’s not even funny

If it wasn’t for all the commotion Hinahoho could of sworn he saw Ahanu smile...

Catori is already getting together her favorite clothes and weapons, whilst Aponi’s already packed

She’s desperate to get a tan

poor babies so pale

Of course Bodaway and Badzill are super duper excited!

People back in Sindria aren't use to their pranks and mischief

they’re pretty sure big bro Ja’far will appreciate the break from work to deal with them

unless he decides the break from work grants him permission to break their necks

wouldn’t be surprising

Turns out, Hinahoho didn’t realize how hard it was going to be keeping himself and five children all together on one ship despite its gigantic size

“Give me back my hair brush Catori!” 

“No Aponi this is mine!”

“DADDY!”

Too much drama for the poor Imuchakk man!

The twin boys are no better

Every second he looks away he has a new note attached to his back

At least Ahanu is being calm at least

Actually, where is Ahanu?

“OH MY SOLOMON STOP WRESTLING SHARKS!”

He’s pretty sure if Rurumu was alive they’d be to scared to pull this crap

How long is the journey over seas again?

A few months?

oh great.

how fun.

Meanwhile, Kikiriku just drinks all the alcohol he can get his hands on

Knowing family time is not always fun time

but annoying time

Ja’far’s babies xxx

Rabi has never looked so hyperactive

and that’s bad

because he is usually hyperactive anyways

has only ever met Hinahoho’s family once when they were very young

not including Kikiriku, who he is rather close with

and that’s about it

Ja’far is just as excited but shows it in smaller doses 

he’s told Rabi a bit about his old friends

though most of Rabi’s information comes from uncle sin and Drakon, who are less busy then his dad

Ja’far has to actually organize everyone's arrivals and their journeys through letter’s and magic circles, so it’s no surprise he’s tired

“No need to threat dad. I’m sure some magic trick’s will cheer you up!”

They don’t

they really don’t Rabi

So Rabi moves on

Trying to decide what color looks best on him since he’s pretty sure ginger hair is hard to match with

decide’s to go with pink, he feels it brings out his eyes

Sinbad applaud’s him on his extravagant choice

Kikiriku, Spyro and Sadiq don’t want to break his little heart and tell him he looks terrible so they just...smile(?)

Ja’far and wife-co decide an awkward thumbs up is probably best in this situation

At least the other’s arriving are all excepting...

Sinbad’s babies xxx

Does not care

Sadiq has no interest with meeting these people

From the stories he’s been hearing they’re all

tiny, flat chested

over grown

cocky, big headed

spineless, overly religious

boring, emotionless

crazy wizard people!

He already has enough of that with Rabi

boi needs no more of that craziness in his life

Sinbad’s been trying to get him excited

offering him Sharrkan’s guidance as a sword fighting teacher because -

“Your foot work really need’s work. Perhaps when you learn to control yourself better in battle, you can be as good as me~?”

g l a r e

nothing else really changes

goes about his day as usual

mentally curses the fact his dad is more clingy then usual

spends a lot of him time in the garden hiding in the bushes whilst everyone else’s happily awaits the arrival of the others

angrily chews on some near by leaves

Where’s Spyro when you need him?

Drakon’s babies xxx

Is really scared about meeting everyone

His parents speak really fondly of the old generals, and he’s worried his appearance might scare them

Tries to find something nice to wear that hide’s most of him away whilst still looking approachable

Saher laughs at him

points to Drakon

“If they can put up with his face then your looks will be easy to cope with.”

“Jee thanks mom.”

If you couldn’t tell that was sarcastic

Spyro also wants to show of a little

just a little...

and decides to make the training ground look nice and civilized so he can invite someone back to spar with

wants to show everyone he’s strong

since it’s the only quality he really like’s about himself

Is dragged to Rabi’s room to watch the boy practically cat walk his outfits

“Yes Rabi you look beautiful. CanIPleaseLeave?”

Can’t find Sadiq anywhere and is very worried

Until Kikiriku tell’s him he saw him chewing on plants that he’s fine

Spartos babies xxx

Very casual journey

wifu stays at home to keep everything in order

Spartos is practically pining after her as soon as the boat leaves the harbor

Elizabeth and Junior have never been more ashamed of their father’s pathetic display of sniveling affection. 

He’s smitten.

“Why is he so insistent about wanting to hold her...?”

“Because Liz, he was a virgin so long before he met her it probably feels weird to know he’s going to have to wait at least a year before any more shenanigans.”

“THATS NOT TRUE I JUST REALLY LOVE YOUR MOTHER “ ;((((

Whole way there is basically cheering up Spartos instead of enjoying the journey to Sindria

Elizabeth will sing for her father from time to time and brings him food, and Spartos appreciates that she tries

Junior’s attempts are less subtle...

Tries to get his dad to do stupid thing’s to get his mind off his mother like:

A: Will dad appreciate rain dancing on a boat? Possibly causing a storm

B: Fishing in shark infested waters?

C: Drowning themselves so they don’t have to deal with his whining?

Junior is very excited to meet the people in his dad’s past life

really wants to spar with someone

oh please say someone wants to spar

Elizabeth is less excited, more curious then anything.

Shes desperate to meet the king of Sindria

Not for him himself, but rather his jewelry

Masrur’s babies xxx

Wives Razol and Rehema decided they don’t want to go

For them it’s basically a holiday

Masrur has the kids with him for a month or two whilst they get to do whatever they like?

See you Masrur

Have fun~

Sadi’s only ever met Ja’far and Sinbad

likes them a lot

would appreciate it if they would arm wrestle with her

how else would she prove shes better?

Very keen to show off

In-fact Masrur want’s her too

Something about showing two people swords and magic suck compared to the fanalis race? Whatever that means.

Angelou kind of just shrugs

He’s a lot like his dad after all

You think meeting some strangers is gonna excite him? Nah

Poor Angelou just wants to rest

Knows it’s basically going to be him baby sitting Ruby

His little sister is defiantly going to be trying to prove herself?

Ever seen a fanalis punch someone in the face?!

Yes?

Ever had a fanalis punch you in the face?!

No?

Stand still!!

Masrur should probably warn the generals about her...

And Dominic. Well Dominic’s just worried

Dosent want to let his father down

He’s in touch with his feminine side

Nervous that the generals will make fun of Masrur for it

Thinking of ways to make himself seem more manly

Sharrkans babies xxx

There is no easy way to put this

Ozymandias is a little brat

On the ship he’s constantly crying

Defiantly not a sea baby

It’s okay though

Sharrkan just loves listening to crying babies when HES TRYING TO SLEEP ITS GREAT HONESTLY HES SO NOT DYING INSIDE

Always checking constantly to make sure Ozymandias isn’t sick

He remembers when his mother grew ill and Ozymandias’ mother

He can’t let that happen

Every time he walks into a room his son throws a toy snake at him

9/10 it hits him in the face

He loves his son really...

In-fact, ever since he’s had Ozymandias he’s been compeltly ignoring women

Actually now that he thinks about it he wasn’t had...you know what in a long time

Has it changed!?

Is he even doing it right!?

Que baby crying

“SOMEONE HELP ME!”

Yamraiha’s babies xxx

Dosent want to travel through a magic circle incase she hurts the baby in her belly

Boat ride it is

Ever been stuck on a month boat ride with a pregnant woman?

No

LUCKY YOU!

If she’s craving a food that isn’t there, someone is about to have a broken neck

LET HER EAT DAMMIT!

Can’t get comfortable in any position and the rocking of the boat just makes her morning sickness worst

Accidentally threw up on someone’s shoes...

Lays in bed thinking about possible baby names but can’t come up with any she likes so proceeds to cry into her pillow.

Looks fat in everything

The generals are going to think she looks fat

Sharrkan is 100% going to laugh at her being fat

Que power nap

This trip better be worth it...

Pisti’s babies xxx

Tir is ready for take off

Pisti has already decked him out in feathers galore and won’t he stop trying to climb up on every single bird he sees

She can’t help but laugh at him

He’s such a bundle of energy

No trouble at all

“HES GONNA GET HIS EYES PECKED OUT SOMEONE STOP HIM!”

Okay maybe a bit of trouble

But nothing auntie Pisti can’t solve right!

Right?...

Pisti decides to fly over to Sindria because why not? It’s a lot quicker

To stop Tir from falling off she makes a harness that she straps around the chest of the bird so Tir is facing her the whole time

BIG MISTAKE

The whole way there he’s just gargling at her and poking her boobs

Then he cries when he realises how small they are

IF HE DOSENT WATCH HIS ATTITUDE SHE WILL THROW HIM OFF THE BIRD!

Debates if it’s even worth drinking in sindria because Tir is a full time job

Pisti? Not drinking?

She joins in with Tir’s cries

It’s a painful journey with a peacock coloured Tir alright...

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] Also on AO3

Chapter 6: Jon

Jon grumbles to himself as he drives back through the streets of London. Stupid. Stupid of him to have left his notes behind and stupid to be going back for them now. He could easily wait until morning. There’s no real urgency in the matter. What can he possibly do in the next—he glances at the dashboard clock on his car—nine hours that can’t wait until business hours?

But after realizing he left them in his office, he was out the door and in his car before he thought about it. Even now, he can’t convince himself to just turn around and go back. There is an odd sense of urgency propelling him, hence why he’s driving instead of submitting to the capricious whims of the late-night London Transit schedule. He needs to get to the Archives, needs to get those notes. And, all right, maybe he’ll check on Martin while he’s at it.

Really, he might as well stay overnight himself. No point in driving back and forth more than necessary. He can get whatever work he wants done just as easily in the office, and it might be useful to have another pair of hands or eyes or ears or whatever he needs, even if—

Jon terminates that line of thought ruthlessly. Martin isn’t incompetent. He just doesn’t have the training the rest of them do. If Jon thinks about it too hard, he actually feels a bit of a heel for having been so harsh on the man without troubling to ask questions. He did what he could with what he had, and now that he’s come out and admitted it, Sasha has been more than willing to help him out. He is getting better. A lot better. And it’s only been a few days.

So...yes. If he stays at the office to work, Martin can help. And probably will, if he’s still awake. It is, after all, a bit late. Jon will have to be quiet, at least at first, because if Martin is asleep he doesn’t want to wake him. He needs rest. They all do, really, but Jon is an anxious mess at the best of times and this whole...situation isn’t helping, so his sleep is ofttimes restless at best and intermittent at worst. He’ll likely end up pacing the Archives for most of the night. Maybe he’ll check to make sure that CO2 system he talked Elias into having installed is working properly. Or maybe he’ll go through the statements. Martin found one that seemed to be from Jane Prentiss; Jon meant to read it the night before, but hadn’t got around to it. Yes, that will likely be what he does.

He turns a corner and slams on his brakes. There is a veritable wall of emergency lights before him—police, fire, even an ambulance. And it all seems to be centered around...

No.

Jon isn’t one hundred percent certain the car is even all the way off, let alone pulled over to the curb, before he’s out the door and moving towards the crowd. Something is happening, and it’s happening at the Magnus Institute.

Jon scans the people clustered on the sidewalk. There aren’t many, not that he expected there to be. It is, after all, well into the evening. Most people leave at five, or close to it. In fact, most of the people on the sidewalk seem to be from nearby buildings, mere curious onlookers gawking at the spectacle. Jon doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, and he slowly begins to relax.

Then panic strikes him like an almost physical force. Martin. Martin should be easy to spot. He’s big—not fat, exactly, just big—and one of the taller employees. He ought to be standing on the edge of the crowd, a bundle of anxiety and attempted helpfulness, talking to a police officer or an onlooker or looking around to make sure he isn’t going to get in trouble for something that almost certainly isn’t his fault.

He’s not there. Jon spins frantically, but Martin is nowhere to be seen. He could be on the far side of the crowd, or he could have stepped out for something, or—

Or he could still be in the Archives.

Jon runs towards the door, hardly aware he’s doing it. Something slams into him, holding him back, and he struggles, his panic rising. Something is holding him, he’s trapped, he’s in danger, but Martin is still in there—

“Hold on, sir, you can’t go in there!”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to—my friend is in there—” Jon fights to get free.

“Crews are inside, sir, they’ll find anyone who’s in there, but you need to stay out here. We can’t have you running into danger.”

The fireman—as it proves to be—deposits Jon behind a barricade. He grips it in both hands, staring desperately at the door to the Archives. There doesn’t seem to be any smoke pouring out of the door, which is...maybe promising, but maybe not. Maybe still too late.

There was a fire in the Archives, somehow. Martin was down there. If he didn’t wake in time...or if he wasn’t able to get out, if the CO2 suppressant system triggered and he breathed in too much of the stuff...

A chasm seems to open up before Jon as he suddenly, unexpectedly faces down the idea of a world devoid of Martin Blackwood. His mind conjures up thoughts of Martin’s not-too-chipper morning, Jon every day, of his quiet determination to do his job even when he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, of the earnest way he makes his reports. Of him appearing in Jon’s office with a cup of tea, made exactly the way Jon likes it, at the exact moment he needs it the most.

In that moment, Jon understands with crystal clarity exactly how important Martin is to him, and how much it will devastate him if he is gone. His grip on the barricade tightens and he begins to wonder if he can escape the notice of the firefighters in order to—

“Jon?”

Only one person—one living person, anyway—ever addresses Jon in that slightly disapproving tone. Jon turns to find Elias standing a few feet away, one eyebrow raised and his mouth set in a flat line. “Elias. What—what’s going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Elias’s disapproval is almost palpable. “I don’t see the others. I must say, I never would have expected you to run and leave them behind.”

“Leave—what do you mean?”

Elias’s lips tighten. “You think I wasn’t aware of what was going on? I did hear Tim talking about this ‘sleepover in the Archives’.”

Jon stares at Elias for a second, comprehension eluding him. Then, suddenly, ice floods his veins as he realizes what Elias is implying.

Not just Martin. Tim and Sasha doubled back to spend the night, too.

“Oh, God,” he manages to choke out.

Elias’s expression shifts. “You weren’t aware?”

“No!” Jon turns desperately back towards the Institute, towards the Archives, frantically scanning for any sign of...anything. “No, I thought—they both should have gone home by now, I—oh, God. No.”

He starts to dodge around the barricade, but Elias has his shoulder in an iron grip. “Steady, Jon. The ECDC said not to—”

“The what?” Jon jerks his head around to face Elias. Realization hits him, yet again, and while he would have sworn there isn’t enough blood left in his face for it to drain any further, he is apparently wrong about that. “Jane Prentiss is here?”

“Jon, you’re getting hysterical. Calm down.”

“Calm down? You’ve just informed me that my entire staff was in the Archives, which apparently were not only on fire but invaded by a woman completely riddled with dangerous worms, and you want me to calm down?”

“The fire was apparently small, and, I suspect, set mostly with the intention of triggering the CO2 suppressant system—”

“If that is supposed to make me feel better, Elias, it is failing.” Jon turns back to the Archives and contemplates making a break for it. It’s fifty-fifty whether Elias will stop him, or just wait to see if he survives and then fire him, but the emergency staff are—

There’s a lot of activity around one of the doors. Jon lets out a ragged gasp as two paramedics come out, wheeling a stretcher between them with a body on it. He doesn’t—can’t—know for sure who is on it, not from that distance, not in the dark and with his eyesight, but he does. He knows, with a certainty that he can almost taste, that it’s Martin on that stretcher.

And he isn’t moving.

“Jon!” Elias shouts, but Jon is past hearing him, too preoccupied with rushing across the lawn. He has to get to him, has to see—

“Stand back!” A figure in a hazmat suit suddenly looms up, barring his progress. “You can’t come in this area!”

“Damn you, that is someone I care about, I need to know he’s okay!” Jon cries, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this area is off-limits until we’re sure we’ve contained the infestation,” the figure in the hazmat suit says. “You should be able to see him once he’s out of quarantine.”

“But—” Jon’s eyes desperately track the stretcher as they wheel it past, the two attendants tossing terms and orders back and forth. It is Martin, he was right, lying very still. There’s an oxygen mask clamped over his face, and he’s—oh, God, he’s covered in blood—he was attacked—the worms, or Jane Prentiss, or both, they attacked Martin, he is hurt, he might be dying, he could already be dead and the oxygen mask could just be for form’s sake and nobody will tell him because they have to control the damage and cover up what’s happening and Jon can’t even be at his side because he might still be infested with the parasites that riddled Prentiss’s body and oh, God, what will he do if Martin survives only to be like that, this is all his fault, why in the name of God’s green earth did he think the Archives would be safe, why was it only Martin he suggested stay, why hadn’t he either had all of them stay, or had all of them stay somewhere else—

The slam of the ambulance doors jolts him out of his thoughts, and he draws in a great gasp of air, which he realizes he’s been forgetting to do somewhat. It would start calming him if not for the fact that he suddenly realizes where his thoughts are trending and starts panicking all over again. “Tim and Sasha! Where are they?”

The figure hesitates, then waves at someone. Another hazmat-suited figure comes over to them, and Jon can see the scowl behind the clear plastic mask, even over the breathing apparatus. “Get back behind the barricades! This area is under quarantine, and unless you want to be quarantined too, I suggest you stay clear.”

It crosses Jon’s mind, for a fleeting second, to ask if he’d be quarantined with Martin, but the thought is gone before he can speak it, fortunately. The figure that still holds him is already speaking, though. “Mack, how many people have we found so far?”

“Two, the man they just brought out and...well, what’s left of a woman,” the second figure says. “I’m told everyone should have been gone for the day.”

“My assistants decided to spend the night,” Jon says. He can hear the hysterical quality in his own voice but is helpless to stop it. “There should be two more, a man and a woman—he’s got, ah—and she’s—” He flounders as he tries desperately to conjure up a description of either Tim or Sasha. The only face his brain seems willing to contemplate just then is Martin’s, bright and eager, pale and scared, still and bleeding.

“We haven’t found them, sir, but we’ll keep looking.” The second figure’s tone changes—concern, maybe? Still, he waves at the first figure, who shoves Jon easily back behind the barricade.

Someone, probably Elias, is talking. Jon honestly isn’t listening. He’s torn between proceeding immediately to the hospital to stalk the lobby until someone lets him see Martin—he assumes they’re taking him to the hospital, anyway—or staying here to make sure Tim and Sasha are all right. He should probably be concerned about the Archives, about what caught on fire, on whether or not any important statements got burnt and how big the fire was, and he’s not going to lie, a part of him is. But he’s willing to let that concern lie until later. Right now, he just needs everyone to be okay.

“Jon,” Elias says loudly, directly in his ear, and Jon about jumps out of his skin. He turns to see his boss looking at him with something that might be concern and might just be annoyance. “The worms are dead. ECDC is about to go in and remove Jane Prentiss’s body. I’m going in to supervise. Do you want to come?”

He really doesn’t. Quite apart from the fact that he’s been sufficiently upset by the few worms he has seen around the Institute and really doesn’t want to see how many are still in the Archives, even dead, he’s just about decided that he needs to be at the hospital. Martin doesn’t have anybody, as far as Jon knows, and anyway he needs to see for himself that Martin is all right. But he also knows that this is part of his job, and a part of him does need to see the Archives for himself as well, before...before whatever cleanup will happen.

Besides. Tim and Sasha are still down there.

“All right,” he manages. “Lead the way.”

He’s tense and distracted. Far from the mad rush that drove him a few moments before, he follows Elias at a more sedate pace, and he’s only half-aware of the fact that he’s balling the cuffs of his cardigan into his hand. Damn it, he bought this one brand-new when he got appointed Head Archivist and he’s already worried snags and stresses into the cuffs. He can’t help it, he’s got a compulsion to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves when he’s nervous or distracted—among other things—and this is hardly the first sweater he’s ruined like this, but it’s still been less than eight months and he’d sort of hoped he would be over this by now. He forces himself to uncurl his fists and shake his sleeves back into some semblance of order before entering the Archives.

They instantly go back into his curled fists when he sees the state of the Archives. There are worms everywhere. He cannot, for the life of him, figure out where they all came from. They’ve seen a few scattered around outside the Institute, one or two making their way inside, but this many? God, they must have been breeding in the damned walls...

The thought sends another sticky spiral of panic and guilt through him. If the worms were breeding in the walls of the Institute—of the Archives—and Martin’s been sleeping here this whole time—then this is entirely Jon’s fault. This could have happened at any time and he never would have known. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Martin was awake when all this happened, but if Tim and Sasha hadn’t been there, he might have been asleep when the worms attacked.

He might not ever have woken up.

Jon looks desperately around, trying to keep his mind on the present and not on hypotheticals. There are files that have been pulled out and...are probably ruined, to be quite honest, as there’s some sort of...substance on them. There’s a great deal of activity surrounding what appears to have once been the body of a woman, in what appears to have once been a red dress, and Jon’s stomach turns uncomfortably as he thinks about Timothy Hodge’s statement...and Martin’s. The remnants of suppressant foam still linger, and while the gas seems to have mostly dissipated, the smell is...unpleasant. The smell of worms, and earth, and rot.

Then Jon’s eyes fall on a blank space, a curved-out negative in the sea of silver-white, and his heart lurches as he realizes he’s staring at the spot where Martin lay before the attendants took him out. He steps closer, not even consciously aware he’s doing it, and stares at the space, a perversion of a snow angel on the Archives floor. There’s blood on the wood, still tacky, and Jon wonders how much there is, whether it’s too much for a normal human to survive.

“Were you here when they...?” Jon addresses the nearest person, indicating the spot where Martin’s body obviously was retrieved from.

“Was the one who found him,” the figure confirms. It sounds like a woman. “Not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m—I-I work here.” Jon should probably point out that he is, in fact, in charge here, or at least in this portion of “here”, in theory anyway, but he’s too preoccupied with finding out everything he can. “How was—what was the situation when you found him?”

“A bloody mess.” The woman waves a hand at the area. “Worms were all dead, thankfully, but there was still a bit of gas in the place. We knew we were looking for Jane Prentiss—Mr. Bouchard called us in as soon as he knew what was what—but we didn’t know there was anyone else here. I almost stepped on him before I saw him. Thought he was another dead body at first.”

Jon’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “But then?”

“He moved. Thought it might’ve been the worms at first. They were all through him. Looked like bloody Swiss cheese. But they were all as dead as the ones out here. No, it was him, struggling to breathe. I started pulling the worms out best I could and shouted for help. The paramedics showed up and helped out. He was starting to come round at that point, but...well. People aren’t meant to breathe carbon dioxide. They gave him oxygen and wheeled him out. He’ll need to be quarantined a bit until they’re sure he’s not infested, and they’ll be checking his lungs, but really, I think he’ll be fine.”

Jon exhales heavily. He really shouldn’t be relieved. Honestly, one look around the Archives should be enough to convince him that things are...bad. They are bad. God, so many worms, and some of them were in Martin’s body. There is also a human corpse on the floor. And there’s still no sign of Tim or Sasha. But those five words give him more of a sense of relief than he’s felt since he saw the first emergency light. I think he’ll be fine. Martin will be fine.

It’s enough to relax Jon to the point that he can wade carefully through the worm corpses to check the damage to his Archives, while Elias supervises the ECDC people in preparing to remove Jane Prentiss’s body, or what’s left of it anyway. Not far from where Martin lost consciousness—not died, thank God—is another odd clearing—not so much a clearing as a slight thinning in the concentration of worms. Jon eyes it, decides it’s a concern for later, and concentrates on trying to figure out where the hell the worms came from in the first place.

He finds the answer when he wanders into his office and finds the cheap shelving unit shoved to one side, twisted and askew, and a hole in the wall behind it. It should have been an exterior wall, but no, it looks like someone put a piece of drywall over an entrance. Curious, Jon touches the hole lightly. It’s person-sized, as though someone burst through the wall. At first, he’s inclined to assume it was made by Jane Prentiss, forcing her way into the Archives, but a second glance proves otherwise. The break in the plaster indicates that it came from his office, not into, meaning that someone was in his office and, somehow, knew this tunnel was there.

That should be worrying. It is worrying. Jon wonders who did it...who would break into his office, let alone push through this wall...who would put Martin in danger, because almost certainly this is how the worms got in and attacked him. He’d suspect Tim or Sasha or both, since they’re clearly not here, but he knows in his heart of hearts neither of them would deliberately put Martin at risk. They’re a family, the four of them, even if Jon’s been trying not to admit that, and they both care about him. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.

But if they didn’t know...

There’s a commotion from behind him, and Jon jumps. The thought passes through his mind that Jane Prentiss might not be all that dead after all, or worse—that she’s not alone, that she brought another of her victims along with her. He grabs at the first object he sees that could reasonably be considered a weapon—a paper knife he found in one of the drawers when he first took the job—and steps out into the Archives proper, not at all confident that he can do anything but at least willing to make the attempt.

He drops the knife instantly when he sees the two figures in the middle of the Archives, both looking panicky and quite out of breath. “Tim! Sasha!”

He rushes towards them, heedless of the worms popping and squishing under his feet. Tim looks up at him and waves at something on the floor—a hole. Jon realizes all of a sudden that they’re standing next to an open trapdoor in the middle of the Archives, something he had no idea existed before this moment.

“Call...police,” he manages to gasp out between heaving breaths.

“They’re outside,” Elias says, sounding somehow both worried and annoyed. “Tim, what is going on? What is the urgency?”

Sasha meets Jon’s eyes, and he’s genuinely never seen her so scared. “There’s a body in those tunnels. It’s Gertrude Robinson and she’s dead.”

[lupinlongbottom]

Who Could Ask For More?

Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Christmas is just around the corner! You and Fred are expecting your first child in the coming weeks, making life in the Weasley house more excitable than usual. After doing some light shopping, you find your husband working on a secret project. 

Warnings: Fluff, light swearing, pregnancy

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Woo! First time writing for Fred! I’m really happy with how this idea turned out!

__

The air was cold, your feet were swollen and your head was pounding. A typical winter day, to say the least. You had decided to run to the Muggle market to pick up the various odds and ends your kitchen cupboards were lacking for dinner that evening. Of course, with your husband being so busy at his shop, you and your very pregnant body had to trek your way to the store in the cold. You usually didn’t mind the walks, but today was the trifecta of things not going your way. You had smashed your favorite tea mug, resulting in a half hour of hormonal crying, your feet were hurting and were swollen to the size of balloons and your unborn child was having a field day stirring up your insides.

“You better be worth it” Rubbing your free hand on your visible bump, you whispered. You and your husband, Fred, had been trying to get pregnant for a little under a year to no luck. But, almost like magic, you found out you were expecting about 6 months ago. You had told Fred the good news almost immediately after you found out yourself. Naturally, he was over the moon with excitement, as you so desperately hoped he would be.

The two of you often had chats about your future and what possible children that would come into it. Fred never kept it a secret that he yearned to have your first be a girl, something about growing up in a ‘sausage infested home’ that was too traumatizing to bear onto his little one. Usually, you would roll your eyes and continue with his witty banter, but you silently would give a prayer for a little girl as well, wanting to see Fred’s face light up on the actual day of the birth. You knew he’d be happy regardless of gender, but the thought of having a little redheaded baby girl wrapped up in his arms was too priceless to pass up.

Passing by various Muggle storefronts on your way back home, you were checking out the window displays as you went. Christmas was nearing soon and you hadn’t thought of what to get Fred quite just yet. He had told you countless times before, if you asked, that being the mother of his child was quite enough of gift for him. Of course, you melted at his words, but still wanted to get him something physical. The thought about buying some new colorful socks had crossed your mind, as he donned quite the collection over the years, but that had always been your go-to gift. You had to out do yourself this year.

“Maybe I should just listen to Fred,” You mumbled, mostly to yourself. Buying a gift for the man who seemingly had everything he wanted and more was a difficult task. “I’ll think of something before Christmas. We still have a few weeks, don’t we?” Tilting your head down to your stomach, you engaged in one-sided conversation.

The front door to your house was adorned with a beautiful wreath, shimmering with various ornaments. You reach for the door, only to find it was already unlocked. Strange, you’re sure you had locked it before you left. Fred couldn’t have possibly been home, the shop was still open for a few more hours. Cautiously, you entered your home. The sight of Fred’s shoes sitting next to the rug calmed you, knowing that it was just your husband and not some intruder. Though, why was Fred home so early? Surely he still needed to take care of things at the shop with George, right? Slipping off your shoes and setting your bags down, you quietly make your way to the living room, hoping to find Fred.

“Damn! Mum makes this look so easy! Why is it so damn difficult?” You hear Fred mumble to himself. You give a quick peek around the corner, shocked to find various strings of yarn strewn around your furniture. Streaks of yellows and greens hung from your wedding photo to your favorite chair, blues and purples from the mantle to the couch. Fred was sitting dead center of the violet couch, concentrating deeply at his hands.

“Sweetie?” Fred’s head whipped around, eyes meeting yours instantly. His face is dusted in a red tint, his ears matching his hair.

“Darling! I thought you were at the store!” He quickly tried to hide whatever was in his hands, shoving it in his back pocket and pulled out his wand.

“I was, bought everything I needed, now I’m home,” You shrugged, watching Fred wave his wand frantically, cleaning up the yarn. “Though I didn’t suspect you to be home so early Freddie?” The yarn all collected into Fred’s hands, or at least that was the intention. The various colors begun to wrap around his torso and legs, adorning him with different hues.

“Was all done for the day, decided to,” He tried escaping from the constricting colors, only managed to drop his wand straight onto the floor. He groaned. “Come home early, surprise my wife”

“I’m certainly surprised, so, well done love,” Walking over to Fred, whom had started to sweat just a bit from the struggle, you wipe a bead of sweat away. His face was slightly flushed. “Weasley, what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information, you’ll have to ask my secret keeper,” He winked, wriggling some more. You crossed your arms. “Now, darling, would you please hand me my wand?” He tilted his head to the floor, motioning you to look at the pine colored wand near his feet. You shoot him a sly smirk.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” You mimicked his earlier tone. “Pregnant. Can’t bend down worth shit” You move a hand to your belly, rubbing it lovingly. Fred groaned once more.

“(Y/N),” He whined, attempting to kneel down and grab it himself, only to fall flat on the ground. He began to kick his legs, trying to turn himself over, which proved difficult without the use of his arms. You tried stifling a laugh, but you found the scene set before you too humorous to ignore. “Come on (Y/N),” He whined again. “Please, for your wonderful husband?”    

“I supposed I could help” Pulling out your wand, you untangle him successfully and re-roll the yarn back into perfect spheres. You also summoned his wand and handed it back to him. A huge sigh of relief escapes your husband as you set the yarn down on the coffee table.

“Thanks” He pulled you into a side embrace and kissed your temple. He then moved to fall directly back down on the couch, sighing again. He looked terribly exhausted, a sight you had seen more and more recently this past week than any other. You assumed it was the stress of running the shop and worrying about the baby, but had a strong feeling whatever just happened played into that as well.

“Fred, I have to ask,” You sat down next to him. His chocolate eyes meeting yours, only to look away slightly embarrassed. “What the hell was that?”

“Well,” He fidgeted his thumbs, staring directly up at the ceiling. You slumped forward, annoyed with his hesitation. He picked up on this and sighed. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but I guess you woulda found out anyhow” He shifted his weight to his left side, reaching into his back right pocket. At the same time, he flicked his wand and the top drawer of your china cabinet opened up, sending a wrapped gift flying towards you. The package neatly fell into your lap, wrapped in a pastel green paper and tied with a bright red bow.

“Fred, it’s not Christmas yet” You reminded, touching the gift gingerly.

“You would’ve asked me constantly about what you just saw until then, so…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Happy early Christmas” Carefully, you rip the package open to find a violet jumper, or, what looked to be a jumper with a giant gold heart in the center. Holding it up from the wrapping, you notice that it was knitted slightly sloppily, one of the sleeves being slightly longer than the other.

“Did you?”

“My Mum mentioned last Christmas that with all the new grandkids running around she can’t keep up with making the holiday jumpers like she used to,” His face turned a beet red, his freckles disappearing under the color. “I always liked that tradition. It’s a very Weasley thing to do, so I tried my hand at it” You laughed, putting the jumper back in your lap.

“Yes, very Weasley,” You ran your thumb over the soft yarn. “But if you already had mine done, what were you doing just now?”

“You think you’re the only Weasley in this house that needs a holiday jumper?” His voice was laced with accusation. He holds out what looked to be a bundle of red and gold yarn. The sight caused a gasp to leave your chest.

“Fred…” The stinging of oncoming tears hit your eyes. It was the tiniest jumper you had ever seen. It was sloppy, sure, but you could just feel the love emanating off of it. You gently hold it in your hands, examining it from every angle. The sleeves were even, unlike yours. His practice must have paid off.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” A tear slid down your cheek. Normally, things like this didn’t make you emotional, but with the hormones and just the pure love that had went into the gift, the tears were flowing. Fred’s hand met your cheek, wiping your stray tear away. “Gryffindor colors?” You sniffled.

“Of course,” He laughed. “Gotta prepare our baby for their future house” You laughed as well.

“Think they’ll be in Gryffindor?”

“Being a Weasley? It’s basically a requirement” He chuckled, removing his hand from your face. He swings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in tightly to his side. You nestle your head closer to him, eyes still glued to the tiny jumper in your hands.  

“How long did it take you?” You hummed, looking up at your husband. His chest rose with a deep breath.

“Been practicing for a few weeks now. I had Mum show me how to start the jumper when we last visited,” You shot him a quizzical look. He laughed. “Waited until you went to sleep, which since the little nugget’s been around it happened pretty quickly”

“Hey!” You nudged his side playfully, causing him to laugh harder.

“She also showed me the basics of knitting. Without sounding cocky, I did make a rather perfect one my first try” Another quizzical look.

“Magic?”

“Magic,” He nodded. “Mum talked me into doing it ‘the Muggle way’,” He said with air quotes. “She said it would be more sentimental”

“She was right,” You hummed, pulling the jumper to your growing belly. “Think it fits?”

“I think we have to wait until they’re born love,” He chuckled, putting his hand atop the jumper. “That’s happening soon, huh?” His face had the look of slight fear painted across it. The baby was due in a few weeks, the thought not really hitting you fully until Fred brought it up.

“Yeah, I guess so,” You placed your hand atop his. “We’re going to be full-fledged parents soon.”

“To a baby. A real human child. A human child that’s half me and half you. Oh Merlin, (Y/N), are we ready?” He looked at you, his eyes full of uncertainty. You can’t help but acknowledge his fears, the thought of taking care of this baby scared the daylights out of you. But, you knew with Fred by your side, this baby has nothing to worry about.

“Of course we are Freddie,” You kissed his cheek. “We’re as ready as we ever could be. Our child is coming into a world where their family, their rather large family I might add, loves them so much I’m not sure they’ll know what to do with all that love,” His body softens, it’s only then you noticed how tense he was before. “Besides, once they’re here, they have a wonderfully warm jumper made by their loving father to wear.”

“A big family, a warm jumper and two parents who love them more than anything in the world?” He asked rhetorically, staring back down at your belly. “Sounds wonderful”

“We’ll be fine” Your head nestled back into it’s spot on Fred. He relaxed his neck, gently placing his head atop of yours. The two of you sat in silence, enjoying each other’s warmth. Realization hits you like a ton of bricks, causing you to groan. “Damnit!”

“What?”

“How am I supposed to top that? The amazing gift, the heartfelt sentiment? Damn,” You groaned. “A pair of socks isn’t going to cut it. You got me this year Weasley” 

“Beating my wife with the skill of heartfelt and loving gifts is one of my favorite pastimes,” He said, planting a kiss on your temple. You scowled for a bit, but Fred’s loving rub up and down your arm calmed you down again. Once more, you both sat in silence. Soon, this image would change, a third member would be added to the mix, probably snuggled into Fred’s arms. But for now, just the two of you together was enough. “I love you (Y/N)” Fred whispered into your hair.

“I love you more” You tilted your head up, pecking his lips softly, feeling his lips curl into a smile.

“That’s probably true”

[wideworldofwhump]

What are your favorite whumpy fic paragraph(s) - either from what you’ve written or what you’ve read?  Feel heartily invited to send me an ask!

Here are several of mine:

Psych:

Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth by dragonnan Warnings: cannibalism, extreme violence, blood and gore

His eyes stayed on the other man while he created another inch of space between them. Every shuffle away made his throat tighten even more. He wanted to run but all he could manage was another step. And then another. The stairs were only a few feet away now. Shawn's heel rolled over something on the floor and he nearly stumbled – his manacles clinking as he lost traction for several seconds. Falling against the wall, he looked first towards his captor. The giant had stepped deeper into the shadows and was now kneeling – still seeming to be oblivious to the stealthy escape. With impending doom avoided again, Shawn glanced down at what had tripped him up. It was long and rounded with a large knob on one end. A bone. There was no need for a degree in forensics to identify it as human.

He pulled his lips down and swallowed before stepping over the bleached white length. Now, instead of watching Tiny, he kept his eyes fixed on his path. There were more bones scattered nearby. Most appeared to be leg bones, though some shorter ones suggested they'd come from arms. Then he spotted what was clearly a skeletonized foot still strung with tendons. He had to swallow several more times as he moved past the remains.

Shawn jerked at the sudden clatter behind him – pivoting his head and squinting while he simultaneously began to pick up his speed. Tiny still wasn't looking his way but he'd stood once more. Something long hung from his right hand. It looked like a... cleaver.

His heels bumped the bottom stair and he fell backward against the concrete before he managed to spin around and scramble upwards – using hands and feet to tear his way to the top – no longer trying to be silent. His manacles continued to interfere as he slipped on the smoothed edges, rapping knees and shins and only keeping himself from a brutal fall out of desperation. His gasps had a voice as he reached the door and slammed into it – the terrified sobs for breath shaking out in a thin scream as he wrenched at the knob... and found it locked.

Sherlock:

The Tiger and the Shark by dragonnan

Warnings: rape, noncon, violence

“Isn't that an irony, then? Having spent so much time on one side of the microscope to suddenly find you've become the smudge on the slide. I wonder what they'll find under magnification?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw – rounding on his brother only to find that Mycroft, too, had vanished.

The knock that followed jolted a lurch through his middle – though he gave no outward sign of startle. “Come in.” Soft spoken and presenting a far more relaxed state than he'd last exhibited with company – he held close to the wall and faced the door – eyeing the space left open alongside the DI – noting John a bit further back and offering a truly miserable act of nonchalance. The eyes that darted – the fists held tight to his sides – the pacing walk all spoke of a man on the edge of blind fury. A comfort or threat, Sherlock hadn't the time to analyze – though he was aware of the empty swell within when the door began to shut him away.

“Don't-!” His hand shook – outstretched towards the polished wood and glass. He blinked at his shaking fingers – trying to recall when he'd lifted his arm. Lestrade, in rare comprehension, left the door open several inches. No surprise when John edged to within a hand's-breadth – meeting the flitting gaze of his friend. Sherlock nodded, once. Without pause, John slipped into the room – only approaching until Sherlock went stiff. Wordless, he sat in one of the chairs instead – never once speaking.

Rather, he allowed Lestrade to launch into a droning monologue – detailing the pursuit of his captors – their vanishing from the grid expected and of non-information. Clearly they'd prepared for a departure that would avoid interference from Scotland Yard. The monotone sharing became background. If questions were asked, they were unheeded. Sherlock studied the tremor in his fingers and only, truly, returned to the room when the only remaining occupants were himself and John.

His friend sat across from him – bundled hands showing white at the knuckle.

“What do you need, Sherlock?” Sincere – soft – attentive. Well wasn't that just like John Watson – a dichotomy from the man who could likewise be furious, hard, and stubborn. And, in many ways, Sherlock needed all of those sides. He wouldn't settle for less.

His reply, just as soft, carried a thread of something he was not yet ready to face – though the reflected pain in John's eyes showed his attempts at redaction were unsuccessful.

“Take me home...”

Iron Man:

Not the Hero Type by dragonnan

If monsters chased him in the dark he could at least see where to place his feet to run away.

Maybe that was why he hadn't been paying attention. Or, maybe he'd been looking for this. He didn't know. He rarely cataloged his reasons for anything. He fired from the hip and most of the time it struck dead center. But when he missed, oh it was a spectacular miss.

And here he was. Unlikely candidate for a crime that went well beyond the trappings of mundane. Pathetic, perhaps. Laughable, certainly. Painful? Yes. Definitely. If his charm hadn't been enough to boot him from the Super Friends this little encounter would more than suffice for a dishonorable discharge. Worse, even, than that, he'd used up most of his bitching allotment to instant replay the previous evening. Maybe now wasn't the best time to compare and contrast the military's finest man of the American cloth with the washed up husk of occasional alcoholic part time ghost in the machine currently bleeding standard issue B positive on the concrete.

Half his age and twice his height, Stuart Little and Tiny Tim were pawing the trinkets they'd collected from his person after that yellow flag moment minutes ago. They'd gone all out on their little urban Robin Hood cliché too. Their mothers and/or parole officers would be so proud. In addition to the tire iron they'd also managed a suitably dark and litter infested alley. All that was missing were the ra... oh, never-mind. One of the cat sized squeakers was just crawling from the dumpster about six feet downstream.

“Where's the cash?”

Tony lolled his leaking skull left-wise; bringing himself up to speed that one of the fine young gentlemen had wandered back to his side of the alley sometime in the last few... hours? Yeah, that was a concussion.

“That's the-green stuff, right?” Slurring. Kinda took the edge off his response but hopefully the all teeth grin helped it along.

Yup, sure did. Helped it right into a fist planted somewhere to the right of his appendix.

“Umph! Mmm... stellar delivery.” He coughed, noting the flavor of freshly diced liver on his palette. “No, really,” he wheezed, pushing slightly more vertical against his wall. “Watch a lot of Lamont Peterson?” He cocked his head. “Nah, you strike me as more of a Butterbean fan...”

Strike – got it in one as the second wallop emptied lungs and sarcasm but had the satisfaction of a yelp and gouged knuckles as his assailant stumbled backward, staring. Not just a glorified pacemaker and dream chaser, it also slices and dices. Though smoothed and polished for that nonabrasive comfort and style, the casing of his arc reactor was still metal. Very hard and very undentable by human knuckles no matter how large they were. Maybe still lacking in verbal comebacks, Tony still managed a wincing wink through his scrambled gasps.

Doctor Strange:

The High Cost of Dying by dragonnan

“Shit! I told you to watch the door, asshole!”

And look at that, he'd been spotted. So much for trying not to raise a fuss. “Uh... hi.” Jaunty tip of the hand – going for that 'oops, I've just stumbled upon a crime scene; don't mind me, I'm just here for a package of Ding-Dongs' vibe.

Shotgun, who'd been rocking foot to foot, jerked a look over his shoulder before hefting his weapon a bit higher – a bit more threateningly – towards the frozen clerk. “Come one, come on, hurry the fuck up!!”

Handgun, darting attention back and forth between the cash register and the newcomer, jerked his chin and wildly panned his gun up and down.

“Nice tie jewelry. Hand it over! Along with any cash you got and that watch! Now!”

Stephen didn't move. “Yeah... sorry. See, I spent most of my cash on a hot dog and the little I have left is going towards either an orange Fanta or a Raspberry Nestea. I haven't completely decided yet but I'd sorta been counting on some time to browse.”

“I don't give a fuck! Empty your pockets or I put a hole through your fucking head!”

Stephen pursed his lips – mulling that over. The clerk had begun to move, now, jerky pecking at the register keys – stalling, possibly – terrified, definitely. Shotgun hunched his shoulders and checked the door again – gun drifting towards the cold case before re-centering as he focused back on target.

Meanwhile, Handgun took three wide steps forward – finger jabbing at the attractive shiny.

“I said give me that fucking gem, Pops!”

“Or you'll blow a hole in my head – sorry, fucking head – as I believe you'd articulated.” Still no move to follow through with those orders, however, and Handgun seemed to be realizing his threat wasn't as imposing as he'd likely hoped it would be. Shotgun, meanwhile, was snatching the meager afternoon take from the open cash drawer – weapon now aimed at a 90 degree angle towards the flickering fluorescent panels above.

Stephen flexed his fingers, palms outward. “Hey, you kids want to see a magic trick?”

Sweeping his arms in an arc, he conjured double shields; taking the moment of stunned shock to knock Handgun's weapon away with the edge of one burning ring – a follow-up swing taking Shotgun out of the fight with a blow to the back of the head – then spinning back towards Handgun-

Explosive force slammed Stephen down to his knees – golden shields fracturing into sparks. Unarmed, Handgun – mind skittering to the irony of that observation – spun and bolted – door jangling at his hard exit. On the floor, at his back, Shotgun groaned but otherwise didn't move.

A freezing drizzle of sweat made a long streak along Stephen's jaw. He couldn't, quite, seem to catch his breath. He was hunched on his hands and knees but couldn't comprehend the action of standing.

He felt a ripple travel from shoulders to waist – the cloth encasing his torso constricting – shivering mild panic through his chest and he fought not to tear the not-a-cardigan from his body – god, he couldn't breathe! Trying to push himself up, he trembled at the stiff ache throbbing through his midsection. His brain analyzed the symptoms even as he struggled to understand why... he was going into shock. His arms folded beneath him; dropping him to his side and he felt the first real bloom of heat in his back. He couldn't reach it with his hands but he could feel another sensation – wet – and understood, suddenly, what had happened... just not

“How... h-ho-how... what...?”

A shaking, terrified voice responded. “I'm sorry – God I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn-I didn-I didn't m-mean – please, oh my God, don't die – please don't die – oh my God!”

How to Train Your Dragon:

Asgårdsreia by dragonnan

Leaning forward a little, Hiccup dropped Toothless back towards the waves so that the approaching ship's sails could block out most of the brightness.

With a violent jerk, Hiccup hauled Toothless into a tight arc – breaking away from the ships – heart hammering as a flurry of arrows skimmed so close he could feel the tickle of feathered fletching against his cheek.

“Dragon hunters!” Gods, and he'd nearly flown right into them! Not only that; with the sun at their backs, they'd have seen him well before he'd have been able to recognize them. Stupid!

Toothless weaved and rolled as bolos shot towards them – roaring as one wrapped itself around a back leg. “Come on, buddy, we have to get out of here, now!”

Though the bolo wasn't heavy, the swinging weights hanging below them hampered their flight – Toothless shaking his leg to try to free himself as they grasped towards the clouds. More arrows shot towards them as well as several nets and Hiccup leaned hard to the right – forcing Toothless into a barrel rolling plunge to avoid the attacks.

Hiccup grunted as an arrow shot between his left side and inner arm – slicing a groove just above the gauntlet and nearly striking Toothless in the head. The sting of pain shifted into the background as they rocked hard to the right – then left again – swooping through the spaces between projectiles.

A yell shattered over his teeth as something solid smashed against his left leg.

Toothless immediately began to plunge as all control was lost – their flight a nauseating blur of black and red. Hiccup swallowed and sobbed air – his leg refusing to work the pedal. He unlatched the straps keeping him in the saddle – digging his right hand into pommel as his body lifted up from his seat. Left leg slipping loose from the pedal, fighting the forces pushing him back, he strained towards the dented mechanism.

Only a few meters from the waves, he caught hold of it with two fingers, and pulled!

There was a sharp, belly dropping, whoosh of regaining lost height. Hiccup's body slammed back to the saddle – his upper half in a precarious tilt half off the side where he white knuckled the damaged pedal.

“Go, bud!”

Toothless dodged a few more arrows and flattened out – wings extending as he rapidly picked up speed.

Cowboy Bebop:

Play Me Some More of that Old Blues by dragonnan

Tipping his head back, he stared up into the cobalt sky. There were no more answers above than below. If there was a God up there, he apparently found amusement in continuing this tragic comedy. His hands had stopped shaking, and he looked down at his palms. A small patch of skin on the outside edge of both trigger fingers was roughened; the result of firing handguns too many times. He wondered where his weapons were now.

A shadow covered him, and he glanced up. An old woman stood over him, holding out a single woolong note. “Go ahead, you look like you could use it.” He grimaced, then smiled abashedly, taking the bill. He started to thank her, but felt his throat tighten, cutting off speech. It made no difference; she'd already vanished into the crowd.

Sighing, he gathered his feet under himself. The trip up was a lot harder than the trip down had been. He had to lean against the building for several moments, sweating heavily and panting, while he waited for strength to return to him. Eventually, he pushed away from his support, forcing his wasted limbs to carry him onward.

Twenty minutes of struggle found him gasping under the shade of an awning. His thoughts had managed to solidify during his wavering walk, and the sequence of his former life played before him like a scratchy film. There was no sound, for he refused to hear it just now. Instead he saw only the grainy images of people he'd once known, and in a state of drunkenness, would have referred to as friends.

His eyes darkened as their faces were replaced by a flash of liquid light, reflections off a length of steel. The eyes that had always seemed cold, even when they were comrades, now glowed with the red anger of insanity. The voice burst in his head before he could stop it.

“Why don't you just DIE!”

He grasped his head, as if doing so could repress the memory. He'd known it was over then. Hell, he'd known it was over that day, that day he'd first seen her. Maybe there'd still been something of optimism in him; yeah, even that late in the game. Three strikes and you're out, right? Strike one; he meets the woman of his dreams. Strike two; the woman of his dreams happens to be the girlfriend of his best buddy. Strike three; his best buddy finds out. A bad situation for anyone, but a lot worse if the people involved happen to belong to a high profile syndicate. Even so, he'd thought, he'd hoped…

“I'm leaving… I want you to come with me…”

Blood and ashes, all that remained of that dream. His eyes tracked the movements on the street. So far, no one had even noticed him. Well, that hadn't changed from before. He'd had a habit of going unnoticed until he wanted to be seen.

A burning pain in his gut reminded him that the last meal he could remember eating had probably been a plate of sautéed bell peppers. How many lifetimes had passed since then?

He felt in his pocket for the money card, and found the woolong bill instead. Well, shouldn't let that go to waste!

Forty-five minutes later, he leaned on one arm against the side of a wall and retched violently. No solid foods, he'd forgotten that, and his intestines now felt like they were crawling into the back of his throat. But, God, those carnitas had tasted so good! His stomach jumped again and he heaved, nearly collapsing with the sudden wave of exhaustion. Pushing away from the wall, he tripped over a crumpled box and nearly lost his footing. He opened his mouth to curse, but the words were high-pitched and reedy. He clenched his teeth instead.

With his stomach voided he felt weak, and saw that his hands were trembling again. It had been over an hour since he left the… what had that place been anyhow? Shaking his head, and regretting the motion, he sat down on the box that had nearly tripped him up a few moments ago. An unfamiliar sensation was washing through him while he sat on his box. Always, always before he'd had a goal. Granted, that goal had cost him dearly, but it had been something. Since he'd left the syndicate, all he'd wanted was to recapture that moment of perfection he'd found with her. He never wanted to face down his enemies, had never wanted to meet for that final bloody showdown. Yet, it seemed… he shook his head. He never believed in destiny, fate, or any of that `profound' crap. What happened, happened. And now, it seemed, his survival had happened… again.

Supernatural:

The Big Stink by dragonnan

He wasn't sleeping. Typically, he logged a good four hours, which was better than average compared to most of the guys in his trade. But that had been before. And before. And a lot before.

Alcohol; handy shut off valve, it usually gave his bed times a soupy sorta blank. If he had nightmares, they were the old and familiar. But lately... lately it seemed his chosen sleep aid was closer to sugar water. Any spirits the bottle contained seemed to flow right out of the glass and into his brain; all sorts of herpy-derpy haunting going on. Enough times waking up in damp linens with Sam giving him that tetchy constipated Gomer look.

He smacked his lips and flinched at the rotting elk flavor. Dear God, it was actually worse!

“Holy fucking shit.” He moaned before ripping free of the bed and high stepping across Sam's mattress, and Sam, on his way to the bathroom. Forget the brush, he snatched the Crest and creamed his mouth with a third of the tube.

While he was busy moving the thick paste around his teeth, Sam shuffled through the door and made for the toilet.

“Told you to lay off the bourbon last night.”

“Ish nah the ruh-run!” Dean spit the first mouthful as Sam flushed; grimacing at the tube in disgust.

“Dude, what the hell sorta shitpaste is this anyhow?”

Sam snatched the tube away and fished out his toothbrush. “Still got that funny taste?”

“What do you think?” Opening his mouth wide, Dean leaned in close to the mirror; hanging his tongue out while he tried to see the back of his throat.

Sam watched from the corner of his eye as he brushed – raising his eyebrows as Dean pulled his lips up from his teeth. While Sam rinsed and spit, Dean left the bathroom in search of something more astringent than mint.

The aforementioned bourbon bottle was crowded for space on the little table between their beds. Barely an inch left at the bottom, Dean polished it off and then nearly gagged at the corrosive taste explosion. “Oh, hell, no you did not...”

“I didn't what?” Sam wandered from the bathroom towards the half fridge. Nothing in there but yesterday's pizza, so pizza for breakfast it was.

“What did you put in here? This tastes like week old skunk piss!”

“You probably have a cold, Dean. Messes with your tastebuds sometimes. Look, we'll pick up some Sudafed this afternoon and you'll be fine.”

A little too relaxed about the whole thing, if Dean hadn't been there to see it happen he'd swear his brother's soul hadn't made it back into his body. Touchy subject, that one. Not that Dean made a habit of dodging touchy subjects unless it was his touchy subjects. God that sounded dirty.

“Breakfast?”

He turned his head; tasting the fog of foul that turned right along with him. Sam was holding out a slice of cold Meat Lover's with extra bacon. Dean's throat bobbed in warning and he cut to the right without a word.

A second later, the delicate sound of gagging drifted from the open bathroom.

[albiusffxiv]

My Adventures in the Untamed Lands: A Solution to an Infestation

Garlemald State News

Column Periodical

Entry 2

By Columnist Aurelius Albius

So perhaps I should start these bundle of words by first mentioning what I dedicate most of my work to in the middle of this current phase of my life. It is vital for every journalist to be candid and passionate about their occupation. I cannot say it is easy to fulfil my role as journalist for the State Media. Like the various other occupations that further and further progress the mighty tower that is our society, my role is full of challenges and tribulations.

 When I first was brought onto the team, I was inquired by the staff as to what I always dreamed of doing. I thought about it that first evening as I laid my head down upon the pillow. Needless to say, I did not get much sleep! But I returned to the office the next morning to provide an answer. Having been born in the countryside, and coming of age in the capital, I had spent enough moons within the cush and comfort of the inner cities to become curious once more for how the countryside was faring during these trying times.

 What I was provided was a dream come true - to become enlisted in the Garlean military - our nation’s mighty sword and hammer, and report from the outermost borders of the Empire. I yearned to station myself within one of the most distant and isolated Garlean outposts in order to write about the people there, and to educate as well as delight my readers about what life Is like so far, far away from the core of civilized society upon this star.

Needless to say, I have written much about my first six months here. I cannot be entirely privy to our exact location, for there still exists corrupt souls with savage minds who dare read my columns and seek to undermine me. I will not let that happen - the people deserve to hear my accounts, and these series of columns shall never be intended for subterfuge. But however, I had no issue writing down my thoughts describing what manner of environment I am staying in, and day to day life within this place.

 However, I am ashamed to admit that I have lost all of my drafts. This is a heartbreaking realization for me, but I shall not falter with the wind if it grants me a nasty smell. For you see, despite the loss of my work, I am yet inspired to keep writing - the stack of papers that accompanied my drafts will rise again, but before they do, allow me to speak of the event that caused the loss of my drafts.

 I am stationed in a Castrum in the middle of mother nature, and am privy to her wrath on a countless cycle almost every day. The location at which we are staying is of the iciest of colds. Do you believe it is cold in the capital? Well! Need I inform you that the sharp bite of the frost in the capital is absolutely nothing compared to the snowy, barren tundra that we find ourselves nested in. What may I say about this life without my drafts?

 Simple, for one. A significant amount of our structure is involved purely in keeping our space heated. Our soldiers are granted warm accommodations to soothe our souls as we rest from our grueling and back-breaking toil in order to keep our precious Empire safe. Yours truly finds nothing more fulfilling than participating in this endeavor along with our fellow soldiers. My lungs may burn with cold, but my smile grows wide at the end of the day, when I may curl up in a warm blanket, and sketch my free time away in the cafeteria with a cup of hot cider.

 But not every day is peaceful. Far from it. In this entry I will aptly describe a recent event, and my accounting of it. Sometimes, our foes that we face are not always the wild savages that roam outside of the border of our Empire, no. Sometimes it is the very elements that prove to be our harshest foe. Forever has Garlemald fought to contain nature - the most compensate of savages to escape our grasp and mastery. I am reminded of nature’s fury as I write to you now.

 Recently, our Castrum experienced a spider infestation. And before you giggle, need I remind you how vicious nature can be near the end of where our Empire stretches? In the Untamed Lands, spiders are not mere tiny nuances. They are enormous, aggressive beasts with sickly venom bites, and legs with the thickness of your middle child’s stature. Nay, do not deny what I describe is true. But be not afraid. Our brave soldiers are here to protect you, and we still yet stand.

 The spider beasts decided that a great home for them would be our furnace. Of course, these animals enjoy the heat and the relief of escape from the cold, but when has the Empire ever accompanied wild animals? It is certainly not within the aim and mission of our taxpayer funds. When our quarantine escalated, I witnessed for myself the efficiency of our well-oiled military machine in action with my own eyes.

 Swiftly, our team organized into two groups. One group was the rescue team, lead by our steadfast madam Optio. They were responsible for rescuing anyone trapped within the spider’s conquered space. The second group was the fumigation team, led by a brilliant madam Tribunus, and your truly was stationed as a part of this team. Our mission? To track down the source of the infestation and eliminate it.

 How ironic. I, with my rifle in hand, found myself crouched and following my comrades into the pits of hell  or in other words the maintenance tunnels! I was under threat in my very own home, so naturally I took my job very seriously. My comrades brought me a sense of relief that they had my back, and my Tribunus’s commands were as wise as they were efficient. I possessed a fire in my belly every time my fellows from the rescue team reported in with yet another saved life.

 One intense crawl through the thinly cut tunnels, and one ladder climb later, and I found myself within the furnace room. Imagine a steel cannon of fire, propelled into the ceiling and whirling about with the significant hum of power in engineering. That was what I bared witness to, but that was the least miraculous sight within the room! That was when I saw her. The Queen Spider. Yes, dear reader. Every nation by right, is guided by a ruler. We possess His Radiance, our Glorious Emperor Varis. This Spider was their Queen. Their Emperor.

 We knew what we had to do.

 The beast sensed our presence quickly afterwords, and her tendrils squirmed and stabbed about as her many eyes glared at us in wild frenzy. Her screech was of a terrifying banshee in the middle of the night. But in my heart I held little fear. My men were with my, and my Tribunus stood fast against the heavy tide with her intention to turn it.

 What I lesson I implore you readers from this is that any beast, any savage beast that stands in your way, can be reduced to the animal that it is and be cut down before the enlightened man. That is precisely what happened here. Members of my team concocted a brilliant idea to freeze the beast solid by shutting the furnace down. A mere switch was all it took! A meager distraction with some very loud discharging of my weapon, and whala! We had ourselves one frightened, frozen spider.

 I wish I could aptly describe what it was like to shatter it to pieces. I suppose if any of you readers were of age when Ala Mhigo was finally conquered, you would understand the utter bliss of achievement that laid besides your boots.

 This was but a routine challenge to these men and women stationed in the countryside. To them, it is another hard day’s work, and another great story to tell to their grandchildren when they grow old. For me? It is just another story - but a very important one. To all of my proud statesmen and women who read my columns, know this. I was meant to tell this story to you today. My drafts are wiped away. They are gone. But despite my losses, I gained much more in return - not merely just this story, but also the assurance that I am safe here.

 I now snuggle under that very same little blanket, having yet another cup of warm apple cider, awaiting for tomorrow.

 I will get back to work on creating new drafts. Until then…

 A wave of the hand now, and I am gone. Lowering my head, I dream that I am safe. Until next time. Viva Imperium.

[barajasbryan92]

Cat Spay Cost Easy And Cheap Unique Ideas

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Cat Peeing Unusual Places

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5 Year Old Cat Peeing Everywhere

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[spiteweaver]

previous | first | next

All things considered, Atsushi thought he had the easier task. He couldn’t say he knew precisely what his master had done to Penumbra, but he’d heard enough to be certain that he wanted nothing to do with that particular rescue effort. About a week into the experimentation, the entire east wing had become infested with Shade, so he could only assume Penumbra was in a very bad way.

Atsushi didn’t envy Argus in the slightest.

He didn’t envy himself either, though. Just because Mergo was an easier mark didn’t mean springing him came without its challenges. As such, Atsushi hesitated outside of Mergo’s cell for far longer than he should have. He was on a time limit, and he couldn’t afford to linger in echoing dungeon corridors.

It was just that his chest was so tight, and his hands wouldn’t stop trembling, even as he slotted the key to Mergo’s cell into its lock.

It had been a full eon since he had last seen Mergo’s face. He didn’t know what to expect, but he knew that, whatever it was that awaited him beyond this door, it wouldn’t please him, as, perhaps, it once may have. With bile rising in his throat, he thrust the door open, darted inside, and shut it quietly behind him.

For several agonizing moments, he could not bring himself to lift his gaze from the cracked cobblestones beneath his feet. Presently, when he could bear it no longer, he forced himself to do so, and promptly bit his lip to stifle a gasp.

Mergo looked so small, lying there motionless on the bed. Atsushi could tell, even under the tatters of his once fine robes, that he had lost weight--too much of it, at that. In the dim lighting, he could make out dark, ugly wounds on Mergo’s pale skin. They hadn’t been allowed to heal. His master had torn them open, over and over again, to ensure that they never would.

What have I done?

There would be a time and a place for blaming himself, but now and here were neither. Tentatively, Atsushi approached, lifting his lantern to cast the small room in warm light. Mergo flinched and curled in on himself.

“It’s me,” Atsushi whispered, “not him. Come on, you have to get up.”

Stubbornly--no, fearfully, Mergo refused, and pressed his hands over his ears. Atsushi looked back the way he’d come. His hands were shaking more violently than ever, so much so that he feared he may drop his lantern and cause a terrible ruckus. It wouldn’t be long before someone discovered what he had done.

They needed to go--now.

“Mergo,” he hissed, “you have to get up. This isn’t a polite request. If we don’t get out of here, there’s going to be--”

Atsushi’s lantern clattered to the ground, and his body wasn’t far behind. Fingers closed around his neck. He pushed desperately against Mergo’s chest, to no avail. “Mergo!” he croaked. “Mergo, please, I’m here to help you! I’m here to get you--to get us both out of this mess!”

Mergo opened his mouth, undoubtedly to curse Atsushi’s name, to call him a liar and many other, more terrible things--but no sound came out.

Then, abruptly, he burst into rattling sobs, and buried his face in Atsushi’s shoulder. Stiffly, awkwardly, Atsushi lifted a hand to stroke his back. “There, there,” he murmured, “it’s--it’s all right. You’ll be fine, once you’ve got some fresh air in your lungs.”

It took longer than Atsushi was strictly comfortable with for Mergo to regain his composure. Once his sobbing had quieted, Atsushi pushed him back and shoved a bundle of fabric into his arms. “Put these on,” he said. “You’ll feel better, and I’m assuming you don’t want to walk out of here in rags.”

Mergo obliged. Watching him dress, seeing the awe in his face as he ran his fingers across the soft, silken robes he had been gifted, made Atsushi’s chest tighten again. The poor drake had gone so long without clean, mended clothes that they must have seemed otherworldly to him...

...and it was all his fault.

“Argus has gone after Penumbra,” Atsushi hastily informed. “We’re meeting them both at the southern gate in an hour. Once we’re all safely away, Dreamweaver is going to--well, I’m not entirely sure what they’re going to do, but suffice it to say they’ll be coming to settle the score with my master.”

Mergo could only manage a weak nod. Atsushi, noting the shaking of his legs, offered him a hand. To his surprise, Mergo accepted it, and leaned against him as heavily as he dared. There was a considerable height difference between them, but Atsushi thought he could manage. Even if he couldn’t, he was bound and determined to try.

He owed Mergo that much.

Despite the clamor their brief confrontation had caused, the corridor beyond Mergo’s cell remained mercifully dark and empty. The jailer, who Mergo knew only through glances, was suspiciously absent--but there was blood on Atsushi’s sleeves, a knife sheathed at his waist, and the horrific stench of copper in the air.

“We’ll exit through the catacombs,” Atsushi murmured. “They’re old, and more than half of the paths through them are inaccessible, but I’ve used them more than once. Just keep your head down, and if you hear anyone calling for you, ignore them.”

The pair began their stumbling descent, deeper and deeper into the dungeons, until rows of cells turned into shallow crypts and the air grew stale with rot. Mergo pressed a hand over his mouth and nose, gagging silently into it, but Atsushi dragged him ever onward. In his line of business, delving into long-abandoned catacombs was nothing short of pleasant, compared to what he could have been doing.

He wanted to speak, to say anything that might bring Mergo some small comfort, but he knew it was unwise. The catacombs may have been abandoned by the living, but there were fouler things in their deep, cloying blackness--things that not even he could control.

Soon, however, the tunnels grew wider, the smell of death less pronounced, and he could breathe again. “We’re out of the thick of it,” he said. “There shouldn’t be anything to bother us this close to the edges.”

Mergo said nothing. Atsushi suspected he could say nothing, not merely that he wished not to speak. Perhaps it was best that they carry on in silence, but there was something nagging at the back of Atsushi’s mind, a huge, wriggling worm of a thought that had not let him know peace for over an eon.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Mergo’s eyes, glowing violet in the darkness, widened, his ears flicking forward and back, as if to catch the echoes of Atsushi’s words so that he could confirm he had, in fact, heard them correctly. “I’m an awful person,” Atsushi went on, “and we both know it, and I’m never not going to be an awful person, but, for this at least, I really am sorry.”

Another long silence settled between them. Atsushi could tell that Mergo was wrestling with his confession, trying to parse out if it was sincere or just a last-ditch attempt at saving his own hide.

Finally, Mergo nodded again, and turned his face to press his forehead against Atsushi’s cheek.

“I don’t--” Atsushi choked on the lump in his throat. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, so please don’t honor me with it. Let me at least go to my death knowing you hate me.”

Mergo would never. Atsushi knew he would never. He wished he would, so, so dearly, but Mergo was a better drake than he, and so he would never--and Atsushi would die knowing that he had received forgiveness he did not deserve, from a drake whose life he had ruined.

[vampbait-a]

|| Cemetery Roses || ch.2

|| co-written and edited with @cynaram     posted with permission.      [previous]

It had taken Laurelai two nights to solve the puzzle cube. Lying atop the crumbling stone arch, she hummed to herself. Her fingers were deft with the colorful puzzle; twisting and turning each slice as if it spoke its secrets to her.

On the third night, she took it apart, lining up each smaller cube upon the crumbling windowsill of the old stone chapel. It no longer amused her. Amongst the other dusty treasures and baubles of her nest, it was no more interesting than the skulls which bricked the window. More colorful, perhaps.

On the fourth night, Laurelai bathed in the cracked and useless fountain. She sang often in her loneliness, and as she washed the blood and dirt from ivory skin she sang a wordless lament for things she had lost and could not remember. There, surrounded by her roses, the glint of something shiny in the grass caught her eye. It was a matchbox; tiny and ornate and engraved with a C. Her song ended abruptly, and she rose from shallow water to retrieve it.

Cabal. Laurelai frowned upon discovering the purity of the metal - sucking singed fingertips as she wrapped the matchbox in a piece of cloth and tucked it into her pocket. After that, it was a simple thing to ask the ghosts to guide her in her search, and Laurelai regretted not asking the man for his first name. Or was that his only name?

It took four nights to find him, and five dead men along the way.

He had an impressive home, she thought, though the nasty little bugs in the garden made quite a din when she finally climbed over the wall - after having solved another, less intuitive puzzle.

Laurelai killed several of the garden pixies before they decided she was best left alone. Fairy shot and thorn-tipped arrows drew specks of blood from wounds that healed immediately. Laurelai bared her fangs at the rosebush which housed the pests, dropped the halved corpse and continued up the path.

Unimpeded, her path lit by the moon, she made the sheer climb up vertical brick to the roof. There, she found a lit skylight and peeked inside.

Cabal worked long into the night.  He was treading at the edge of his usefulness, he knew.  Soon he would close the laboratory for the night, though he might write a letter or two before he slept.  

The gas had proved so useful, so exciting, that he had barely been out of the lab since he returned home.  He had slept three times.  In between, he had taken catnaps on the floor of the laboratory, too tired to be fastidious. A deeper crash was coming; he would sleep for most of a day and then be muzzy and useless for a time, but he was content to let it come.  

He only wanted to finish this one iteration of the process he was developing, see it through once only, with the improvements he’d designed this morning, and then he would rest.

Content to watch the man Cabal from above, Laurelai stretched out upon her stomach and rested her chin on folded arms. He was busy, and considering the amount of dangerous looking equipment he was using, she thought it best not to interrupt. Unfortunately, he seemed tireless. Boredom soon developed, and Laurelai peeked further over the edge of the skylight as he sat down directly beneath her perch.

"You said you would visit me. I waited," she said, tapping on the glass.

Cabal fell off his stool.

It took him a precious second on the floor to process that Mademoiselle Laurelai was on his roof and that he needed to reassess his house wards.  “What?” he asked stupidly.  Her voice had come dimly through the glass, but he could piece it together after a moment.

Was this an attack? She didn’t sound angry.  “I… I have been busy with my work.  We did not discuss a date.  I would have returned.”

Laurelai frowned when Cabal startled and fell to the floor, and she leaned out further over the window. He looked surprised, but he did not sound upset, and she felt badly for startling him. Wary of the silver, she produced his matchbox from her pocket and pressed the partially-wrapped metal to the glass.

"I found this! And I found you!" Laurelai smiled, hoping that he would be pleased.

There was something inhuman about her dentition.  Was she angry?  How had she found him?  He cursed himself for delaying his research of llamiae.  Cabal sighed.  “I will speak with you at the gate.  Go, Mademoiselle.”

He was looking at her like she had offered him a severed head, she thought- confused and perturbed. Laurelai's smile faded to uncertainty, and she withdrew from the glass.

At least his tailbone wasn’t broken, Cabal thought as he descended the stairs, and the adrenaline had woken him up neatly.

Laurelai’s climb back down the side of the brick house was taken with caution, and for a moment she regretted having left the human remains of her last meal propped outside of the garden gate. She wanted to be fed and undistracted by Cabal's heart, but now she considered that he might not appreciate a corpse on his lawn.

Oh well. Laurelai closed the happy-looking cadaver’s eyes.

Hooking her index fingers behind her back, Laurelai examined the neglected roses and waited. They were in a sad state, and she wondered if the infestation was at fault. Perhaps she would offer to kill the bugs for him.

Cabal remembered the Webley.  He was tired, to have nearly forgotten it.  He stopped in his bedroom, took the gun from his nightstand and weighed it for a moment.  Of course he must have it.

He found Laurelai waiting at the gate as he had asked.  It was a pleasant relief that she hadn’t lurked above the threshold, waiting to fall upon him like a leather-clad puma.  “Good evening, Mademoiselle.  How did you find me?  I do not remember telling you where I lived or inviting you to call upon me.”

"Bonne nuit, cheré," Laurelai chirruped with a small smile, and held out her hand palm-up. The matchbox itself was a danger to her; the pure metal white-hot to her bare flesh, and so she had wrapped it in an aged handkerchief. It shone brightly in the moonlight.

"I found this, and I found you." she told him again, smiling shyly. Laurelai no longer wanted to frighten Cabal, but the large revolver in his hand did not instill confidence. Bullets hurt even if they could not kill her.

"I asked the ghosts. James brought me from the town,” she gestured to the dead man at the gate, “and the drunk on the moor is still very upset with you, Monsieur Cabal. Why did you kill him?"

There was a short silence.  Then he gave a little barking laugh.  “You are a necromancer, Mademoiselle? My commiserations.”  Yes, there were plenty of dead who might know where to find Cabal.

“I killed the drunk on the moor because he knocked me half-unconscious with a shovel. I had collected resources for my work, and he was offended.  He was about to drive the shovel into my neck, so I shot him.” That bastard had probably been only too happy to grass on Cabal. “And you killed…” he glanced outside the gate. “…James, the maintenance worker for the gas line, because…?”

Cabal had not taken the little bundle from her palm, but neither had he shot her. Laurelai lowered her hand, eyes downcast as the seconds dragged on.

When he had laughed at her explanation, Laurelai had brightened- but then looked at him in clear linguistic disconnect the more he continued.

"Non, I am llamia." she corrected, looking at him curiously, and then over at the corpse. Another smile- mischievous and unapologetic- as though caught sneaking cookies. Laurelai shrugged.

"I did not want to be thirsty when I saw you. What is a neck-romancer?"

“Of course, Mademoiselle, I believe you are a llamia.  And ’necromancer’ is a single word, derived from ancient Greek through…. Never mind.”  The monster was paying him a delicate attention by arriving fully fed.  It was, in fact, like something Horst might do.  

Cabal made a decision. He tried to push the gun into his jacket pocket, realized he was in shirtsleeves, and settled for his trouser pocket, where it made an ungainly bulge.  

“Thank you for the return of my matchbox, Mademoiselle.  It is a family piece.”  He hadn’t even noticed it was missing until he had turned his pockets out the morning of his return.

"Oui, you are very welcome. But what is a necromancer? I want to know." Laurelai handed Cabal his matchbox with a small, hopeful pout, rather like a child who wanted to hear a story. Neither had his gun left her perception. Were they not friends?

"Have I done something wrong?" she tilted her head, wary. "Is it because I drank James?"

Cabal sat on the low wall that surrounded his front garden.  He rubbed a hand over his face; his fatigue was seeping back.  “We both have questions.  I will answer yours, and then perhaps you will answer mine.”  He switched to French to be sure she would understand.

Laurelai nodded in agreement; his terms were fair, and she had nothing to hide.  

Moving slowly and keeping a polite distance, she sat atop the wall beside Cabal. Hugging her bent legs, she rested her chin atop her knees and listened.

“Technically, a necromancer is one who speaks with the dead to learn information.  The location of my house, for example.  Consider as analogues,” he invited her, “cartomancy, the practice of divination by tarot or playing cards, and chiromancy, palm-reading. The term is often applied more broadly to anyone who deals in communication with or the raising of the dead.”

He sighed. “Next: have you done something to displease me?  Yes. It worries me that you found my home so easily.  It worries me that you know where I live, so I am now vulnerable to you.  It worries me that you could tell others where I I am. I know you only a little, Mademoiselle, and I am now in danger.  And not only me.”  He looked up at his house, dark except for a low light in the front hall. 

Laurelai did not interrupt, nor did her attention glaze over - her face open and expressive as curiosity flirted with lavender eyes.

“Am I displeased that you drank James?  Only a little.” Cabal continued,  “I must now bribe a new gas technician.”  And warn him to beware beautiful dark-haired women?  He would sound like a fortune-teller.  “By the by, if you have no use for the body, I will take it.”  

As he spoke to Laurelai, something niggled at him.  Impatient, he invited the thought to present itself for inspection.  It waffled at the edge of his perception.  He ordered it to centre stage, and it came, dragging its feet: he had been speaking for more than a minute: normally he would have been interrupted by now.   Even those who, empirically speaking, were his nearest and dearest tended to cut him off.  This was a heady sensation.  He thought she might even keep listening, if he had something more to say. He fought down a desire to tell her about his new bone saw.

When he was finished, Laurelai remained quiet a moment longer and plucked an errant twig from her hair.

"You can see them too? I never knew there was a name for it." she began, looking thoughtfully at the sprig of green. "I understand what it is to be misunderstood, to be hunted, not ever knowing if you will wake up again. I did not intend this to be the case, no?"

She chewed her lower lip, looking at him like a puzzle. "I gave you my word I would not harm you. I think I would not like it if someone else were to. You have my protection, now."  

Then she blinked and straightened, her head snapping around to address the garden gate:

<"Oh shut your whore mouth Frank, no-body cares what you think!">

Then turning with an apologetic smile to Cabal.

"Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plait,”

His hand clapped to his gun pocket and his head whipped around to see the Frank she addressed, but there was no-one there.  Or was there?  

The interjection shocked Cabal out of the pleasant mood he had nearly fallen into.  Her good intentions, even if they were sincere, didn’t change anything. She was a danger.  But what was he willing to do about that?  He moved his hand from his gun.

“Not at all, Mademoiselle.”  He hesitated. “Are you speaking to a ghost now? I am not naturally able to see them, though I have several times.”  Her gift as strange and powerful.  Did the llamia live in a world where the dead were as present as the living?

"Oui, but pay no attention. Frank is just an ass because I killed him." Laurelai smiled awkwardly, but then shot the ghost another dirty look. "Yes, you are! It's what got you killed-" she cut herself off, deciding to put her back to the specter.

"I apologize, cheré. How may I show that I am true? I admit, I have never met someone who has not tried to kill me almost immediately."

Cabal was briefly distracted by the parascientific principles at work.  “Are you pursued by the spirits of the dead, then?”

"Not really." She smiled a little, amused. "Are you?"

“Not that I’ve noticed. But to answer your earlier question, I cannot think of a remedy I am willing to apply.  Either you will keep this secret and keep our truce, or you will not.”  He wondered if Laurelai could see him better in this dim light than he could see her. She was a collection of shadows with a face half-obscured by her hair.

"I suppose I could say the same of you, who may go about by daylight." Laurelai pointed out, gesturing to his gun. It still made her nervous, but she supposed that he had a reason to be guarded from what he had said.

Cabal was not happy with his decision.  Its only virtue was that, compared to caging or killing her, it made him the least unhappy. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that his soul was dooming him.  He took so many chances now; statistically, one of them would bite him in in the arse.

He thought of Laurelai’s teeth and hoped the metaphor was not prophetic.

“But tell me.  How were you able to get past my wards?”

Laurelai laughed softly as she stretched her legs out before her.

"I assume you mean the stone writing? Oui, I saw that. It says-" she spoke the repeating sibilants, counting them off on her fingers. "I have played that game before. I knew the answer. It is a riddle, oui? You are very clever. It is why I like you."

“It is not exactly a riddle, no.  But if that is how you understand it….”  It was not a conventional riddle, but a counterward could be devised by skilled practitioner; it had happened before.  And maybe someone with an intuitive understanding of magic could… hm. He was not sure how he could defend against that.  

“I could come by daylight.  But I have not,” he pointed out.  “And I won’t. And you should be more careful about who knows your resting place, Mademoiselle.”  Was he scolding her?  He was tired. Too tired to be resting next to a llamia, he suspected, though he was having difficulty being wary.

Laurelai looked conflicted, and she rose atop the wall to face him in a crouch - pale features now lit by moonlight. She regarded him avidly, eyes wide. They seemed to catch and throw the light in a way that was difficult to look away from.

"But I would not like to distress you! I will keep your secret--"

She might have said something further, but the moment she leaned forward, intending to clasp Cabal’s hand in friendship, Laurelai was struck by a large, dark blur in violet pinstripes.

She screamed - flailing as a short scuffle ensued.

"What's it with you and beautiful dark-haired women trying to kill you?" Horst asked casually, holding Laurelai pinned to the lawn. She screamed, thrashing helplessly beneath his weight. In reply, Horst frowned and sat on her legs, holding her wrists at the small of her back.

"I was not!" Laurelai growled past extended fangs, looking up at Cabal. “I promised!”

Horst looked dubious. "Why should I believe you?"

Cabal rolled his eyes. “Himmelherrgott, Horst.  Release Mademoiselle Laurelai; she was simply returning my matchbox. You might want to apologize.”  

"Wait, you know her?" Horst was visibly shocked, and he looked down at the struggling woman beneath him.

Laurelai glared back, looking understandably upset.

"Would you accept Sorry?" Horst let go of her slowly and stood, stepping back.

In a sudden burst of speed, Laurelai was at Cabal's back- trembling as she hid behind the necromancer. "Who is that?!”

“This is my brother, Horst.  I think the rest of the introductions have been made.  I apologize for his rude arrival.”  Cabal shot a critical glance at Horst, “but he believed I might be in danger.”

"Hello,

Miss."

Horst regarded Laurelai warily, poor past experience having taught him caution where vampires were concerned. Still, she was pretty, and didn't appear overtly murderous, and something within Horst whispered: weak. She could be prey.

Horst silenced that thought - but noted it. She was different. He ran a hand back through his hair, looking perplexed by the underdressed woman standing beside his brother. "Since when did you begin inviting lady vampires home?"

Cabal moved aside, both to detach Laurelai and so Horst could see her.  “I made Mademoiselle Laurelai’s acquaintance on my last supply run.” His next words were addressed to Laurelai.  “Mademoiselle, since Horst has returned, dawn must be approaching.  Do you have provisions against the sun?”  He tried to keep the doubtfulness out of his voice.  He hoped she hadn’t planned to stay the night.

"I am not a vampire." Laurelai said with a frown, crossing her arms and looking just as wary. She had been having a nice conversation, and Horst had interrupted. She looked at Cabal, and shrugged.

"I have a place."

"I have a hundred questions, but might I ask what you are, Miss?" Horst asked, curious.

Laurelai simply glared at him, and looked back at Cabal. "May I visit again?" 

Cabal wavered. He was unsure how she would interpret the intimacy of a visit.  The embarrassing misunderstanding at the cemetery, when she'd believed him to be recommending himself to her, was still fresh in his memory.  But he could save himself an extra trip away from his labs, and he wouldn’t be good for much work tomorrow in any case….

“I do owe you a game. One game of chess, here, tomorrow night after you rise.  Knock,” he emphasized, “on the front door.  Then I will need to return to my work.  Is that acceptable?”

Laurelai was surprised by Cabal's consent. It was far more than she had expected, used to short outdoor chats followed by minor struggles. But he was not food, nor was he anyone Laurelai wished to make an enemy of.

"Oui, merci," She smiled, very nearly kissing him before reminding herself that he had said not to. Instead, she purred happily and resisted the urge to hug him.

"Bonne nuit, cheré."

As the llamia slipped into the darkness, Horst looked ready to burst at the seams.

"Did she just call you cherry?"

“She is French.” Cabal said, as if that explained everything.

"She's a bit more than French, I've been to France! Parisians don't really have fangs." Horst followed his brother into the house, locking the door behind them. He didn't expect Johannes to actually heed his warning, but felt it his duty regardless.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your tender moment out there, but I thought she was going to eat you."

“She is French, and she is a llamia.”  A small, unworthy part of Johannes was enjoying this.  “If she was going to eat me, she would have done it last week.”  There was still some ham in the kitchen.  He thought he could stay awake long enough to chew.  Horst could act as chaperone for the visit. Cabal couldn’t help being a little pleased.  He didn’t want Laurelai mauling him, but it was nice to be ahead of Horst with someone.

"Llama?" Horst blinked at what he thought he heard, looking momentarily baffled. He needed to seek out the safety of his box soon, but wanted to finish the conversation. "That isn't a nice thing to say, regardless of fangs. I thought she was pretty, you know, under all the dirt. Do you think it was wise to invite her back?"

“Maybe not.  It would be convenient if you could be on hand tomorrow night, in case.  I believe she is sincere about not wishing me harm, but she is…” he chewed and swallowed some ham, “…unpredictable.  And if you wish to be in her good graces, learn to say ‘llamia’ rather than ‘llama.’ One is a fleece-bearing quadruped. The other is… well. Laurelai.”  

"Unpredictable? She looks like one of the Wild Things," He shook his head, wondering if his younger brother thought himself akin to Max from the very same tale.

He winced at the correction, remembering the ill-favored glances of the dark haired woman. Unused to scorn, Horst did not know how to react to -not- being immediately adored. Or at least well-liked. "I didn't make a very good first impression, did I? But you can't blame me for thinking the worst. You're no paragon."

Still, it stung a little to think that he would have to tip-toe around her. It was an odd, unfamiliar feeling.

Horst sighed and glanced at the window. "I'll be in tomorrow night. You look like you could use a sleep, and a shave, but I'd save the latter for when you've woken. Who knows? She might even do you some good, if only by getting you out of the lab."

Horst grinned, unable to resist the tease. "Good day, brother," he said as he turned away to seek the basement and the comfort of his box.

This would in no way reduce his time in the lab this week, thought Cabal.  It was his last thought until he woke to the sun low in the sky.

[hamletstudy]

[1/100] - // 7.18.19 // death’s head hawkmoth 

So I’ve been kind of emotional as of late. I was jarred into remembering about the ghost of the knight that guarded Jenna Heap’s bedroom after seeing a photoset with a description that listed various ways how ghosts could exist or reasons why they would linger: and that those paired with strong emotions never did fade away. For some reason, this triggered the floodgates: and I found myself weeping over a knight whose name I can’t even remember. I just know that he was fond of silly jokes, and often made terrible puns. He presided over the princess’ bedroom as he had for all of the other princesses before her, and when the castle was being overcome with dark magic thanks to Simon, her brother gone rogue: he made a spirited (spirited!) attempt to defend her. There’s something about that sweet wholesomeness in a paternal figure that really made me bawl, especially when he’s clumsy about it and sometimes taken for granted when Jenna is in a snit.

I keep hearing the whip poor will birds. The tiger lilies that’d been shorn and placed into a glass to dry out and die have long been disposed of, mulched back into the earth, maybe- buried like compost in little piles in the rich loam. They call in a peculiar sort of way, against the other bright birdsong that lights up in early morning and continues until late evening, when the sun falls from the skies: a repeated end noise that makes it sound as if they’re speaking to you. 

I haven’t heard, or seen any black birds: crows, ravens, red winged black birds, and I’m worried that the mortal offense of the SUV nearly running them over made them a little more cold, indifferent: I hadn’t had any of them call at my usual alarm hours. I can understand. Or perhaps it’s just that I’m growing up- after all, a coming of age, a loosening of the bonds of childhood: plunged into new plumages and new eras coming alighting down on feathers not so glossily inky.

I’ve been watching a lot of Dr. Mike reacts to medical dramas as of late- I think it’s just that weird, parasocial coziness of having someone more informed than I am explain as we go along, a sort of false learning that I nod and smile at while idly digitally collaging in the background. Speaking of digital collaging, I forgot how soothing that is for me. It’s the perfect way to go about it. The internet has limitless resources, all of the ways to edit it you could want- without any of the mess of glue, shakily trimmed edges from damaged hands, and no worrying about the bulk or tearing if you choose to arrange them in a particular way.

I’ve been feeling isolated. I feel like I know some things approximately, and not very many concretely. The sheer variation of plants around here is comforting, in a distracting sort of way: but the birds are beginning to haunt me. They’re there when I wake up, jarred from sleep- they’re there when I’m trying to go to bed. They’re always there. The greenery seems so far apart from me: almost too exhausted to take in the variation. It all seems like so much work. 

It feels like I’m perpetually exhausted. My body seems to want eight hours of its own accord, regardless of the timespan that this falls into. I’m sick of being eaten alive in my own house. The walls are infested with biting bugs: my shoulders and back are livid and red, and I’ve expressed pus from several of them, including on my face and fingers myself. Blood spattering down my face has become almost commonplace.

My hair is a lot more biddable when it’s not being run through the daily stress of being washed three times with enough shampoo to drown a rat in. I’ve killed one black spider that was already curled up and twitching after I trod on a curtain, and one fly that took entirely too long to die. I’m a terrible shot with a towel. I like running my hands through my bangs. The way that it looks as if I’ve a particularly short, boyish cut is really pleasing. I think the bang running is a self soothing habit borne of nervousness, though. Sometimes I pull at my hair in frustration. It’s annoying to try to sleep with it all bundled up into a bun, but even in the cooler depths of the basement- which due to the odd placement of a hilly slope, is really the ground floor, it’s hot as hell. And giant mosquitos live down there. Alongside the black widow colony that set up residence and that I spotted first, as well as swaying, white thick strands of webbing that had gotten all tangled up and coarse.

Found a book that I forgot that I had lent, that I had owned. The sparkly triangles on the cover are soothing. The heft of the book, the cut of the pages. The softness of its supine spine. I cried when I realized it was a book about a woman in my shoes, who had chosen to be furiously happy in spite of her circumstances. Perhaps to spite them. I could only bring myself to read a single chapter. She’s high energy: a lot to process. Even in text I’m an introvert, worn out and exhausted by interactions, even of the parasocial kind.

I tested all of the toilets in the house when we first moved, and ranked them in order of how likely I thought that I might break them, hilariously. The one assigned to me is the one that I thought worked the best, even if it’s cold: and positioned weirdly, it’s tiny, everything lined up: window, you, mirror. You watch others watching yourself, blinds a thin separation. It’s kind of hilarious in a metaphorical sort of way.

I took a bath for the first time in maybe a year, maybe more- and it felt like a religious experience. I wept at being held. I wept at the sensation of being loved, of something that I longed for and missed and hadn’t had the time or chance to in so long. My body hurt, less. I could forget myself, suspended tenderly in the suds. I cried. I stayed in the bath until it ran cold, and pulled myself out hesitantly, gingerly. I wanted to stay. I stayed for the better part of two hours, wrinkling all over. I cried until I couldn’t tell where I ended and started.

The cold winds in combination with the random mechanical sounds and various airplanes flying overhead, with a wet edge to the air can make night seem particularly foreboding. I’m cranky. I’ve been a lot more on emotional tenterhooks as of late. I’ve found myself living according to waiting around for others, on their whims- and I don’t like that. It’s something that I need to address again. It’s the malaise of not having a concrete, solo project to pour all of my attention into.

I swing between wild extremes. If I was an astrologist in any earnest capacity, I would blame it on my gemini moon and libra aspect to my sun sign. Because I don’t believe in astrology, and at most think it’s an amusing short hand to quickly communicate with others about ourselves that at best: has social value, rather than scientific, I chalk it up to a lack of structure and order in my routine, all over the place eating and times, weirdly bunched up water intake, and being sweaty and hormone fluctuations and blood loss out the wazoo.

There was still beach sand inside of my pen, when I took a closer look at it, after a moment of startled fear and confusion as to why the texture was so different on it. Summer draws ever closer to an end and it paralyzes me. I’m horrified by the passage of time, and this time, that deep dread and anxiety about it started as early as the very first week of July. I really hope that this doesn’t start becoming a trend. It strikes me that it probably won’t have the opportunity to, considering the odd placement of summer in the higher echelons of education. 

Going into a new city, dealing with new circumstances and faces and navigating it all pretty much after being tossed into the deep end- terrifying. Being stranded in the concrete jungle without a scrap of greenery, other than the tall pink tree in whose bowers I saw a peregrine falcon slaughter a pigeon and rip it to shreds one summer? Terrible. But then, even now- the nature here drives me to distraction. I can’t really enjoy it. I wonder what part of me lost the ability to do that, to sit simply in the world and let it wash over me in deep, abiding comfort.

The cold grayness of the city is depressing, the soot and grime of it settles into your bones and after awhile even the warmth of summer, or the rattling heater can’t make me feel any better about the black, sooty snow churned into a slushy slurry beneath your feet. And the stairs! It’s just the shift of newness. It’s not entirely unknown grounds. It’s a place I know well by night and summer and the neon, shifting quality of holidays. Not so much in its every day to day. But I think it’ll be alright. Its always been the closest thing I’ve ever had to a home city, throughout all of my turmoil brewing years.

I think a part of it is deep grief that’s been stirred up again by contact I didn’t expect. I think a part of it is the sharp hurt at realizing that my importance in others’ lives is not the same as theirs in mind. I know logically, that just calls for a readjustment, a tuning in dialing: but having the curtain pulled back on it aches all of the same. The things we do for the people we love, not knowing if they love us in the same ways, in the ways that matter.

I haven’t been able to bring my pen down onto the paper. I finger the frilled edge from where I ripped pages out, scoring down with a pair of splayed open scissors, I smell the perfume, heady and rosy and floral, and sweet, so sweet- mellowing out the sharp printer’s ink, still a cloud that gets thrown up, a scent of beauty and warm summer beach sand, eating melted icecreams and lying in white, clean sheets snuggled against the blue silky pillowcases that I love so much- and I can’t bring myself to mar it. I don’t know what to do with it. I want to make a safe space, a familiar place: a private sanctum before, to have a place to retreat to, a concept of safety, a place to head back to when I am unsure and lost and questioning, but I can’t bring myself to. A part of me wonders if it is because I am punishing myself for all of the things I cannot bring myself to do, out of that paralyzing fear of indecision, and learned helplessness.

It’s something that bites at me constantly: where do I stand in others’ eyes? Sometimes it surprises me, the unwavering support revealed in a pithy, half of a joke remark. Sometimes it punches the air out of my lungs, a twisting hurt at realization: and smothering it underneath, because no one told you to feel like that. No one ever said that they felt like that. You had just assumed, and sometimes- your assumptions are wrong. Sometimes you are wrong. You walk around with grief in your eyes, tangled in your hair, hands shaking from holding all of it, dripping from the corner of your mouth like the spit and snot and tears that cut tracks down your face: like the baying hounds fighting over territory two doors down.

But whose fault is it, really? You’re the one who put it there.

I read something that struck home. It isn’t naive to expect people to appreciate your love. It was an empty, generic platitude, and yet somehow it was as comforting to see as being wrapped up in my favourite blanket and eating my favourite chocolate cake. I know that I eat to self soothe. I know that it’s a problem. These days, my hands are gnawed down bloodily raw, I am anxious, trembling, walking through my days with generalized anxiety and fear and wanting to cry. I find myself crying at little to no provocation. I feel like a vessel of water filled to the brim: the top bulging with surface tension. One drop and I rupture, I shatter- the elasticity only goes so far. I spilleth over.

I’ve been listening to a lot of country music. I’ve been listening to a lot of indie pop music. I’ve been listening to a lot of Russian pop music, because I was trying to find a ringtone for Sascha’s father in the thing I’m writing with my friend. I found myself crying, shoulders heaving, shoulders trembling over an Ed Sheeran song, of all things: at the idea of being able to put it all on someone else, put it into their hands, let go of that weight and be held for a little while, just to be taken care of. I feel as if that’s what I truly want, underneath all the hysteria and the raw, rough edges: to be loved, and to love in turn. Sometimes I run across songs that chafe at me: make me feel seen, exposed, a throbbing wound barely held back by the lightest layer of skin, the blood flushing the surface: that you aren’t alright. And I don’t think that I am alright.

I find myself crying myself to sleep these days. It makes me sad in an abstract sort of way, for myself, for the fact that I am crying. The winds remind me of when I was a child, and spoke to the wind: fully believing that it was a man, it was named Zephyr, that he pushed and carried my tiny body down the windy round about, that he made tiny cyclones and leaf circulations where I waved twigs at: the sensation of being held and caressed by the wind, hair gently tousled and pried loose. It feels as if a little part of my past has come back to haunt me. I feel as if I am a dwelling of ghosts. I feel as if I am a collection of all that has happened to me, rather than what I have done. I question what exactly I have done.

It’s bizarre what changing the quality of light will do to you: the sky seems flat and gray, and the world similarly dulled and muted for it: the skies are yellow. The umbrella is a stark, sharp red: the extended wood light overtop, weathered, cracked, grey. I want to take a power washer to it.

I want to write a book some day. Who doesn’t? Why? I promised the woman who kept me writing, inspired me to continue to- she said that she expected, in the easily gracious way of absolute faith, to see a dedication in the front cover’s page to her. I don’t know what I want to write about. I don’t know. I sit here for hours sometimes, paralyzed by indecision, unable to make a choice: unable to commit to even the most meaningless of things. Paper or pen. Fridge or room temperature. This identical pen, or the other? Phone or computer? What to hold in my pockets? What to eat?

I feel like I’m slipping into bad habits. Last summer I starved myself thinner. People noticed, complimented me: told me to keep up the good work. I’ve put all of it back on and then some, and I’m disgusted at being recognized. There is an ache in wanting to be seen, and the revulsion in that actually transpiring. It is central to the experience of womanhood. This summer I find myself indulging in comfort foods at hours when the night haunts me: oven soft chocolate chunk cookies, pizza folded over on itself, chocolate cake with creamy frosting, burgers with red onions that make my mouth smart and hurt but God, they’re good. I’ve been drinking a lot of water. I’ve been taking my iron pills. I’ve been trying to see if I have been getting enough sleep. Learning to be gentle with myself is a process.

I’m a woman now, not a girl. No longer the feral wild child, haunting the clover fields and picking through for red budding gowns, laughing with delight at monarchs high up in the sky: symbolic for a livening of the senses, a quickening of breath: the heart thrumming and racing with enthusiasm at learning that the wonders captured on the glossy ink page were real, and here in this life too: but a tired eyed, hollowed out woman. A woman who can’t find solace in the outdoors, who shies from the biting insects, who expresses pus and dribbles blood, spurting out onto mirrors, so tired. I have lines from frowning, now. I have lines carved in lightly where my eyebrows scrunch and furrow. I wear my unhappiness writ across my face, even when I don’t want to be. The monarchs haven’t come this year. They haven’t in many.

The first anniversary of the worst day of my life harkens: and I dread it. Immediately after is one of the most hysterical belated birthday gifts possible, a little nod of absurdism from the universe. Emotional whiplash. It’ll be a year soon. A year into the unknown, stumbling forwards into the future: time doesn’t wait for anyone, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop: even as we crawl forwards, haul ourselves on worn down fingernails. And wasn’t it good? Wasn’t there good in it, after all? Even if you didn’t know to anticipate it? Didn’t know what to look forward to?

I’m a very tired young woman, who has been harangued by death all of my life. I think that I’ll live a little longer, as far as the odds go. Someday I will love the things that I love again. For now: I cry when it washes over me, and try to hold onto the idea that it’ll be alright.

[scribomaniac]

Man of Ash and Thorns: Chapter 10

The sun had set by the time Reyna walked into Bellevue Hospital. Hospitals at night were so much creepier than they were during the day. There was a quiet in the halls that made the Sorceress look over her shoulder multiple times as she walked towards her destination. A florescent light flickered off and on, casting dark, ominous shadows on the off-white walls.

Slipping into room 333, Reyna stopped at the foot of the patient's bed. "I was wondering when you'd show up," Bub said as he stepped out of the shadows behind her. The room had no windows to the outside, and the only light shining on the two of them came from the machines monitoring the patient's health. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, traffic was just . . ." sighing, Reyna started again. "Look, I'm sorry to call you so late—and with Hannah being so pregnant, but I—I need your help. Yours and Sam's."

Bub's brows furrowed and he took a step closer, "What's happened?"

Shaking her head, Reyna turned back to the patient, "No—I mean, first just let me summon Sam." The patient in front of her was William Freeman, the body Samyaza had possessed all those months ago. Grabbing the catatonic man's wrist, the Sorceress looked over her shoulder, "Watch the door." Summoning a small exacto knife from her apartment, she made the small incisions on both her forearm and the patient's. His blood was used to create Samyaza's summoning circle, and her was used to draw a binding circle over the summoning one. Placing her hand over the two bloody marks, Reyna whispered the incantation and mixed the seals.

A light flashed, bright and blinding, and then the body gasped and began to thrash about. Reyna stepped back, waiting for the episode to end. His eyes opened and blinked. Once, twice, then after the third time Reyna found herself looking into the black eyes of a Devil. "What," Samyaza breathed out slowly, "the fuck?"

"How do you feel?" Bub asked his brother over his shoulder so he could keep watch by the door.

"Like shit." Sam responded before trying to sit up.

"The muscles have started losing their strength I guess," Reyna mused. She made a mental note to study human muscles more. She knew that the last time they'd used Freeman's body, he'd only been catatonic for a few weeks, so it wasn't too big a deal. This time, though, it'd been a few months. Maybe she should start summoning Sam more often to stop the decay and make it easier for him to move about. Shaking her head quickly, she pushed those thoughts aside for later. She had more pressing concerns at the moment.

Bub, deciding the coast was officially clear, stepped up to his brother to help him up and out of bed. "So you ready to tell us what's going on?" He asked, his blue eyes glinting dangerously in the dark. He looked ready for a fight and Reyna knew she just had to point in it's general direction and he'd jump into it head first.

"I need your help. Lilith, the Queen of—"

"Vampires," Sam snorted as he took a few tentative steps. "We know who she is."

Barely holding back an eye roll, Reyna continued. "She's been kidnapped—or something. She's in trouble down in New Orleans."

"So?" Sam asked, now doing a few lunges to stretch out his legs.

"So, I made a deal with her," Reyna said slowly. "If something happened to her, I'd find her—insurance, she called it."

"And you agreed to that?" Bub asked incredulously. "Why?"

"She went down there to look for a mutual friend." Reyna shrugged, "I'm invested."

"All right, and what do you need us for?"

"The people who've taken her . . . I don't know them. I don't know what tricks they have up their sleeves or who they consider allies. I don't know if I'm powerful enough alone to take them on." Sam snorted again, but Reyna continued, "So I need the two of you to have my back down there."

"Whatever," Sam said, rolling his shoulders, "I can't imagine anything down there powerful enough to actually challenge your power, witch," he smirked, teasing, "much less all three of us, but it makes no difference to me. What to we get out of it?"

"It depends," Reyna said slowly. "On who we face. Oh, don't give me that look, Samyaza!" His lip had curled at her words, "I can't specify what type of souls you'll be feasting on . . . just that it will be souls."

"So you're telling me that you don't care what we're facing down there . . . Werewolves, Fae, Vampires . . . even other witchlings like yourself? If they're involved in the Fanged-Bitch's kidnapping then they're ours?"

Reyna nodded, "Lilith may have something special in mind for whoever orchestrated this, but yes. I don't care what sort of creatures have her—their souls are yours."

A viscous snarl of a smile cut across Sam's face, and even Bub looked thirsty with anticipation. The brother's looked at each other and nodded. Sam clapped his hands together, "Say no more—lead us to the buffet!"

It took just under six hours for Reyna and her Devils to make it to to the airport, catch their plane, and land in New Orleans. Reyna was a bundle of nervous energy the entire way, but she had to force herself to be patient. Even she couldn't make time go by faster, nor could she magic the distance away. Flying was by far the fastest option, and yet she couldn't help feel like it still wasn't fast enough. Bub and Sam used the time to catch up with each other, talking about everything from the Demons and Spirits in their realm to how Hannah was doing. Reyna was relieved to discover she and Bub had been spending the week at her family's home, so at least the mother to be wouldn't be alone for the next few days while Bub was away. The two brothers even tried to distract her, asking about her shop and Liam. When she told them Morax was tasked with looking after the young Were, Sam couldn't help the disgusting, full bellied laughter that escaped him. He laughed so hard he even cried a bit.

Reyna was thankful for them. Although she couldn't stop the incessant tapping of her foot on the floor of the plane, their conversation did help take the edge off and make the trip go by faster. Soon enough, just past one in the morning, their plane landed, and by two they were in a cab heading towards the heart of the city. If the cab driver wondered why his three new patrons had zero luggage, he didn't ask. They drove into the Mid-City neighborhood, near City Park, and got out. The city was still awake and active, which Reyna was grateful for. She didn't want to be caught lurking about and tip off her unknown enemies.

"This will be our base," she told Sam and Bub, pointing to the lively bar behind her. "We'll split up and search the city for any word of Li—" Reyna stopped herself, not knowing who could be listening. She restarted, "any word of the Fanged-Bitch. If you hear anything call the others, if not then we'll meet back here in two hours. Sam, check out the bayous and whatever else is east of them. The Weres might know something, and if not I'm sure there are some Fae or Goblins that'll be willing to make a trade for the information. Bub, check out Seabrook and Little Woods and try to sniff out any Humans or Vampires in the area. I'll stay on this side of the city and see what else I can find. Sound good?"

"It's a big town, Reyna," Bub said without looking at her. His gaze was everywhere else, trying to see what magic lurked beneath the city's busy exterior. "Wouldn't a tracking spell be more efficient?"

Shaking her head, she explained, "It's a gamble, but I'd bet whoever took . . . her has magic on their side to either block a trace or signal them that someone was looking. I don't want to give ourselves away."

"Let them know we're here," Sam said, an arrogant smirk on his face. "I'll enjoy tearing their limbs from their bodies."

"They might not attack, though," Reyna reasoned. "They might run instead, and that's a risk I am not willing to take."

The two Devils nodded in agreement and they dispersed with barely another word. Sam would be his purely demonic self in the bayous. The land was wild and infested with all different sorts of creatures that would give anyone other than a soul thirsty Devil a hard time. Some of the stronger creatures would sense him—sense what he was—and if they were smart they'd steer clear. It'd be good for Sam, to let out some of his pent up aggression and rage there—fun, even. Reyna just hoped he didn't burn everything around him down in his search. Though, if it somehow led to Sophie's safe return, Reyna found she didn't much care what Sam did with the place.

Bub would be more subtle. He'd summon legions of flies from his dimension and have them search his section of the city. They'd seep into every house, car, trash can . . . everything and anything. Nothing would stop their entrance. It'd be much simpler and safer than his brother's methods—so long as nothing tried to stop them. Bub's flies were persistent and would stop at nothing. She'd never seen them in action, but Sam had recounted to her the many times someone tried to hide or block the flies and what those little monsters did in retaliation. They lived off blood and flesh, and would burrow themselves into bodies and carcasses happily if they needed to get through to its other side.

As for her, Reyna knew where she had to go. She could feel the streets singing to her magic, beckoning her to a specific location. She'd heard about it from Donny, back when they were still on speaking terms. Certain bars were crafted to entice the magical community. The bricks used to make the establishment were enchanted to catch the attention of those with close ties to magic and lead them straight to it. A magical bar would be the best place to start her investigation. With every step forward, Reyna could feel her blood singing with excitement and peace—with a sense of belonging. Soon enough, Reyna turned a corner and she felt like she was flying when she stepped up to Sièlce Magnifique.

It was a club. A very popular one, Reyna thought, as she saw the line to get in reach down and around the block. Castors were waiting excitedly to get in. They were all young, like her, and all drawn here by the building's siren song. Reyna took a step closer to the building, figuring she'd wait in line and make it in eventually like the rest, when she caught sight of the bouncer. He wasn't anything special, or out of the ordinary. He looked like a stereotypical bouncer. His white head was shaved, he wore black leather, and he was huge. He was also a Vampire. And he wasn't alone. There were two more up on the roof of the building, one down the street, and one on the other side of the door. Five Vampires wasn't unusual, but five Vampires acting as security? That was suspicious.

Reyna took a step back and gasped as a wave of nausea overcame her. She grunted and took another step back. Another wave of nausea hit her, it was almost like her stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. She took another step, forward this time, and sighed when the feeling disappeared and was immediately replaced with that warm, comforting feeling from before. Frowning, Reyna thought back to Donny and his stories. In none of them did he say that ignoring the magical call would cause a negative side effect. That couldn't be normal.

Looking back at the Castors, Reyna perused their attire and found not a single one of them wore anything to repel a Vampire. Not a single one had markings on their skin to protect themselves. Not a single one had cast a spell over themselves or their friends. That didn't necessarily mean anything, but . . . she walked closer to the line and set her sights on a group of female Castors about her age that were in middle of the long line. "Hi, I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering I you knew where I could find Bourbon Street?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," one of the girls said, "We're just visiting—we don't know where anything is!"

"You're all tourists, too, then?" She asked, watching the many people around her nod. A few people in front and behind them nodded as well after she caught their eyes. She walked down the line a bit and asked again. The answer was the same. She tried again, going almost to the end of the line. Tourists, all of them. Catching the eye of one of the Vampire bouncers, Reyna stopped her questioning and instead got in line and pulled out her phone.

Reyna sent a text out to both Bub and Sam, calling them back to her and giving them her current address. By the time they found her, Reyna was almost at the front of the line. Sam arrived looking exhilarated, liberated, completely at ease with everything in the universe. Bub looked a little like that as well, his eyes were alight with danger and adrenaline, but he also had the sense to realize Reyna had stumbled upon something. So, with a frown pulling at his lips, he asked, "What do we have here?"

"A bad ass looking club!" Sam shouted, pumping his fists up into the air. If Reyna didn't know him better, she'd think he was intoxicated. But no, he was just drunk on his own power.

"Notice the security?" She asked under her breath.

"Yeah, they're Vamps," Bub's brow furrowed with confusion. "So?"

"And these people in line," Reyna continued, jerking her chin to the people waiting around them. "What are they?"

"Humans—Castors, I guess. Why does that—"

"Only Castors," Reyna clarified. "And only tourists." The door to the club opened up and the three of them were led inside. The lighting was dark, much too dark for a human's natural eye sight. Music blared from the speakers at a volume higher than anywhere around, making it almost impossible to communicate. Bodies grind and writhed against one another on the dance floor and huddles of people were clustered together in what looked intimate embraces.

Sneering at it all—the flare, the dramatics, the illusions—Reyna felt her magic crackle within her muscles and uncoil deep within her belly. Throwing her hands up, Reyna released a wave of pure magic throughout the building like a great tidal wave in the middle of a once calm ocean. Sparks flew from the massive speakers and the music stopped, only to be replaced by howling screams. Emergency lights flickered once, twice, thrice, before the room was illuminated by bright florescent lights, showing the true nature of the club. The writhing bodies from the dance floor were flailing about, trying to escape the Vampires latched around their necks. The intimate groupings along the side were uncovered to be Vampires finishing off the last of their dried up prey.

Sam let out a low whistle, "Not a club, then."

Bub's jaw dropped, "A slaughter house."

"Yup," Reyna said darkly, looking at all the Vampires in the room and watching as they realized meal had been interrupted. Several began to hiss at them, and Reyna heard something latch into place behind them—the door's lock, most likely. Peripherally, Reyna saw several Vampires stalking towards them and could feel the security Vampire coming up from behind. "Well boys, you wanted souls," she looked up at the two Devils and gestured towards the Vampires, "Think these will do?"

Samyaza smiled down at her, his teeth barring themselves menacingly. He looked like the perfect predator, only perhaps a bit too gleeful at the prospect of the hunt. Blinking, his eyes bled black and he broke eye contact to look at the feast before him. "Oh," he laughed, his smile widening, "This'll do."

Read more here!

Original Works

A03

[ollieofthebeholder]

Still Lies the Midnight: A TMA Whumptober fic

Also on AO3. Part of a longer work.

Jon grumbles to himself as he drives back through the streets of London. Stupid. Stupid of him to have left his notes behind and stupid to be going back for them now. He could easily wait until morning. There’s no real urgency in the matter. What can he possibly do in the next—he glances at the dashboard clock on his car—nine hours that can’t wait until business hours?

But after realizing he left them in his office, he was out the door and in his car before he thought about it. Even now, he can’t convince himself to just turn around and go back. There is an odd sense of urgency propelling him. He needs to get to the Archives, needs to get those notes. And, all right, maybe he’ll check on Martin while he’s at it.

Really, he might as well stay overnight himself. No point in driving back and forth more than necessary. He can get whatever work he wants done just as easily in the office, and it might be useful to have another pair of hands or eyes or ears or whatever he needs, even if—

Jon terminates that line of thought ruthlessly. Martin isn’t incompetent. He just doesn’t have the training the rest of them do. If Jon thinks about it too hard, he actually feels a bit of a heel for having been so harsh on the man without troubling to ask questions. He did what he could with what he had, and now that he’s come out and admitted it, Sasha has been more than willing to help him out. He is getting better. A lot better. And it’s only been a couple of days.

So...yes. If he stays at the office to work, Martin can help. And probably will, if he’s still awake. It is, after all, a bit late. Jon will have to be quiet, at least at first, because if Martin is asleep he doesn’t want to wake him. He needs rest. They all do, really, but Jon is an anxious mess at the best of times and this whole...situation isn’t helping, so his sleep is ofttimes restless at best and intermittent at worst. He’ll likely end up pacing the Archives for most of the night. Maybe he’ll check to make sure that CO2 system he talked Elias into having installed is working properly. Or maybe he’ll go through the statements. Martin found one that seemed to be from Jane Prentiss; Jon meant to read it the night before, but hadn’t got around to it. Yes, that will likely be what he does.

He turns a corner and slams on his brakes. There is a veritable wall of emergency lights before him—police, fire, even an ambulance. And it all seems to be centered around...

No.

Jon isn’t one hundred percent certain the car is even all the way off, let alone pulled over to the curb, before he’s out the door and moving towards the crowd. Something is happening, and it’s happening at the Magnus Institute.

Jon scans the people clustered on the sidewalk. There aren’t many, not that he expected there to be. It is, after all, well into the evening. Most people left at five, or close to it. In fact, most of the people on the sidewalk seem to be from nearby buildings, mere curious onlookers gawking at the spectacle. Jon doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, and he slowly begins to relax.

Then panic strikes him like an almost physical force. Martin. Martin should be easy to spot. He’s big—not fat, exactly, just big—and one of the taller employees. He ought to be standing on the edge of the crowd, a bundle of anxiety and attempted helpfulness, talking to a police officer or an onlooker or looking around to make sure he isn’t going to get in trouble for something that almost certainly isn’t his fault.

He’s not there. Jon spins frantically, but Martin is nowhere to be seen. He could be on the far side of the crowd, or he could have stepped out for something, or—

Or he could still be in the Archives.

Jon runs towards the door, hardly aware he’s doing it. Something slams into him, holding him back, and he struggles, his panic rising. Something is holding him, he’s trapped, he’s in danger, but Martin is still in there—

“Hold on, sir, you can’t go in there!”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to—my friend is in there—” Jon fights to get free.

“Crews are inside, sir, they’ll find anyone who’s in there, but you need to stay out here. We can’t have you running into danger.”

The fireman—as it proves to be—deposits Jon behind a barricade. He grips it in both hands, staring desperately at the door to the Archives. There doesn’t seem to be any smoke pouring out of the door, which is...maybe promising, but maybe not. Maybe still too late.

There was a fire in the Archives, somehow. Martin was down there. If he didn’t wake in time...or if he wasn’t able to get out, if the CO2 suppressant system triggered and he breathed in too much of the stuff...

A chasm seems to open up before Jon as he suddenly, unexpectedly faces down the idea of a world devoid of Martin Blackwood. His mind conjures up thoughts of Martin’s not-too-chipper morning, Jon every day, of his quiet determination to do his job even when he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, of the earnest way he makes his reports. Of him appearing in Jon’s office with a cup of tea, made exactly the way Jon likes it, at the exact moment he needs it the most.

In that moment, Jon understands with crystal clarity exactly how important Martin is to him, and how much it will devastate him if he is gone. His grip on the barricade tightens and he begins to wonder if he can escape the notice of the firefighters in order to—

“Jon?”

Only one person—one living person, anyway—ever addresses Jon in that slightly disapproving tone. Jon turns to find Elias standing a few feet away, one eyebrow raised and his mouth set in a flat line. “Elias. What—what’s going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Elias’s disapproval is almost palpable. “I don’t see the others. Never would have expected you to run and leave them behind.”

“Leave—what do you mean?”

Elias’s lips tighten. “You think I wasn’t aware of what was going on? I did hear Tim talking about this ‘sleepover in the Archives’.”

Jon stares at Elias for a second, comprehension eluding him. Then, suddenly, ice floods his veins as he realizes what Elias is implying.

Not just Martin. Tim and Sasha  doubled back to spend the night, too.

“Oh, God,” he manages to choke out.

Elias’s expression shifts. “You weren’t aware?”

“No!” Jon turns desperately back towards the Institute, towards the Archives, frantically scanning for any sign of...anything. “No, I thought—they both should have gone home by now, I—oh, God. No.”

He starts to dodge around the barricade, but Elias has his shoulder in an iron grip. “Steady, Jon. The ECDC said not to—”

“The what?” Jon jerks his head around to face Elias. Realization hits him, yet again, and while he would have sworn there isn’t enough blood left in his face for it to drain any further, he is apparently wrong about that. “Jane Prentiss is here?”

“Jon, you’re getting hysterical. Calm down.”

“Calm down? You’ve just informed me that my entire staff was in the Archives, which apparently were not only on fire but invaded by a woman completely riddled with dangerous worms, and you want me to calm down?”

“The fire was apparently small, and, I suspect, set mostly with the intention of triggering the CO2 suppressant system—”

“If that is supposed to make me feel better, Elias, it is failing.” Jon turns back to the Archives and contemplates making a break for it. It’s fifty-fifty whether Elias will stop him, or just wait to see if he survives and then fire him, but the emergency staff are—

There’s a lot of activity around one of the doors. Jon lets out a ragged gasp as two EMTs come out, wheeling a stretcher between them with a body on it. He doesn’t—can’t—know for sure who is on it, not from that distance, not in the dark and with his eyesight, but he does. He knows, with a certainty that he can almost taste, that it’s Martin on that stretcher.

And he isn’t moving.

“Jon!” Elias shouts, but Jon is past hearing him, too preoccupied with rushing across the lawn. He has to get to him, has to see—

“Stand back!” A figure in a hazmat suit suddenly looms up, barring his progress. “You can’t come in this area!”

“Damn you, that is someone I care about, I need to know he’s okay!” Jon cries, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this area is in quarantine until we’re sure we’ve contained the infestation,” the figure in the hazmat suit says. “They’re taking him to the hospital. You should be able to see him once he’s out of quarantine.”

“But—” Jon’s eyes desperately track the stretcher as they wheel it past, the two EMTs tossing terms and orders back and forth. It is Martin, he was right, lying very still. There’s an oxygen mask clamped over his face, and he’s—oh, God, he’s covered in blood—he was attacked—the worms, or Jane Prentiss, or both, they attacked Martin, he is hurt, he might be dying, he could already be dead and the oxygen mask could just be for form’s sake and nobody will tell him because they have to control the damage and cover up what’s happening and Jon can’t even be at his side because he might still be infested with the parasites that riddled Prentiss’s body and oh, God, what will he do if Martin survives only to be like that, this is all his fault, why in the name of God’s green earth did he think the Archives would be safe, why was it only Martin he suggested stay, why hadn’t he either had all of them stay, or had all of them stay somewhere else—

The slam of the ambulance doors jolts him out of his thoughts, and he draws in a great gasp of air, which he realizes he’s been forgetting to do somewhat. It would start calming him if not for the fact that he suddenly realizes where his thoughts are trending and starts panicking all over again. “Tim and Sasha! Where are they?”

The figure hesitates, then waves at someone. Another hazmat-suited figure comes over to them, and Jon can see the scowl behind the clear plastic mask, even over the breathing apparatus. “Get back behind the barricades! This area is under quarantine, and unless you want to be quarantined too, I suggest you stay clear.”

It crosses Jon’s mind, for a fleeting second, to ask if he’d be quarantined with Martin, but the thought is gone before he can speak it, fortunately. The figure that still holds him is already speaking, though. “Mack, how many people have we found so far?”

“Two, the man they just brought out and...well, what’s left of a woman,” the second figure says. “I’m told everyone should have been gone for the day.”

“My assistants decided to spend the night,” Jon says. He can hear the hysterical quality in his own voice but is helpless to stop it. “There should be two more, a man and a woman—he’s got, ah—and she’s—” He flounders as he tries desperately to conjure up a description of either Tim or Sasha. The only face his brain seems willing to contemplate just then is Martin’s, bright and eager, pale and scared, still and bleeding.

“We haven’t found them, sir, but we’ll keep looking.” The second figure’s tone changes—concern, maybe? Still, he waves at the first figure, who shoves Jon easily back behind the barricade.

Someone, probably Elias, is talking. Jon honestly isn’t listening. He’s torn between proceeding immediately to the hospital to stalk the lobby until someone lets him see Martin or staying here to make sure Tim and Sasha are all right. He should probably be concerned about the Archives, about what caught on fire, on whether or not any important statements got burnt and how big the fire was, and he’s not going to lie, a part of him is. But he’s willing to let that concern lie until later. Right now, he just needs everyone to be okay.

“Jon,” Elias says loudly, directly in his ear, and Jon about jumps out of his skin. He turns to see his boss looking at him with something that might be concern and might just be annoyance. “The worms are dead. ECDC is about to go in and remove Jane Prentiss’s body. I’m going in to supervise. Do you want to come?”

He really doesn’t. Quite apart from the fact that he’s been sufficiently upset by the few worms he has seen around the Institute and really doesn’t want to see how many are still in the Archives, even dead, he’s just about decided that he needs to be at the hospital. Martin doesn’t have anybody, as far as Jon knows, and anyway he needs to see for himself that Martin is all right. But he also knows that this is part of his job, and a part of him does need to see the Archives for himself as well, before...before whatever cleanup will happen.

Besides. Tim and Sasha are still down there.

“All right,” he manages. “Lead the way.”

He’s tense and distracted. Far from the mad rush that drove him a few moments before, he follows Elias at a more sedate pace, and he’s only half-aware of the fact that he’s balling the cuffs of his cardigan into his hand. Damn it, he bought this one brand-new when he got appointed Head Archivist and he’s already worried snags and stresses into the cuffs. He can’t help it, he’s got a compulsion to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves when he’s nervous or distracted—among other things—and this is hardly the first sweater he’s ruined like this, but it’s still been less than eight months and he’d sort of hoped he would be over this by now. He forces himself to uncurl his fists and shake his sleeves back into some semblance of order before entering the Archives.

They instantly go back into his curled fists when he sees the state of the Archives. There are worms everywhere. He cannot, for the life of him, figure out where they all came from. They’ve seen a few scattered around outside the Institute, one or two making their way inside, but this many? God, they must have been breeding in the damn walls...

The thought sends another sticky spiral of panic and guilt through him. If the worms were breeding in the walls of the Institute—of the Archives—and Martin’s been sleeping here this whole time—then this is entirely Jon’s fault. This could have happened at any time and he never would have known. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Martin was awake when all this happened, but if Tim and Sasha hadn’t been there, he might have been asleep when the worms attacked.

He might not ever have woken up.

Jon looks desperately around, trying to keep his mind on the present and not on hypotheticals. There are files that have been pulled out and...are probably ruined, to be quite honest, as there’s some sort of...substance on them. There’s a great deal of activity surrounding what appears to have once been the body of a woman, in what appears to have once been a red dress, and Jon’s stomach turns uncomfortably as he thinks about Timothy Hodges’ statement...and Martin’s. The remnants of suppressant foam still linger, and while the gas seems to have mostly dissipated, the smell is...unpleasant. The smell of worms, and earth, and rot.

Then Jon’s eyes fall on a blank space, a curved-out negative in the sea of silver-white, and his heart lurches as he realizes he’s staring at the spot where Martin lay before the attendants took him out. He steps closer, not even consciously aware he’s doing it, and stares at the space, a perversion of a snow angel on the Archives floor. There’s blood on the wood, still tacky, and Jon wonders how much there is, whether it’s too much for a normal human to survive.

“Were you here when they...?” Jon addresses the nearest person, indicating the spot where Martin’s body obviously was retrieved from.

“Was the one who found him,” the figure confirms. It sounds like a woman. “Not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m—I-I work here.” Jon should probably point out that he is, in fact, in charge here, or at least in this portion of “here”, in theory anyway, but he’s too preoccupied with finding out everything he can. “How was—what was the situation when you found him?”

“A bloody mess.” The woman waves a hand at the area. “Worms were all dead, thankfully, but there was still a bit of gas in the place. We knew we were looking for Jane Prentiss—Mr. Bouchard called us in as soon as he knew what was what—but we didn’t know there was anyone else here. I almost stepped on him before I saw him. Thought he was another dead body at first.”

Jon’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “But then?”

“He moved. Thought it might’ve been the worms at first. They were all through him. Looked like bloody Swiss cheese. But they were all as dead as the ones out here. No, it was him, struggling to breathe. I started pulling the worms out best I could and shouted for help. The paramedics showed up and helped out. He was starting to come round at that point, but...well. People aren’t meant to breathe carbon dioxide. They gave him oxygen and wheeled him out. He’ll need to be quarantined a bit until they’re sure he’s not infested, and they’ll be checking his lungs, but really, I think he’ll be fine.”

Jon exhales heavily. He really shouldn’t be relieved. Honestly, one look around the Archives should be enough to convince him that things are...bad. They are bad. God, so many worms, and some of them were in Martin’s body. There is also a human corpse on the floor. And there’s still no sign of Tim or Sasha. But those five words give him more of a sense of relief than he’s felt since he saw the first emergency light. I think he’ll be fine. Martin will be fine.

It’s enough to relax Jon to the point that he can wade carefully through the worm corpses to check the damage to his Archives, while Elias supervises the ECDC people in preparing to remove Jane Prentiss’s body, or what’s left of it anyway. Not far from where Martin lost consciousness—not died, thank God—is another odd clearing—not so much a clearing as a slight thinning in the concentration of worms. Jon eyes it, decides it’s a concern for later, and concentrates on trying to figure out where the hell the worms came from in the first place.

He finds the answer when he wanders into his office and finds the cheap shelving unit shoved to one side, twisted and askew, and a hole in the wall behind it. It should have been an exterior wall, but no, it looks like someone put a piece of drywall over an entrance. Curious, Jon touches the hole lightly. It’s person-sized, as though someone burst through the wall. At first, he’s inclined to assume it was made by Jane Prentiss, forcing her way into the Archives, but a second glance proves otherwise. The break in the plaster indicates that it came from his office, not into, meaning that someone was in his office and, somehow, knew this tunnel was there.

That should be worrying. It is worrying. Jon wonders who did it...who would break into his office, let alone push through this wall...who would put Martin in danger, because almost certainly this is how the worms got in and attacked him. He’d suspect Tim or Sasha or both, since they’re clearly not here, but he knows in his heart of hearts neither of them would deliberately put Martin at risk. They’re a family, the four of them, even if Jon’s been trying not to admit that, and they both care about him. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.

But if they didn’t know...

There’s a commotion from behind him, and Jon jumps. The thought passes through his mind that Jane Prentiss might not be all that dead after all, or worse—that she’s not alone, that she brought another of her victims along with her. He grabs at the first object he sees that could reasonably be considered a weapon—a paper knife he found in one of the drawers when he first took the job—and steps out into the Archives proper, not at all confident that he can do anything but at least willing to make the attempt.

He drops the knife instantly when he sees the two figures in the middle of the Archives, both looking panicky and quite out of breath. “Tim! Sasha!”

He rushes towards them, heedless of the worms popping and squishing under his feet. Tim looks up at him and waves at something on the floor—a hole. Jon realizes all of a sudden that they’re standing next to an open trapdoor in the middle of the Archives, something he had no idea existed before this moment.

“Call...police,” he manages to gasp out between heaving breaths.

“They’re outside,” Elias says, sounding somehow both worried and annoyed. “Tim, what is going on? What is the urgency?”

Sasha meets Jon’s eyes, and he’s genuinely never seen her so scared. “There’s a body in those tunnels. It’s Gertrude Robinson and she’s dead.”

[azvolrien]

Pirates of the North Atlantic - Part Four

Wellp, so much for ‘not such a big gap’. On with the final installment!

~~~

           The torch’s beam swept to and fro across the steps that coiled up through the heart of the lighthouse. Here and there, spots of dried blood dotted the stone.

           “Wonder if this is what happened at the Flannan Isles, too?” said the Captain, grimacing.

           “I’d have to ask my father,” said Suilven, crouching down and scraping one of the stains with the tip of a claw. “Though disappearances caused by dragons aren’t usually so… mysterious. There are usually a lot of claw and scorch marks.”

           “Believe me,” said the Captain, “I’m familiar with what the aftermath of a dragon attack looks like.” She pointed the torch towards the ceiling. “We’ll go up to the light and work our way downwards,” she said. “If nothing else, we’ll have a better view from up there.”    

           Surprisingly, the light appeared to be intact. There were no visible problems with the gears that drove the rotation, nor any damage to the lamp itself and the great lens array surrounding it. In fact, the pirates only seemed to have switched it off.

           “This is interesting,” said the Captain, poking her head up through a gap in the lens framework to look at the lamp.

           “Is it?”

           “This is an electric light,” explained the Captain, nodding towards the bulb.

           “Yes? Also, you look like you have three heads right now.”

           “Thank you for the information. But if this is an electric light, then there must be a source of electricity. Somehow I doubt that Sule Skerry is hooked up to the National Grid, which means-” the Captain pulled her head free, “-that there must be a generator somewhere nearby.”

           “OK.” Suilven looked at the windows surrounding the light. “Can we get out this way?”

           “Possibly in an emergency, but I’d rather search the rest of the tower first,” said the Captain. “If our friend at Cape Wrath remembered hearing from the keepers here, there must have been a radio. We’ll have to see if it’s still here.”

           To a certain extent, it was. The Captain sighed and lifted a bundle of tangled wires, crudely ripped from the back of the radio’s casing. “I suppose that was too much to hope for,” she said.

           Suilven twisted a wire around one claw and inspected the metal thoughtfully. “Humans are good with machines,” she said with great confidence. “You can put it back together, can’t you?”

           “Huh! Your faith is appreciated, but this might be a little more complicated than my old Meccano set.”

           “Your what?”

           “Never mind. Still, I suppose I can try to reconnect a few wires, see if that does anything. But it certainly won’t if there isn’t any power.”

           “How big is a generator?” asked Suilven as they walked back down the stairs.

           “It varies a great deal,” said the Captain. “The ones in power stations are enormous, but you can get much smaller ones. I wouldn’t expect the one here to be too big.”

           “What does it look like?”

           “As a general rule of thumb, a cylinder with various bits sticking off it, but not always.”

           “Gotcha.” Suilven started looking through doors as they walked, checking each of the small rooms contained within the tower. “Is that one?”

           “No, that’s an icebox.”

           “Is that one?”

           “No, that’s a stove.”

           “Is that one?”

           “No, that’s- Oh, actually, I think that is one. Well done.”

           The generator was in the lowest chamber of the tower, dug into the island’s bedrock on the level below the entrance, and unlike the radio it appeared to be intact. Perhaps the pirates had thought they may need it at some point. What was not in evidence was any sort of fuel for it.

           “Hold this for me,” said the Captain, handing Suilven the torch. “Let’s have a look at this.”

           Suilven curiously switched the torch off and on a couple of times before pointing it at the generator. “Do I need to say that I know absolutely nothing about this?”

           “No, no, you don’t. Here, shine it at this little plaque – maybe I can make out the model. I’ll admit I’m no technician,” she said as she knelt down beside the generator, “but with any luck… And my word, we are in luck!”

           Suilven blinked expectantly.

           The Captain got to her feet, leaning on the generator. “This is called a Salamander 1-20,” she explained, pointing at the little creature engraved on the plaque beside the model name. “They’re not the most efficient of generators, but they’re popular in eyrie towns and other isolated settlements because they can run on practically any flammable liquid. Which means…” She ran upstairs to where she had left her rucksack, and returned carrying the flask of whisky. “…That we have fuel.” She sighed. “I was hoping to save this for a celebratory snifter, but needs must. But,” she continued, thinking out loud as she emptied the flask into the generator’s fuel tank, “this won’t give us power for long – there just isn’t enough of it.” She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed again. “God, I wish Cally was here. That girl can repair just about anything, but we’re stuck with me. Let’s go have another look at that radio.”

           The Captain did not know enough about electronics to know with certainty if the damage was as bad as it looked, but she was reasonably sure that she was unlikely to accidentally make it worse.

           “Point the torch at these wires,” she instructed, and began untangling them one by one until they hung loose and relatively straight from the back of the radio. “Let’s see… Hopefully they match up like this…”

           Suilven cocked her head and watched as the Captain started twisting the wires back together, forming what she hoped were unbroken circuits. “Kind of reminds me of the stories my great-uncle Tonnlauss told me,” she said as the Captain moved onto the third wire. “He had a human friend who was good at fixing things. Maybe he could have helped.”

           “Well, if this doesn’t work, perhaps we can go and look for your great-uncle’s friend,” said the Captain, twisting the fourth wire.

           “He’s been dead for seven hundred years.”

           “…Yes, I can see how that could pose a problem. Right. I think that’s all the wires back together. Let’s make sure all the lights are switched off before we try to fire up the generator – I don’t want to tip off our friends outside.”

           Half an hour later, with the lights all checked, the generator chugged and spluttered into life.

           “I don’t know how much your Goddess has to do with electronics,” said the Captain as she and Suilven ran back upstairs to the radio, “but just in case, try praying.”

           “Way ahead of you.”

           “And three, two, one… Yes! It’s working!” The Captain punched the air and sat down in front of the radio. “Sule Skerry Lighthouse, hailing… well, anyone who’s listening!”

           There was a long, static-filled silence, before a voice – wholly unfamiliar, but nonetheless welcome – finally crackled over the radio.

           “MV Scapa Flow to Sule Skerry Lighthouse. We hear you.”

           “Thank God! Stay well clear of the island.”

           “Why?”

           “It’s infested with pirates. My name is Isla Price – my friend and I are being held captive in the lighthouse, and I don’t know how long this radio will work for. Where are you going?”

           “We were headed for Scrabster, but… Sule Skerry, you say?”

           “Yes – we need to alert the authorities.”

           “We’ll pass on the message as soon as we can. HMS Buccleuch is nearby – we passed it on our way up to Stromness yesterday.”

           “Excellent. Can you do something else for us?”

           “Of course; the boat’s still got plenty of fuel.”

           “You may not be so enthusiastic once you hear my request.”

           Suilven raised her eyebrows as the Captain outlined her idea to Scapa Flow’s pilot, and raised them even more when the pilot agreed with only a minimum of hesitation.

           “Brave man,” she said as the radio died once again.

           “You need to be tough to fish these waters,” said the Captain, replacing the headset on the desk and stretching her arms above her head. “The sea breeds stern souls.”

           “That sounds like a quote from somewhere.”

           “It may well be.” She sighed and folded her arms. “I have serious doubts that these pirates will be any match for a fully-manned Royal Navy frigate, but the more the merrier.”

           “What about Sgribhis and Rognar? And Fashven, whoever that is?”

           “Well, I’m not sure about that. Depends how reckless they are – modern warships are made from metal, not wood, so they shouldn’t be able to set too much on fire, but if they close to try and engage the ship in melee combat… Hence the additional reinforcements.”

           Suilven wrinkled her nose. “So, now what? We just sit in here and wait for them to arrive?”

           “Essentially, yes,” said the Captain, sitting back in her chair and folding her hands behind her head. “But,” she continued when Suilven opened her mouth, “we’re not going to sit in here and let them do all the work once they get here. Fortunately, Suilven, our adversaries here are not the brightest sparks of intellect.”

           “How do you figure?”

           The Captain grinned and held up her rifle. “They didn’t take this off me when they shoved us in here. Come on, we’ll wait up at the light.”

           It didn’t take long for them to lift a few glass panes out of place and edge out onto the narrow platform surrounding the lantern room. There was a great deal of activity going on below; men hurried to and fro between the lighthouse outbuildings and the landing site, salvaging what they could from their destroyed boats, while others had gathered around the aeroplane hangar and were arguing loudly but indistinctly amongst themselves. Sgribhis, Rognar and a third, unfamiliar fighter – presumably Fashven – sat together on the far side of the hangar, watching the humans and occasionally muttering amongst themselves. Suilven made a full circuit of the platform, before she stretched her arms above her head and scrambled up onto the roof.

            “Watch the east and tell me if you see the ship coming,” said the Captain, focussing on the three dragons. Suilven slapped her trailing tail against the glass in reply. “Wait, you still have a-? Never mind. Just keep watch.”

           Hours passed in relative silence. The pirates appeared to have retrieved everything they could from the wrecks, and settled down once again. The doors to the aeroplane hangar slid closed and the light inside was extinguished.

           “Captain,” said Suilven quietly, when a pale grey light began to show in the sky. “There’s a big grey ship coming from the east. No lights, no sails. Just kind of… some things sticking up at the top.”

           “I’ll have to take your word for it, but that sounds like our friends,” said the Captain, checking that her rifle was loaded. “Give me your professional opinion,” she said as she set the stock against her shoulder. “Which of the dragons do you think is the biggest physical threat here?”

           “Oh, that’s easy,” said Suilven without turning around, as the Captain sighted along the barrel. “Rognar. Definitely Rognar.”

           “I was hoping you’d say that,” said the Captain, and pulled the trigger.

           Suilven spun around in place at the deafening crack of the shot and almost fell from the roof, just in time to see Rognar collapse to the ground with a dark puddle spreading from his head. Sgribhis and Fashven both recoiled in shock; doors slammed open as pirates rushed outside.

           “Did… Did you do that with one shot?” asked Suilven slowly.

           “This thing is effectively an elephant gun on steroids,” said the Captain, slinging the rifle across her back. “Large-calibre, high-powered. A direct hit could probably take a human’s head off; it’s designed to make a hole in a dragon’s. Of course now that I’ve done that and they’ve noticed we’re up here I think it would be a very good idea to move now!”

           “Good idea!” Suilven transformed without stepping down from her perch. The roof creaked from the sudden weight, but held long enough for her to grab the Captain in one forepaw and take flight. It was considerably more terrifying than riding on her back – not least because it kept her paws occupied when the other two dragons roared in fury and leapt after her. Sgribhis grabbed at the end of Suilven’s tail, narrowly missing it; Suilven twisted around midair and spat a jet of fire at the larger dragon, but she shrugged the flames off without even seeing to notice them. Fashven lunged forwards, raking her talons through the membrane of one of Suilven’s wings. Suilven roared in pain and fell to the ground, trying frantically to slow her descent, but she still struck the rough stone heavily, wrapping both forelegs around the Captain.

           Sgribhis and Fashven landed shortly afterwards, just as the Captain wriggled free of Suilven’s grasp and got to her feet. She drew her revolver and aimed it squarely at the middle of Sgribhis’s forehead before she could draw any closer.

           “Put it down, you hairless monkey,” said Fashven. “It’s not big enough to kill either of us.”

           “Maybe not,” said the Captain, drawing back the hammer, “but it’ll still give you one hell of a headache.” She pulled the trigger without another word; the bullet slammed into Sgribhis’s skull and she collapsed, still breathing but out cold, the bullet a flattened circle of lead on her forehead. “And I’m an ape, you overgrown lizard.” Meaningfully, she put her revolver back in the holster and took her rifle from across her back.

           “It’s not loaded,” said Fashven uncertainly, as Sgribhis groggily regained consciousness and staggered back to her feet.

           “If you say so,” said the Captain, lifting the stock to her shoulder. Behind her, Suilven groaned and rolled onto her front, folding her torn wing tightly against her back. The two fighters glanced at each other. Behind them, the leader of the human pirates ran towards them.

           A blinding spotlight flared into life, and a loudspeaker gave off a deafening whine.

           “Pirates!” bellowed a distorted, amplified voice from the approaching frigate. “This is HMS Buccleuch of the Royal Navy!” A formidable gun turret swivelled towards the island with a threatening clunk. “Surrender, or we open fire!”

           The nearest pirate slowly raised his hands, but Fashven reared up on her hind legs with a defiant roar. Semi-conscious Sgribhis gave her an incredulous look and shook out her wings instead.

           The Captain lowered her rifle and grabbed one of Suilven’s horns. “Can you get up?” she asked, shaking Suilven’s head.

           “Ow… Think so.” Still groaning, Suilven carefully worked her paws beneath herself and hauled herself back up, one foot at a time, but Fashven spun around, seized her other horn, and slammed her head back to the ground.

           “Neither of you are going anywhere,” she promised. Suilven growled.

           A boat’s horn sounded to the west. The Captain looked over her shoulder to see the small trawler approaching; two of its crew waved from the bows as the boat turned south, revealing the huge white dragon swimming in its wake.

           Smuga dug his claws into the rock and heaved himself up onto the island, shaking himself dry like an enormous dog.

           “You’ll all want to move away from my niece,” he said, tiny flames flickering from his nostrils.

           “Or what?” asked Fashven, sitting back on her haunches. Sgribhis desperately waved for her to stop. “Everyone knows you wouldn’t even challenge your little brother for the Hebrides – you’re no fighter.”

           “Indeed not,” said Smuga, and inhaled deeply. “I’m a firebreather.”

           Sgribhis hurled herself into the sea; Suilven yelped and leapt over the Captain, curling up and folding both wings over her. Fashven scoffed and lifted her claws.

           Smuga breathed. The Captain peered through a gap beneath Suilven’s wing, and abruptly realised that for all her time with dragons in combat, from her first hunt with the Saint George to the Battle of Gerlach Peak, not once had she ever seen a fully-grown, experienced firebreather at full blast. The torrent of fire that roared from Smuga’s jaws was a brilliant bluish-white, so hot that the Captain could feel it from beneath Suilven’s protection, and so huge that it engulfed half of Fashven’s body.

           The flames petered out and Smuga closed his mouth. Fashven collapsed with a thump and a clatter: nothing of her remained from the waist forwards but charred bones. Suilven opened one eye and uncurled from around the Captain, and her jaw dropped.

           “Anyone else?” asked Smuga.

           A slight swell in the water was the only evidence of Sgribhis swimming away from the island as fast as she could, heading north towards open sea. The rest of the pirates looked from Smuga, to the remains of Fashven, to HMS Buccleuch still with its gun trained on the island, and silently raised their arms in surrender.

           The Captain gingerly stepped forwards and prodded Fashven’s gently smoking skull with the muzzle of her rifle. “Explain to me how we ever managed to kill dragons if you can do this?” she asked.

           Smuga shrugged his wings. “Only some big firebreathers can,” he said. “And not while flying – can’t spare the breath for both.”

           Suilven crawled over to join them, trying to steady her torn wing. “Did you swim all the way here from your cave?” she asked. Smuga shrugged again.

           “That has to be almost forty miles!” said the Captain.

           “Aye, well. I can hardly get off the ground without jumping from a cliff,” said Smuga, lying down and curling his tail over his hind legs, “but I float pretty well.”

           “Huh.” The Captain slung her rifle’s carrying strap over one shoulder. “Thanks for coming,” she said after another moment’s pause. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure that the crew of that boat would be able to persuade you.”

           “Aye, well,” said Smuga again, scratching the back of his neck. “Crag’d never let me hear the end of it if I’d let anything happen to his oldest.”

           “I’d be more worried about my mother,” said Suilven.

           “…That’s true,” said Smuga. “What’s your plan for getting back to the mainland?”

           Suilven stretched out her torn wing and surveyed it ruefully. The Captain looked thoughtfully at the warship, whose crew were lowering boats into the water to approach the island. “If we play our cards right,” she said, “we might be able to get them to give us a lift.”

           A few hours later, the captive pirates and the confiscated aeroplanes had all been loaded on board the ship and the surprised Navy surgeon had used most of his suturing thread to stitch up the tears in Suilven’s wing. The Captain went to retrieve the dragon saddle while Suilven paddled out to the ship and clambered aboard to perch in the bows, coiling her tail around the base of the naval gun. Scapa Flow was long gone, returned to Scrabster as was its crew’s original intention; Smuga had nodded farewell to Suilven and slipped back into the water to swim home to his cave.

           The Captain joined Suilven in the bows. “How fast does wing membrane heal?” she asked as HMS Buccleuch pulled away from the tiny island and bore south.

           “Fast,” said Suilven. “It’ll have scarred over in a few days.”

           “The stitches will dissolve by themselves eventually – you won’t need to have them taken out. What about Sgribhis?”

           Suilven wrinkled her snout. “We’ve probably seen the last of her for a good while,” she said. “She might head for – what did you say those islands are called?”

           “The Faroe Islands.”

           “Them. Or Iceland. There’s no rangelord out there, so the only dragons living there are hermits and outlaws. Bit like the Urals that way.” Suilven yawned. “Either way, I doubt she’ll show her face in Scotland again, not once we tell Mother and Karroch what she was up to. What’ll happen to the human pirates?”

           “That will depend on how sympathetic a judge they get,” said the Captain. “There aren’t many crimes that still carry the death penalty in Britain, but piracy is one of them.”

           “Couldn’t we just have killed them out here, then?”

           “One day, someone is going to have to explain the concept of ‘due process’ to dragons,” said the Captain with a sigh. “But somehow I don’t think it’ll catch on among people whose idea of a justice system is based entirely on fighting.”

           “Hey, we are how we are.” Suilven grasped the ship’s rail in her forepaws and leant into the wind, looking for all the world like a Viking figurehead. “I think this whole thing was a success, don’t you?”

           “Overall, yes,” said the Captain after some thought. “I would have preferred to get through things with no loss of life, but…”

           “That was never going to happen,” finished Suilven. “Rognar and Fashven wouldn’t have shown throat for anything.”  

           “No, I suppose not. Perhaps if a few more allies had accompanied us… But with just you, me and Smuga, there was no force we could bring to bear between ‘ineffective’ and ‘lethal’.”

           “No, seriously. I could tell by looking at them. We could’ve brought your crew, Karroch, his grandson and every craglord in the Highlands with us, and they would still have fought to the death, maybe taking a few of us with them.”

           “You say that with great certainty,” said the Captain, smiling.

           Suilven shrugged, still facing ahead. “When you grow up in a craglord’s stronghold, you see most kinds of dragon sooner or later – some are better at keeping it penned in than others, but we don’t just call them fighters for their builds.”

           The Captain considered the fighters she had known; apart from the even-tempered Karroch and Sarkany, who were still not wholly averse to violence, all had been boisterous at least and some had been downright brutal. “You may have something there,” she admitted quietly.

           Suilven turned to look at her very intently. The sudden focus in her yellow eyes was unnerving. “Captain,” she said, only just loudly enough to be heard above the sounds of the ship’s passage, “we’re dragons. We’re people, but we’re not human. We don’t act like you, and we don’t think like you. Some dragons will surrender and some dragons won’t, and the dragons who won’t surrender will never surrender. They will escape or they will fight, but they won’t fold their wings and come quietly. It isn’t even really a choice. It’s something…” She tapped her chest with a claw. “Something in here.”

           “I’ll admit, that doesn’t fill me with confidence for the future of peace between dragons and humans.”

           “As long as you stop killing us for our body parts, we’ll probably work everything else out sooner or later,” said Suilven, as drily as the Captain had ever spoken.

           “Ouch.” The Captain silently ran her thumb over the notches carved in the handle of her hunting knife. “But fair.”

           “Glad we’ve sorted that out.” Suilven shifted her weight and curled up on the deck, resting her chin on her tail and closing her eyes. “Wake me up when we get back to land, all right?”

           “All right,” said the Captain. Suilven, already fast asleep, did not respond. The Captain shook her head, smiling, and sat down on the deck with her back against Suilven’s neck. Behind them, the crew carried on with whatever the crew of a warship normally did; a pair of bonxies flew overhead, riding the breeze of the ship’s passage.

           The Captain sighed, folded her arms, and closed her eyes. All things considered, it had been an eventful few days.

~~~

Among dragons, Sarkany is considered unusually calm-natured for a fighter, which tend to be stereotyped (not entirely without cause) as rowdy and violent... But one of his first on-screen acts was to shotput a man into a river.