#and the cooking rumors are just that - meant to cover up his absence (from what?) and give him deniability

[xcziel]

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[06sunnybunny06]

The lights go out (Diluc)

The moment Diluc appeared in your life did not portend anything bad. A respectable gentleman with a rich history and a business of creating high-quality wine. As a man, he was quite gallant. It seemed that the red hair could flare up like his eyes. Always neat clothes, even in the role of a bartender, looked gorgeous, hugging a muscular body. His calm character gave his appearance a bit of mystery. In general, any lady will lose her head for such an enviable bachelor.

What else can I say about someone who treats your drunken nonsense with understanding and calmness. Which made you feel ashamed afterwards. As an apology, you could only cook some kind of dish. With your modest budget, you won't be able to keep up with gifts. Especially for a man who has everything. There was still some way to survive until the next paycheck. Diluc politely refused, but your persistence did not give him a chance. The guy was embarrassed, but also grateful. It was not uncommon for him to skip lunch because of his busy schedule.

Over time, a good friend of the bartender turned into a good friend. Your conversations have become more open. Sometimes you were invited for a little walk. Which is surprising, considering his busy schedule, but how can you refuse your friend? Recently, parcels without the sender's name began to be delivered to your doorstep. They contained small gifts. Your neighbor, when she saw another box in your hands, sighed languidly. "It looks like our t/i has a secret admirer. How romantic!"

You were awkwardly scratching your head, knowing who the sender might be. Your friend only apologized for not giving his name to this suspicion, since he has many enemies. And that could be a problem. He didn't hear you at all awkwardly mention that it was too much and too expensive to give something in return.

You liked Diluc, I don't look at his slight detachment. It seemed that the man was carrying more weight on his shoulders than could be seen from the outside. It didn't interfere with your friendship in any way. All people have secrets. There is no person who would not hide skeletons in the closet.

It seemed like your relationship was more like a couple in love than friendship. But the thoughts in your head kept nagging at you, because you didn't match his status in any way. An ordinary person with ordinary problems….Jean could be suitable for this role. She not only occupies a high position, but is also strong, intelligent, and also perfectly beautiful. It is rumored that she and Diluc often played together as children. An ideal candidate for the role of his wife…

Such thoughts could drive you crazy, but reality is completely different from fairy tales. Every relationship can end before it even starts. And feeling that my heart involuntarily begins to flutter at the sight of a red-haired man. You decided to stop it before the feelings tore your heart into small pieces.

Lately, Diluc has stopped observing your presence. It seemed like forever since you greeted him with a bright smile after working days. The man wondered if he had done something wrong the last time you met. You were just acting weird. No, rather detached. He decided to find out about it face to face. His concern for you has become almost the norm in everyday life.

Unfortunately, the weather foreshadowed a thunderstorm. Huge black clouds covered the sky like a blanket. Diluc already wanted to go home until he met the little owner of a small flower shop. You were just working for her. What was his surprise when Flora told him that you went in search of wind asters in the direction of the Valley of the Winds. Your absence meant that you hadn't returned yet.

I hope she will come back soon or she can hide somewhere. It's going to rain heavily. No matter how it gets to the storm. Even the flowers have closed their buds.

The girl left Diluc in a hurry, completely not noticing his dumbfounded face. The body did not move arbitrarily in the right direction. There was only one thought in my head: "You're in danger." He wanted to scream, knock down the first tree he saw, or hit someone. He couldn't stop. Fear has already clearly painted every case of your death. Now his visions could become reality.

Damn it. The first drops were felt on the skin. There were more of them with every step. A few minutes later, a clap of thunder hit my ears. It's bad. You're afraid of a thunderstorm. It was only by a miracle that through the haze he could see the overturned basket on the ground. Asters are scattered around. After walking a little further, he found a small depression between the stones. Your body was huddled there. Like a squirrel in a hollow tree. At that moment, a sigh of relief escaped from Diluc. You're alive.

You couldn't figure out how you got home. I remembered how Flora had talked about the lack of asters. You decided to go in search of them in order to somehow distract yourself from thoughts of Diluc. A thunderstorm came by the way, and it seems that you even found a place to hide and maybe fell asleep. But there are no memories left in my head of how you came home. Although it doesn't look like your house.

Are you finally awake?

That voice made you jump. The man you were trying to avoid was sitting on a chair next to the bed. Fatigue and lack of sleep were clearly visible on his face.

Diluc…

The guy sighed heavily, hiding his eyes in his palm. "I almost lost my mind while I was looking for you. Plus you were down with a fever for four days and I panicked even more when I couldn't wake you up. Why did you even go to the devil knows where before the storm?"

It's just that Flora needed flowers to sell, so I decided…

What the hell kind of flowers?!

It was not a scream, but the roar of a desperate beast. He literally made your body freeze. Diluc has never been so scary before. He was scared of his own voice when he noticed the fear in your eyes.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you…. but the fact remains. You put yourself in danger. Is it worth risking your life for such pennies? How can I leave you if you can't even take care of yourself?

He scolded you like a strict parent for a little, wayward daughter. But he wasn't your parent. This is a person you may love, which makes you blush even more on an already red face.

I'm sorry…- that's all you could say.

It seemed like an eternity had passed when the heavy wooden chair creaked. Diluc stood up, heading for the door. You couldn't leave it like that again. Maybe this will be the only chance to confess to him.

Diluc….

From today on, thisplace is your new home. He said it without even turning around, causing your body to freeze on the spot. Diluc went out, letting the light from the corridor into the room. You managed to make out his serious face and completely extinguished eyes. "I'm sorry, but it's for your own good..

And the door closed, taking away the last bits of light. At that moment, my heart sank…

[honestsycrets]

Afara || [Assassin!Hvitserk x Saxon Peasant!Reader]

❛ pairing | Assassin!Hvitserk x Saxon Peasant!Reader

❛ type | (?) I think I can leave it at that?

❛ summary | An assassin is killing Bjorn’s loved ones. You don’t think much of it-- because it’s royal business. Until a certain someone makes it your business.

❛  warnings | verbal arguments, assault, mention of sexual assault, sassy hvitserk, assassin!au, alternative English setting, foster son Hvitserk-foster father Harald, no actual sexual assault, kidnapping

❛ sy’s notes | listen, I don’t have an excuse for making this an Anglo Saxon family, it just is for some reason. The setting isn’t strictly Viking-- I feel like its medieval Englishy... or something. I made this for @gearhead66​ but like with all my shit made for some reason it went off in its own direction and she never asked for any of this okay??

The chinking of metal called your attention that day when soldiers soared through your slim alleyway. Their spears jabbed at the slim blue sky between the buildings, each one barking orders. Move, they kick children out of their way.  But not just children, they kicked up mud as they passed.

“What is with them?” you asked your grandmother. She wrung out wet towels into a pale, grunting.

“Up with you, woman! To the square!”

Before she could answer, a guard shoved you forward by your back. You’re suddenly thankful to be a peasant-- otherwise, this mossy coloured dress that was pulled up at the waist, would drag over the ground. Ahead of them, in the largest road in and out of your hometown of Kattegat, stomped King Bjorn. He slapped his reins and made a great show of whatever the hell it was this time with the sound of piercing trumpets.

“--if you find him, bring him to me!” Bjorn boomed, running his horse there and back, from wooden wall to wooden wall. You leaned toward the middle-aged woman by your side, an old woman who had five children and five fewer reasons to give a shit about the king’s fit. Still, if you’ve learned anything from Miss Sigyn, it is that she was attentive to the lives of the royalty if only to know how they might impact her.

“What is going on?” you asked her.

“It seems someone killed his latest whore,” Sigyn said smoothly, the lines of her lips pulled up in small creases-- clearly amused. “The same one that killed his mother.”

“And Queen Gunnhild? Gods, has she...” you gasped. Everyone knew of her latest loss-- her first child, dead, set to the cold rock.

“No,” Sigyn folded her arms over her well-endowed chest. “Queen Gunnhild is unharmed. Isn’t it magnificent?”

“Find me that dog!”

Bjorn set off again. You readjusted your hold on the basket, flexed your fingers around the rim. Sigyn leaned into you, her dirty hands at her mouth. You leaned into her ginger hair, “He’s not been caught?”

“Rumor has it he’s under Harald’s wing.”

“Harald? I thought he was gone.” Her eyebrows lifted up her forehead, wrinkling her dusty skin of that very fact. You held her look a moment before you rolled your lower lip into your mouth. She takes your other arm and turned back toward the long alleyway you came from. The others, who had been there longer, turned their sights toward home.

“No, he’s King Harald’s foster son, his afara. After what happened to Lagertha, well…” you motioned your hand down to motion silence. Guards passed by. Their metal heads might look unassuming, but you knew better than that. As did she. Though, as an older woman, perhaps she was less fearful of consequences than you were.

“Grandmother wanted to see you about some fish baked in clay.” You shrugged off talk of the man, the king, the trials of the rich. They had their own issues. Ones that didn’t include the public, and even if you rathered Bjorn’s rule over Ivar’s, Bjorn was never a man who you thought was worth your time.

“With sourdough?”

You nodded and that was enough to sell her. She stopped in front of your grandmother’s house. The old woman was gone from outside. Inside, you could hear her cooking away. “I’ll bring the boys over with griddle cakes just for you.”

You motioned to the throwaway scraps in your basket, next to the curd cheese and honey pastries-- the last inklings of a sweet harvest. Not for the pigs, but for you. “I’ll hurry to feed the animals and be back in time for dinner.”

After seeing her off, you made your way out of the alleyway. Not so far away was the small shed where your animals were kept and raised. Though your boots sunk in the grass, you were in a good mood. There was a feast to be had. The harvest had gone well. Queen Gunnhild lived while her rival-- that wretched Ingrid-- was dead.

The shed was particularly quiet. The only sounds were the occasional snort of the pigs, bunched up by the stick fence. “Come’n Fattie,” you padded around the side of the fence, calling out to the fattest of the bunch. Usually, he’d snort and rush you for your scraps. As you sat down the food in their vat, they did not rush to it.

They stood in the opposite corner like the bunch of frightened animals that they were. You stared a moment longer before inwardly losing an aggravated sigh. “You’ll make me get in there, will you?”

You plucked the bobbin to the gate and made your way into their pin. It was clean. Your brother made sure to clean it that morning before he made the trip with your father to Hedeby which would be long given the distance. In their absence, you would do what your grandmother couldn’t-- defend the house, take care of the animals, all those long and hard things. The fish was on your mind, roasted in clay, flesh plump and juicy, crispy and waiting. Your grandmother’s sourdough bread too! Along with ale to wash it all down. All those things were waiting, but here you were, fighting with some stupid pigs to eat and go inside their shed.

“If you aren’t going to eat,” you stomped back to the doors and opened them for the pigs to go in. If not pig food, you told yourself, you would sacrifice one of your beloved cheese and honey pastries for these stupid pigs. “Then go inside.”

But what were your pigs but stubborn assholes? They remained there, unmoving. You settled your hand over your hips, then flicked them up again, stomping inside. “There is nothing inside the damn shed!”

The next thing you remembered, your head connected with the dusty floor of the shed. A stabbing pain spiked through your skull, enveloped by that horrible feeling of your head bouncing over the ground. It was dark-- and not of your own actions. Something was dragging you by your ankle. But you weren’t sure what.

“Quiet,” the detached voice said. A man, it was a man that was dragging you off, and so you did the one thing that you could think of. You shrilled. Only a brief moment passed before you felt it. Cool metal against your neck snuffed out that short-lived cry, but not because he had slit the skin apart, only that your fear cemented you there. Your father, your brother, both had taught you how to fight-- and somehow you were cemented in place despite the fact that your knife was strapped to your thigh.

“I don’t like to kill pretty things. So shut up!” He warned, with the voice that said he would, if only he had to. His hand pressed on your throat alongside the knife, snuffing out the noise. The man between your legs was willowy. His shape, although you could not see him, reflected as much. Your hands connected with his back, skidding off of expensive armour. “Are you going to hush?”

You nodded. His knife fell away-- and instead, it ripped up your dress.

“Please don’t-- please don’t--”

“Shut up,” he hissed, throwing away your knife. It collides into a pile with a clink, indicating that perhaps, the man had more. “I’m not going to rape you. I’m not in the mood even if you were worth it. Sit up.”

He forced you onto your knees. You complied, allowing him to take your arms behind your back. The rope was scratchy against your wrists. “I don’t have money. And my father is off in Hedeby, so you won’t get anything from this.”

“Don’t need to,” he says, pacing away from you. With a scratch, he lights the candles that were left for ‘emergency’ purposes. Ones that were expensive, as candles were, and could not easily be replaced. As everything comes into focus, you can make out your attacker. And when he said he didn’t need to, he meant it.

“Prince Hvitserk?”

“Somethin’ I haven’t head in a while,” he stands away from you, kneeled before one of your slaughtered pigs, one that he somehow cooked. His eyes move over your body, knelt before him, like any thrall. The thought scratches across your mind, before you flush in embarrassment, and look down.  “What’s your name?”

Your head drops back because you can't believe it, because just moments before you spoke of Harald’s Dog. You pull at your hands behind your back. It’s tight. He kicks the carcass away, snapping back to you, then kneeling down, playfully pops your cheek. Maybe if you stayed quiet enough-- he would drop it in his boredom. He hasn’t proven especially patient, after all.

“No? Okay. I got it anyway. Your father’s a farmer. You got a grandmother and a brother.”

“How did you…” a long sigh slips out his mouth, following your name. He flicks his knife around. “We can play games, but I’ll have to kill one of the boys when he comes looking for you. It’s not personal, of course. Just… business.”

“Your father’s business?” He laughed, plopped back on his ass, and brought his hands around to grasp his leather boots, and leaned forward. There’s a long, open gash on his cheek. He looks like a man that has seen better days, as tired as he was. But he was right. In time, Sigyn would send someone to come gather you. Her mother--  “What do you need from me?”

“Need to fuck off outta town,” he jerked his thumb to the side. “You’re a good cover. A man and his wife going to Hedeby for the festivities. I’ll drop you off with your father, of course. I’m a stand-up man.”

“Stand up men don’t slit women’s throats in bed at night.”  You had no doubt the sort of awful man this one was. Who crawled into an innocent person’s barn only to slaughter their pigs and-- oooH! Now he was eating your dessert like he’d never had something so good, or at least in a long time. “That’s mine! “You could at least not eat my pastry.”

“You made it? It’s good. You’re a keeper.” He laughed and threw up a dirty hand, speaking between bites of your sweet honey and cream cheese pastry plainly. “But if you prefer murder… that can be arranged too.”

“No!” you hissed at him. “I’ll go with you!”

“That’s what I thought.”

He was a special kind of asshole. But then, what prince wasn’t? Certainly not Harald’s assassin, who climbed into your shed, and took your sweets.

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @belovedcherry​ @therealcalicali​

[finalities]

⏤ 10 DAYS MISSING.

Nervous fingers fumbled with stubborn edges of the aluminum foil covering the casserole in Monika’s hand as she made her way up the path to the Thomas house. Under the cover of night, the sun finally setting beyond the trees, the coastal neighborhood looked perfectly normal ⏤ streetlights illuminated, houses humming with activity, dogs barking in backyards ⏤ though in the preceding days, it had been anything but. News of Ava Thomas’ disappearance had rocked Magnolia Gardens. People didn’t go missing here, in this suburban enclave of affluent and influential families. And Ava Thomas wasn’t just anyone. She and her husband were prominent names in the community for his music career and their shared charitable efforts; they were the picture of domestic bliss, or so they’d seemed over the years.

Appearances seemed so trivial to fret over at a time like this, but maintaining an image was at the forefront of Monika’s mind in the days following the police press conference announcing Ava’s disappearance. She and Abel shared a history they’d buried over the years ⏤ one that she was desperate to keep out of the wretched grip of the gossips in the community, but it was impossible for her to keep her distance from him. She couldn’t imagine what he was going through, and with a young child to care for. Life had continued on after the news initially broke, as it had to for everyone on the outside of the investigation, but a dark cloud of suspicion had settled over the area, driving virulent whispers among neighbors. Some were staunch believers that Abel was involved in his wife’s disappearance, others decried his innocence, citing the causes he and Ava supported, and the appearance of a healthy marriage. Some were indifferent about the matter, if only because the absence of his wife meant that he would be “back on the market” at some point. Monika wasn’t one for gossip; she couldn’t stomach the cattiness and rumors. 

The fear of getting caught up in the local chatter was what had kept her from walking these familiar steps leading up to the front door of the home he shared with his wife. With her husband working extra hours at the hospital, she’d spent the evening alone, drinking wine in her kitchen and thinking about the ordeal. Ultimately, she’d decided to make something to bring over ⏤ she had to imagine he hadn’t been doing much cooking and thought it rude to show up on his doorstep empty-handed. Especially at this hour. Ten o’clock wasn’t an appropriate hour to be knocking at someone’s door, but Abel was a friend, and the extra glass of white wine after her solo dinner had emboldened her. If she knew him as well as she believed she did, she knew he wouldn’t be sleeping. The only concern that crossed her mind was waking his infant son as she raised a trembling hand to knock. Rapping lightly, she took a half-step back, adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, mindful of its contents, and smoothed down the front of her dress, unsure what to expect when he opened the door.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 82

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: When the Levee Breaks

Summary: Alfie returns to work. He begins to deal with the aftermath of what happened and tries to gain control of an uncontrollable situation.

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence. PTSD. Suffering/Physical Pain. Fluff. Grumpy Alfie. Business Alfie. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

The clack and clash of work within the well ran warehouse beneath the quaint Jewish bakery was running at high proficiency with its boss stalking about the place again. His freshly cobbled shoes, which he refused to replace, much to Genevieve’s annoyance, squeak with the hard fresh leather and nails against the hard floor. Despite being polished, they were covered with dirt and dust just like the rest of him, as was necessary for working in a rum house. He enjoyed the work again, as much as one could enjoy ordering around mostly boys he thought would have trouble pissing in a pot by themselves. But it did get him out of the house. More importantly, it got him away from the abstract and currently unsolvable problems that lie there waiting for him as soon as he left the structure that running his business gave him.

He’d adapted well, in his opinion, to the problems that lie in that big ornate bed at home. He didn’t work nights if it could be helped, he was home for dinner every day and took the Shabbat off, giving him extra time to be with Genevieve. He didn’t like coming back home to problems he couldn’t solve with a shout of his orders, but that was the life they were dealing with. He’d at least been able to put up a strong front at work, perhaps a bit more stone-fisted with his men than he had been previous to Genevieve’s abduction. But he felt like he had control at his dingy warehouse with its strong smells he carried home in his clothes every day. He felt like he had a place that fit when he was working, his problems solved by either agile fingers or mind with a raise of his voice or arms to put forth the labor and intellect to solve them. He didn’t have to think about how powerless he was when it came to the throw of a dice that was Genevieve’s health and mind while he worked. And although he did make most of his money on being a betting man, he’d always prefer horses over the indifferent will of the miraculous mess that was the human body.

He told himself he did it because he wanted to take better care of himself in the face of Genevieve’s decline of health, taking breaks outside to escape the fumes and flames inside his alcove of a workspace. The reality was that Aggie and Claire had beaten him into submission on him eating a full lunch and getting some sun every day. Aggie would know by his mood and his lack of stealth when it came to snacking in the kitchen if he failed to follow her suggestions. But of course, Alfie had found another way to use this forced time to his advantage. As was his way.

“There lads, go on wif ya.” He grunts after handing coins to the scrappy youth's he’d been meeting with on his breaks. Little sets of unassuming eyes and ears around the city, needing the money and having the time and invaluable ability to seem invisible to most, he utilized them for his work. They gave him all the things they’d seen and heard that could interest him. For a few sweets and pounds the information they gave was worth its weight in gold. He watches their worn shoes become even more so on his orders as they shuffle across the dirty brick pathways away from the canal and the work buildings.

“Next appointment is soon sir.” Ollie reminds him, taking Alfie's eyes from the long distance stare they were set in thoughtfully as the kids disappeared around the corner.

“Right.” He huffs out, a hand that smelled awful and felt much the same with its grit from both stress and work rubbing across his face as he scratches his beard in thought. “Put down visitin’ the families in the diary soon, yeah? Seems a few of the children have come down wif some fuckin awful fing that’s killed one of 'em already.” He says without the emotion behind it that it would warrant from any normal person.

“Yes, sir.” Ollie notes in his mind as he follows after his employer, back down the corridors to his office. Despite Ollie being taller, he very much felt small and like Alfie was carving the way back for him as his shoulders swayed and bow legs stalked with a stance that unquestionably told anyone who looked his way, “Don’t fuck with me.”

“So what ‘ave I got before I head out?” He asks with no fondness to the statement, selves rolled up his bulky and gingery hair covered forearms. His hands, as always highly bejeweled, Genevieve’s gifts among them, slap together and rub to commence the last parts of his work day, the tattooed crowns being the least of the signals from him that he was, in fact, the boss in this space.

“We have the meetings with the little birds.”

Alfie scoffs and scoots up his worn leather chair to his large wooden desk, covered in patches of dust and paperwork with a posture perfect back for a moment. “Not so little now eh?” He muses. “In stature or count.” He states with pursed lips and high brows full of amusement for his observation.

The project of little birds had started years ago. Now men, just like the lads he’d paid earlier were now, he had groomed these young men into spies for him in various fields. He had them for the Jewish community, various pubs and shops and corners in every class of neighborhood and at least one in each of the so-called gangster's posse’s, minus one for the boy who had been with Horne. He’d murdered him where he stood in his office the day he came back to work. In hindsight, perhaps it was a bit harsh, but it certainly sent the other boys into high gear to not have the same fate as him. Alfie felt much more in charge of his emotions from what had happened now, but as always, his sort of life would keep finding ways to make him question himself.

“I have the report here, sir. One will be in shortly with his to close off the group.”

“Why’s he late wif it?”

“Not late, only delayed from the nature of his subject. He hosts at the high tea shops in the West End.”

“Ah. Right.” Alfie nods, a twitch of whiskers over chapped full lips that sat in a tight line as he read over his tiny golden framed glasses. The reports with their code words and aliases couldn’t be read any more clearly by Alfie. It all spelled trouble. The word was out about him being behind the pillaging of Horne’s buildings. Word had spread of the less powerful Birmingham Gypsy brothers helping these acts to transpire as well. But it was known Genevieve was counted among them, being the head Shelby’s godmother to his children and that.

Sabini was annoyed by their appearance in London, but planned nothing in retort. In his words, it was reported that Horne, the bloody American, had it fucking coming. This was a general consensus it seemed, no one fond of any Americans moving in on business since the blowup years ago with the American-Italians. Not even Sabini had been safe in that fight. Americans were seen as cowboys, wildcards not to be trusted and looked down upon for their boisterous nature and inclination to assume their importance. The general consensus was fuck the Americans. At least Alfie had something in common with these men. One less in their line of work meant more for them, and with prohibition still enforced, that opened up a piece of the market to make some money in Horne’s absence. Alfie jots down notes with a hard brow to look farther into taking on Horne’s business loose ends. Beyond the professional, it seemed the consensus on Alfie and his reaction to Horne was a mixed one. Some thinking it an overreaction, some, like Sabini seeing it as earned and flex of power. Whether they thought him mad or powerful, he didn’t much care, but the signs all pointed to him being feared for it and that was precisely where Alfie wanted to stand with these men.

Onto the other subject of his almost betrothed, Genevieve, the news was not as pleasant but he had expected worse. Whispers of taking over her businesses, seeing her as weak now we’re starting to appear. Inevitable, Alfie knew but it certainly didn’t help smooth the lines in his forehead as much as it deepened them. No plans so far, it was still too soon to tell and he had done a fairly decent job as far as these papers told him of keeping her state a secret.

But the young man in front of him quickly put that ease to bed.

“The talk is that she’s gone soft. That’s she’s lame and traumatized. Forgive me for saying these things sir, they are not from my mouth.”

Alfie nods, a hand waving to dismiss the apology as his chin rests in his other hand to hurry on the boy.

“Her lack of appearance has caused much chat among the ladies as she wasn’t known for canceling or not being seen before. They know the donations are still going through, but she hasn’t been teaching or going to meetings or cooking at the children’s home. The more extreme of the rumors are, and forgive me again sir, are that she’s been sent to bedlam, pregnant with another man’s child, gone completely mad and being locked in her home and that she’s on drugs now. She’ll wander 'round the estate naked and talk to imaginary people. Most think you’ll leave her soon.” He concludes with a heavy gulp, his mouth dry from the man staring him down across the desk.

How was he going to head this off? How do you kill rumors that have a grain of truth? He knew she couldn’t go out in public yet, it’d be a long time still for that. She was currently dazed at best, mumbling to herself as she wandered the house with his cane. Her body was healing, she could walk with only a limp now. But her mind, that was another subject entirely. He didn’t know what was her, what was medication and what was trauma in that soft head of hers. It was too soon for answers and he needed them. Needed to squash out this weakness that was growing among them. But how could he show she was fine when she very much was not.

“That all?” He finally gruffs out.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.” He says with a nod, his w'ords tense and his jaw tight. “Well, she isn’t lame or in an asylum someplace. She’s at home healing. Doctors orders to stay home and keep calm until she’s all better. So snuff out any other stories, eh? She’s fine, I’m fine. We are together, she isn’t pregnant. Paint a peachy fuckin portrait, yeah?”

“Of course sir.” He agrees enthusiastically.

“Good work. Keep it up and there may be more pay in your future.” He promises with only a slight lie in the words.

With a bow and thanks he exists and Alfie put his stained fingertips to his scabbed forehead and sighs. “Posh fuckin cunts. No lives. Only love to titter stories like fuckin' little girls in school to each other. Fuckin' gossips. Fuckin’...’ell.” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “They ain’t so much worried 'bout me, but her. Which is right fuckin' daft of 'em.” He speaks with an exasperated breath and a sweeping display of his hands. “News weren’t half fuckin' bad 'til those fuckers had to go and run their fat fuckin', cock suckin' mouths.” He huffs, brow low as he slumps into his chair.

“Awful that they’re speaking of Miss Durand in such a way. After all she’s done for them and the children.” Ollie responds with a sigh.

“Fuckin' what mate?” Alfie challenges with a sharp twist of his head his way. “Ya fuckin' soft? Ya sweet on her are ya Ollie?” Alfie's voice didn’t hold enough tease for Ollie to not tense up and stutter.

“No! No sir she’s always been a giving woman to those less fortunate and people speaking ill of her with no proof is upsetting. Not surprising at all! But still unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Alfie drops the knee jerk flare of anger he’d been brewing up. Ollie hadn't done anything wrong. He just wanted to lash out. “The problem is, some of that is just tittle-tattle, right? But what if they did have a way to know fings?” Alfies natural inclination to be suspicious and paranoid was only being fueled by the oddly specific gossip in some instances.

“As in someone at home?” Ollie replies surprised, knowing Alfie had personally interrogated every staff member after Gen was gone. He’s assaulted a few and had found none guilty. The ruling was that someone had snuck in and posed as staff and given her the drink and then slipped out. Not having someone to burn at the stake really hadn’t helped Alfie out at the time. So Ollie was highly curious as to who would be giving information as he knew most of the staff owed Gen a great deal themselves. He knew them as loyal and grateful, but as Alfie liked to remind him from time to time, what the fuck did he know?

———

While Alfie was out gathering his information, Genevieve was at home doing entirely the opposite. The morphine made her mind a mess, but as was the nature of it, she certainly didn’t know it to be so.

Her walks in the garden, one arm held by either Aggie or Claire as they steadied her, seeing her eyes so far away despite being open and focusing on things. She spoke of children often, like they were there. No one knew what she was referring to. Claire and Aggie had their suspicions as to the cause of this hallucination or delusion, which one they were not sure yet, but neither said it aloud. It hurt them too much to speak of and they knew they shouldn’t break Gen's heart by trying to tell her otherwise. Another screaming fit, something like a child would throw wasn’t what they wanted to experience again.

Gen's reality was far different. She was on leisurely strolls in a dreamy garden. Her cheeky and precocious children hiding from her amongst the flowers and hedges. She didn’t see them all the time, or even often, but she did hear them. Calls for mama and papa, little auburn haired cherubs dashing in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t even know their names or faces but something about the thought of them made things not hurt as badly and it was easy to want to stay in the drug-induced stupor where everything was golden and nothing hurt. The reality was too much still, too painful, too much. So she stayed.

The warm, dizzy halo of morphine was only broken when the pain would break through. This was when the glow in her vision would fade and she would be reminded of how she was, in fact, broken. The physical pain acted as a gateway for the mental, for she recalled how she received the injuries and the memories would start to follow. With a wince, her caregivers knew she was coming down, it was time to rest. Her soft and bruised face was set to something besides indifference as her brow would furrow and her jaw would once again tighten with the stress that her current state brought upon her.

In these moments they would see a wounded Genevieve peek through the veil. Her eyes still dilated but the life backlit them in those hours she was lucid. Once she was herself for some brief moments they would ask her about her hallucinations and dreams, as they were both not decreasing in intensity. Any look at the bags under Alfie's eyes from being woken up by her fighting and struggling, mumbling awful reminders through the night next to him would tell the story of how she really felt whether she was willing or able to herself. Awake, the memories didn’t haunt her as heavily as they did in her sleep. With her brain desperately trying to mend itself, it kept trying to heal the parts that were broken and so it brought the memories of her time held hostage forward, inaccessible to her during her waking hours. The only comfort Alfie found in it was telling himself she was just dreaming, not reliving the trauma. But deep down he knew better. He’d been there himself. At this juncture, his body was growing weary and his spirit wasn’t far behind. The process of healing yourself was one thing, watching another attempt it was a whole other beast he had no interest in taming. And yet he found himself sleeping with it in his bed every night. A reminder of his worries and stress and failure that he could find no refuge from.

————

Alfie shoved his feet into the house shoes that greeted him at the door by the hands of maids. Taking his coat, offering him tea, he still wasn’t used to the treatment and he was starting to think he never would be.

“No, no, love.” he gruffs a young maid away with a brush of his hand. “Where’s Agatha? I’d like to know how Genevieve is before I see her.” he sighs, twisting his body and hearing the pops and cracks of age and strain, both accumulating far too rapidly for his liking.

“I’m here, Alfie.” Aggie’s tired feet shuffle around the corner, always wiping her hands on her apron when she appeared. “She’s in her room. Haven’t heard a peep from her in some time now. Which is an improvement. Short time and she’ll take her medicine again. Thought you might some time with her while she was lucid before she took it again.”

“Is she lucid?” he asks with a raised brow.

“She’s been up and around and with the usual exception of the few hours of her medicine and the strange talking, she’s been doing quite well today.” she gives an optimistic nod.

Alfie nods, a large exhalation stretching the muscles of his chest at the good news. He had been fully expecting nothing good after the gossip he’d had to mull over today. Perhaps there could be a light growing at the end of this dark tunnel for them both. “Good.” he responds, thumbing his nose with no other showing of his relief, his face sat hard and preoccupied as it had been since he’d gone back to work.

He saunters his way down the great hall to Genevieve’s wing of the house. As he does so, he sees a maid dart out of the phone room, kept near the entryway into the kitchens and back halls.

“Oi!” he shouts, her posture straightening and eyes growing wide before she turns to him. “What ya fuckin’ up to in there?” he demands with no politeness, a ringed finger pointing towards the room.

“Callin’ me sista sir.” she answers with a nod, not meeting his eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from orders or to avoid his direct glare.

“What ya callin’ on work hours for?” he gruffs out with a rise of his chin.

“She’s only home for a short while between jobs, sir.”

“Where’s she live?”

“London, sir.”

“Where’s about?” he gives her rapid questions to read her honesty.

“Clerkenwell, sir.” she keeps her head down and hands together in front of her.

“Hmph. I ‘on’t know you do I? You’re new, yeah? Did I let you in?”

“No sir, I was brought in from another home a fortnight ago when my previous employer passed away.”

“Who was that?”

“Mrs. Hilda Gold from Kentish Town, sir.”

“Mmph.” a rub of his chin, wheels turning at knowing who her former employer was, knowing she was Jewish, but also acutely aware that she was a huge gossip. “I did not know she had passed.”

“I stayed on to clear out the estate then Agatha took me on.”

“Fine fuckin’ timin’ you showed up, eh?”

She doesn’t respond, not certain how to.

“Well get the fuck on... wait, what’s ya name?”

“Dorothy.” she says mid-turn, freezing at the man’s request.

“Well, then Dottie get back to work. No callin’ until after tea, yeah?” he oders with strong squared shoulders and a curt nod.

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.” she sputters out fast before disappearing into the nearest corridor.

He sticks his neck out as he passes to find her already gone, chewing the inside of his lip as he continues on with his paranoia as he travels towards Gen’s room.

Genevieve sits so eerily still, tense and afraid to make a move as she stares at the door in the dimly lit room. It’d been left that way to allow her to sleep but as it had been since she’d started getting up and moving around, coming to herself a tiny bit more every day, if she was left in the dark alone she could never sleep unless the medicine forced her to.

Alfie braces himself for nothing good, even though the state of her wasn’t poorly today. With a slow opening of the door, one that unintentionally made poor Genevieve's heart nearly beat out of her chest, he finally shows himself, eyes direct to hers as he sees her sitting up in bed.

He observes her eyes fluttering and her posture slump at the sight of him. At first, he couldn’t believe his feelings were a bit hurt by it. Then she reaches out to him with a face that actually showed something besides neutrality, sleepy eyes and barely parted lips that were pleading for him to come closer.

“‘Ello, love.” he greets, moving over to the bed and taking her hands, kissing her knuckles as he sat next to her on the edge. “You’re looking much better this afternoon.” he praises, a hand to her cheek as he watches her eyes close and her lean into his touch. A lump of fondness erupts in his gut, something he admittedly hadn’t felt since he’d gone back to work and had to compartmentalize his feelings to deal with them. He suddenly felt guilty as her hand covered his, such a tender gesture as she kissed his palm.

Unknown to him, she was flooded with a euphoric relief at his appearance. With her emotions still nowhere near stable, she begins to cry.

“Oh, pet, come now. No reason for all that.” he shushes, wiping the tears away. “What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up the pen and pad next to the bed and with shaky hands, she scribbles away.

“Be quiet for a moment and listen.” it reads, Alfie’s brow furrows, starting to question the optimism of Aggie.

“What are you on about?” he replies and Gen puts her fingers to his lips. The look in her eyes tells him she’s serious. He does as instructed and waits, eyes moving about the room, not sure what he should be listening for.

He watches her raise and her head turn to the door and stare. Much like a frightened deer.

“I don’t hear nuffin’, Gen.” he pats her arm to comfort her.

She huffs out her nose and pursed her lips. “When you’re here I don’t hear them.” She writes, her eyes back again to the door.

A pang of guilt sits heavy in his stomach at her words. “Hear who love?” He asks softly.

“Footsteps.” She communicates, her eyes scanning the bed in front of her with a clear confusion behind them.

“There are people out in the hall all day.” He says with no condescension.

She shakes her head and sighs. “Not in my wing.” How could she explain the fear the sound sent through her. They weren’t just any footsteps, they were Horne’s footsteps. She knew it made no sense. She knew he was dead, but it didn’t stop it from sending her right back to that cold and pitch black room where she was kept, waiting for him to come back and fearing what would come with him.

Alfie sees the very real concern in her eyes. He has a theory as to why she’s afraid but he’s hesitant to ask. “Does anything else make them go away?” He questions, raises her chin up to face him.

She considers it a minute. She didn’t feel afraid with Alfie there for obvious reasons, but what else took it away. “Sleep?”

“Well of course love.” He gives her a soft chuckle and kisses her forehead. “But having me here helps, yeah?”

She nods slowly, a fast one still sending her into the spins.

“Then let me help.” He suggests gently, crawling into bed with her and pulling her to his chest. “This help?”

She nods again, still feeling nervous as she rests her head to his chest. She could focus on him now, hear him breathe, feel it as well.

“Does being in the dark bring them on?” He proposes, fingers stroking her hair, his face bent towards her.

She considers it a moment, slow blinking eyes he was happy to see wheels turning behind. She gives a tap to his chest to indicate yes.

“And only when you’re alone?” He reiterates.

Another gentle tap.

He decides to get to the point, as is his nature, no matter how abrasive it might be. “When you were taken from me…” he begins. He feels her tense against him. “We’re you kept alone in the dark?”

He hears a small whimper from her, her hands now in fists.

“S’all right love. It’s over now. It can’t hurt you anymore.” He coos.

She shuts her eyes, burying her face in his chest.

“And could you hear them outside the door?”

She agrees again, a little whimper of a sound as she pushed her face into him.

He braces her, feeling her breathing grow shaky and uneven, seeing it was painfully obvious she was having trouble with dealing with the memories. Still, he persisted. “Is that what you’re hearing now? When I’m not here?”

A sob moves her upper body and she whines, fingers grabbing at his shirt, smelling still of rum from work.

“There, there, love.” he whispers, putting his mouth to her hair. “Your Alfie’s got ya innit he?” he soothes, smoothing her hair and rubbing her back. “Just memories. They can’t hurt you now. It’ll get better with time, pet.” he laments, feeling her cry in his arms. The pain from the extended panic still alive and well in her chest when she thought about her time held captive. He could feel her skin run hot beneath his hands, the only sounds he’d heard from her since she’d been back were mumbled with pain. He stares at the door as she wears herself out. Holding her like a babe in his arms, face set to an unpleasant detachment. She had so much farther to go before she could venture out. The mention of what happened and she’d fall to pieces. Not to mention she couldn’t speak yet. He was starting to wonder if it was more from physical injury or a mental one at this point.

He did feel sympathetic, empathetic even to her current state, but that harsh bit of him that pulled him through his own dark times tells him she needs to do better, to move forward. He feels impatient, knowing what those on the outside were saying. Normally he would tell any of those posh tossers to piss off with their opinions but now Genevieve was the victim of their rumors and he didn’t want her to lose the place she’d gained in society because of this. He wanted to keep things as well maintained as he could for her, and that meant taking on the stress that would normally be carried by her slight shoulders. Luckily for both of them, he was a tough old bastard who could deal with a bit of posh, West End babble easy enough. But he was more worried about what Genevieve would feel, think and more importantly do when she found out what they were saying. He had so many voices to worry about now. His own in his head, the ones in Genevieve's as well, however many there were now. He was used to listening to people talk about him, and he dealt with it in his own way But now he had to worry about what they were saying about someone else, and not just his people, not only slurs and the like, but a woman he loved. He closes his eyes, pushing his cheek against her head as he knows this will end no time soon.

@jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog@brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r @jess2464 @hardygal69 @thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle @negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @emerald-bijou @elaenom @give-jack-a-lightsaber @ultrablackwidower @tinastarkandco @arrowswithwifi @marvelgirl7 @they-are-not-just-stories   @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes @alitheamateur @gold-trashbag @divadinag 

[grimweaver]

A piece from 2011. Bear in mind that a lot of details (too many to list) have been changed since then and I was fresh into writing Elder Scrolls stories at the time. 

----

PART I

It seemed too perfect to exist outside the pages of a storybook; a hillside farm house with a grand view of the Imperial City, not far from the edge of the Upper Niben. It was a piece of country undisturbed by the bothersome ruckus of town, but close enough to the city to make the weekly trip for necessities hassle-free. Aaron was especially ecstatic about the new home, but for his own special reasons. There were more insects and small animals for the young boy to catch and play with, and the nature-enthusiast had a lot of yard explore.

"Remember, this is not at all like the city!" A voice called out from the front porch. "Do not wander too far or out of sight." "Da!" Aaron blasted from where he was playing, not more than a hundred feet away. "I'm ten years old! I'm almost a man!" "Doesn't matter- there are things out here that make an easy meal out of people- boy or man."

"Yeah, and you face them almost every day!"

"Because it's been my job for almost fifteen years now. I have skills and wits that help me survive each encounter."

Indeed. Since the raw age of thirteen his father made a living as a large game hunter. Because he was one of the few that dared to take on an animal twice the size of an average man he was well respected and heavily paid. It didn't hurt that, as one born under the Shadow, he had the ability to make himself invisible for a brief amount of time- that was a valuable power for someone who had to strike his target before it even suspected that it had company. One could say he managed well for a single parent, but because he was alone it was still a struggle in the beginning. But when Aaron was older and experienced enough to share chores and look after himself, it lightened the burden his father had to carry.

Aaron noticed him wincing with a sharp, backwards hiss through his teeth. He abruptly jumped to his feet and raced over to see what he was doing, carrying the large toad he caught in his gentle hands.

After reaching the steps of the the porch he was met with an unexpected and disturbing sight. "Da? What are you doing?"

"Something I've meant to do for a long time." His father's right arm was covered in red marks, which were made by the edge of the dagger he carefully scraped over his skin. But careful or not the bleeding couldn't be avoided. Aaron was shocked and confused by what seemed like an act of insanity. Perhaps being bored out of his mind in the country was what drove him to do it. "And I think you're old enough to understand why I'm doing this."

"Ya, I really hope you do tell me why you're cut'n yerself up! Are ya going crazy?" "No." His father chuckled. "Y'know that this part of my arm was always covered, right? Wrist bands, long sleeves, gloves, gauntlets..." "Yeah, come to think of it." "And you see what I've been covering up, since I haven't finished removing it?" "A... tattoo. But da you have a few others that y'never cover up. Why this one?" "Because this one was a declaration to the world of a commitment and promise."

Aaron was in silent contemplation for a moment, sighing as he watched the remaining black marks on his father's skin turn red. He cringed, not because he was abhorred by wounds, but because he thought about how much the process of removing the tattoo must hurt.

"To ma?" Was all he uttered after being quiet for so long.

His father paused briefly as he looked down at him with his solemn brown eyes, before narrowing his brow and coldly paraphrasing. "To the woman that gave birth to you. There are probably a thousand things one could call her, but 'ma' is not one of them." He continued scraping.

Aaron's brow popped up. Had he been a boy who knew his mother at all he would've been offended by his father's criticism, which seethed with an old contention. But until he learned about how life began he thought Lucien LaChance was the only parent he ever had.

"That's gonna scar bad." Aaron pointed out, half distracted from the subject. "Probably. But it'll be much easier to look at." He smirked as he applied a disinfecting paste to his arm.

"What happened?" He asked, taking his gaze off of Lucien's arm to give him direct eye contact. "Please, da. Like ya said I'm old enough to know... and don't sugar-coat it." "I never have, and I certainly don't intend to now. You deserve the unadulterated truth."

Aaron seated himself on the old wooden chair next to Lucien, waiting attentively for what he believed was going to be a long story. As Lucien began to wrap his arm he searched the sky for his reflection.

"She got into the skooma... and then entered the world that revolved around it. She left us for it... and then it killed her." Was all he said, crunching the entire story down to a few simple sentences. Aaron sighed heavily, petting the toad as he watched it's throat bubble out each time it took in a breath.

"I'm sorry, buddy." Lucien heaved as he slouched back. "It's alright." "We've been doing just fine on our own haven't we? I've tried to be both parents... to give you a happy life..." "I know... yeah everything's fine. I never knew her so... it's not that big'a deal. I'm happy. But are you happy?" Lucien chuckled. "You make me happy, kiddo. I think that I'd be lost in this world without ya." "Aaaw." Aaron made a wry face at his father's 'mushy' words. That's when he decided to change the topic. "So, y'gotta hunt tonight?"

"No, Aaron. It's Sundas. We're going into town." "We?" "Yes, 'we'. You and I." "But what about the goats? Don't ya want me t-" "They'll be fine. I put plenty of food in the trough to keep them happy all day. Go wash up real quick cause if we want to be back before sunset we gotta leave in a few minutes. Alright?" "Sure!"

Aaron bolted through the creaky front door with zeal in his heart. Lucien picked up the toad that was sitting contently on the table in front of him and gave it a quick pat on the head before releasing him into the field.

Lucien did not 'sugar-coat' the story at all, but he withheld lot of details. He did not want to be a man that allowed his past to consume him or anyone else. That is why he decided to finally remove that tattoo, which was a part of a traditional Imperial marriage. He did not want to drown others in the grimy tales of what he had to endure since the night his ex-wife, Rosalla, started behaving strangely. He also avoided telling Aaron that it began shortly after he was born because he knew that the boy would ask if it had anything to do with him, and Lucien would have to answer truthfully. The truth was 'yes'.

No one needs that on their conscience. He thought.

As Lucien waited for Aaron, the memories he struggled to distance himself from lurched out. Memories of Rosalla's mood swings that got worse and more frequent during the five days that followed Aaron's birth; Lucien was verbally and physically assaulted every time he returned from a hunt- she was convinced that 'hunting' was a code word for 'seeing other women'. It wasn't the truth, but the quirky voice in her head told her that it was. The voice also told her that Lucien drank heavily and hit her with the broken leg of a chair, and she distributed those rumors through her equally eccentric friends. Fortunately the people Lucien had to worry about receiving those rumors knew it was a lie, seeing no evidence whatsoever that she was even pinched.

Lucien didn't know it at the time, but this was the first prominent sign that Rosalla was ingesting skooma. If he did he would've been prepared for the next appalling act that happened a week later. He returned one night to a house void of anyone but a very neglected infant. Aaron was crying at the top of his lungs over several things that were not tended to- he was hungry, heavily soiled, cold, and deprived of parental love for what seemed like the entire day. The desperate father rifled through the entire town for help because he did not have the means to feed him. Fortunately Velus of the Merchant's Inn had a good alternative to breast milk and the starving child was finally well fed.

Rosalla's whereabouts and reason for absence was unknown to him for quite some time. After another week, worry promptly turned into fury when she returned. She was not kidnapped, trapped, or harmed in any other way- she was staying in one of the hotel rooms at "The King and Queen Tavern", taking in enough shots of skooma to completely loose sense of time and concern for anything but herself. Lucien demanded an explanation, and that is when she revealed to him the shady life of self abuse that involved not only skooma but lewd activities with groups of men and women that were also lost to the substance. She poured out all of her hatred for the tedious repetition of...

"Eating, baby, cooking, baby, sleeping, baby! No more thrills! No more joy! Just routine!" She screamed.

She did not have Lucien's sympathy. Instead he expressed how disgusted he was by her lack of strength and willpower. He contested with the fact that...

"Everyone has to put up with a long stretch of dull and strenuous routine every now and then! That's life! And it's not like this all the time, you just dwell on nothing but the negative and ignore all the wonderful things that are right there within reach- I ask if you want to go out you pout'n say you don't feel like it! I ask if you want me to stay home and you say you want me to go ahead and get the hell out of the house and leave you alone! You are such a piece of work! And this skooma... and everything you've been doing... God, I thought you were above this! I never thought you were stupid enough to fall into it... do you know what it does.. or what it has done to you!"

It was pointless for Lucien to recount the fact that he didn't leave everything up to her. He helped out around the house when he was able to- but Rosalla stubbornly believed that she did everything and he did nothing. She hardly noted the many nights Lucien got less than two hours of sleep because he offered to lift the baby burdens off of her weary shoulders. But the one thing that made it clear to Lucien that Rosalla was no longer going to be in the picture was the unforgivable act of abandoning the infant. It was not going to take more than one incident to convince him to extinguish her from their lives. So the night that Rosalla returned was also the night he would see her for the last time. Out of fear of harassment Lucien decided to move out of the Waterfront District house and live secretly with Velus and his wife Janine. One month later, imperial legionnaires reported to LaChance that they found Rosalla's body in Bravil.

He felt no remorse.

The first five years did not simply roll by- they sluggishly moved through a horrible grit. Such times in Cyrodiil were unkind to single parents.

But we made it. I don't know how... but we always found a way. Lucien thought. One can get through anything if they have unwavering faith and spiritual endurance.

Lucien did not give up, and keeping his son in mind inspired him to preserver.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

A Hollow Victory

The rider in black tugged at the reins of his steed and the horse whinnied. Even in the bright orange hues of the afternoon sun, a large hood cloaked the rider’s face in deep shadows. The light reflected from the many daggers set into his bandoleers and steel buckles across his attire, gleaming like silver.

The powerful horse snorted and scraped over gravel with a hoof, staying in place. The rider surveyed the environment until returning his gaze to the large crater in the middle of a landscape that bards of this kingdom had praised as a ruggedly beautiful vista. Rolling hills in muted green and brown tones, surrounded by sleepy vineyards, and gentle mountains on the horizon that separated the kingdom from the desert nations to the east, embraced by fog like soft cotton.

Were it not for the mysterious crater, the view from where the rider stood would have served as a perfect motif for a painter. The rider, however, knew only the art of murder. He dismounted from the horse and patted its neck as he walked a long portion of road towards the edge of the crater. After the long ride, he relished any chance to stretch his legs like this, even if it meant nearing what might be a birthplace of pure evil.

The rider—Jorvik—crouched down where the gravel-packed road ended abruptly. The earth sloped down from there. Where Castle Tavalos once should have been standing, alien plants now festered at the bottom of this colossal crater. Strange ferns, winding trees with jagged palm leaves that the rider had never in his life seen before, gigantic mushrooms the size of oxen, next to weird purple fruit that sprouted from shivering bushes.

The people in the nearby city had told him such, but even seeing it with his own two eyes, the rider refused to believe it. How could a castle just up and vanish like this? And a tiny piece of forest from another world take its place? The townsfolk swore up and down that Castle Tavalos had been here eighteen moons past, and then vanished in a pillar of brilliant light. An entire army had laid siege to the castle but turned and vanished into the mountains upon witnessing the unnatural disaster.

One drunkard had described it as, “An act of the gods!” A blind seer from far-flung lands claimed, “There are many things we shall never understand, and this is one of them.” A beggar’s rendition said, “The results of some queer magery, no doubt the count had dealings with demons.” The latter lingered in Jorvik’s mind, echoing there with rumors he had heard on his journey here about Count Iacobus of Tavalos.

Lost in thought and absorbed by his own wonder over this strange site, the assassin failed to hear the company that had arrived. However, they drew his attention once they had gotten close enough. Their claws clicked upon stone and scratched at turf, they bared their fangs, and emitted their lupine growls.

He cocked his head and peered at the three wild hounds. The creatures glared at him, snarling and growling. How bold of these beasts to approach him by daylight. Jorvik stared back at them and the darkness underneath his hood turned darker than black. Two tiny red dots glowed where his eyes should have been underneath that hood and he growled back at them. Not like a man, but like a beast.

The hounds whined, turned tail, and fled in terror. They ran into the hills, disappearing into the overgrown vineyards mere moments later while Jorvik watched their escape with a crooked smile.

He made his way back up the path to find his horse and mounted it again. Jorvik whipped its reins and gave it the spurs. The war-trained steed neighed, reared up, and sprung into action, galloping away as he steered it to ride around the crater towards the mountain range.

Over the course of the next hours, the hills grew in height, covered in a deeper and darker green. Whole oceans of weeds sprang up around him, obscuring his view of the distance and the path behind him. The sparse brushes made way to evergreen forests. The mountains drew closer, peeking out over the canopy of trees. The man-hunter spotted an old fortress ruin amidst the crags out there and slowed his steed’s pace down to a trot. Clouds rolled across the sky in a gentle pace, and together with the sun setting fully, he rode through the dusk of early night.

Eventually, he stopped to dismount again, searching the area for tracks. Once he found certainty in the immediate vicinity having been untouched by human feet, he tied his horse to a tree and left a bag of feed there for the creature to eat in his absence.

Jorvik knelt down and laid out his weaponry. With a cold routine and measured speed, he checked his blades and crossbow, sharpening anything on his whetstone that needed maintenance. Finally, he oiled the sharp implements with a rag and returned every single weapon to its place upon his body. He loaded the crossbow and slung it onto his back.

He gave the horse a pat on its neck as he marched past it, and wandered out through the dense forest. Jorvik moved at a brisk pace and his hike took him up up a steep slope. He jogged a stretch and then stopped abruptly. The man in black never broke out into a sweat nor did he audibly breathe.

Squatting down, he listened. His head moved on a swivel until he froze. And sniffed the air.

Springing back into motion, he followed the subtle trickle of a stream which he snuck along for the next minutes. The trail of fur boots along the opposite edge—careless steps that had trampled down yellowed stalks of wild weeds, leaving imprints in patches of mud—tipped him off and let him know he had come to the right place.

His mark must have been close. He could almost taste the gold he would earn himself today. The thirst he felt, welling up to his chapped lips and invading his mind—it, too, would be quenched soon.

A breeze swept through the trees where he waited. In this mild clime so far away from the lands he usually worked in, it carried an unexpectedly cold air. Even so, it did nothing to disturb him. He stared with dark intent into the camp. He observed.

Several figures mulled about between crude tents, situated right outside a crumbling stone fort. Artillery from trebuchets or time itself had torn large holes into walls and thick sheets of foliage had claimed the structure, creeping up along the stacks of stone and betraying a former glory long faded.

Unlike the gentry from the Tavalonian city he had just visited, the men here garbed themselves in furs. Only one of them wore roughshod iron armor. Their inventory appeared to be a hodgepodge of stolen goods and cobbled-together tools and weapons.

“Ravagers,�� the gentry of the city had called them. Savages worse than the Easterners, menaces who had attacked the borderlands and the castle itself, abducting children and people from the hamlets throughout the county. However, their name and nature did not matter to Jorvik. His employers cared not about their role in the larger scheme of things either, judging by the nature of his mission.

Hidden between the leaves like a beast of prey, Jorvik waited. Silently watching. Still as a statue, with no sign of humanity about his air. More hours passed. He watched the men of this camp go about their dreary lives. Some sparred with staffs. They all cooked, ate, talked, and sang. They urinated in the bushes nearby.

They never noticed Jorvik.

He waited longer yet, letting more hours pass. The clouds shifted, allowing silver moonlight to shine upon the camp and its few sources of light where its bonfires glowed. Finally, his target among the group—their leader who wore a helmet with stag horns and a dark cape made of bear’s fur—grabbed a burning torch from a fire and headed into the crumbling fortress.

None of the others ever ventured deeper inside that decrepit structure. He had only seen two of them enter, and no farther than its front courtyard. The leader, however, wandered beyond that. Jorvik’s deathly stare followed after the glimmer of the leader’s torch, tracing his every step. From the corners of his eyes, the assassin noted how all but a few of the other men retreated into their tents to rest for the night.

The torch’s glow ascended a tower within the fortress ruin, visible both through arrow slits in the walls and holes where the stone had crumbled and fallen from in centuries past. The torchlight went up a spiraling staircase, turning round and round, until it disappeared in the top floor of the tower where the mark placed it behind some obstruction, rather than snuffing it out.

Clouds rolled up again, blotting out the moonlight. What perfect timing, Jorvik thought.

Once the first shift of the barbarian guards changed, Jorvik rose to his feet. Moving with an eerie silence, he glided from shadow to shadow, never allowing the night watch to spot his stealthy approach. He sidled between two tents and moved right behind the back of a lookout as that “Ravager” turned. And with that, he slipped into the dark ruins of the fortress.

Taking only a brief pause to take in his environment, his eyes had fully adapted to the darkness here. The warriors had stashed satchels and crates of supplies under the rotting wooden roofs of stabling within the main courtyard. Nobody appeared to maintain any sleeping quarters here.

Looking over his shoulder to ensure no pursuers, he traversed the open space and entered the tower. He took each step here with added care, climbing the stairs while making sure to not disrupt even the slightest pebble during his ascent.

The clouds parted halfway, shedding thin beams of silver light through the arrow slits and holes of the tower walls. He moved past the openings whenever he felt certain that nobody would be looking at the fortress, though each glance told him that the warriors only paid attention to the front of their camp, not to the fortress behind them. Jorvik drew his blade, prepared to make his kill immediate and sudden.

Finally, he reached the top level. Before walking up the final steps, he peered over the edge of the floor and saw the leader kneeling in front of a grisly altar. Keepsakes and mementos and jewelry stolen from numerous families made of bronze and gold sat in its center, resting on a red cloth, encircled by severed human fingers and tongues. Painted in black upon the red cloth hanging above this shrine, the sign of an eye with serpents emerging from it stared back at Jorvik.

The assassin feared few things and held very few superstitions, but that unholy symbol unsettled him.

He shrugged it off and focused on his mark. The leader still knelt there in silence, slouched forward with his head hanging low. Judging by his breathing and occasional twitching, he was not asleep, but well awake, perhaps in meditation.

Without a sound, Jorvik took the final steps up the stairs.

“I awaited you,” the man by the altar growled in a gravelly voice. He did not turn, he did not look up, nor did he budge in any way.

Jorvik held his tongue. This had caught him off-guard. He suspected magick at work here. Some sorcery that had warned him of the assassin’s arrival.

“I fear no man, and I fear not death,” the leader said to Jorvik after a long pause.

Jorvik shot a glance over his shoulder to see if anybody had followed him up into the tower. His curiosity now got the better of him.

In a voice so silky that it never failed to astonish strangers, he asked, “What happened at that crater?”

The mark picked up one of the severed fingers from the awful altar. It must have been decaying there for days now. He turned it in his hand and then guided the stump of it to his face. He rubbed it there, almost as if painting his cheeks and forehead with the coagulated blood that clung to the finger.

“We accomplished what we needed to,” the leader replied.

“And what would that be?” Jorvik’s hand tightened around the grip of his sword.

“All those who mattered—perished. Atharian won that day.”

That strange name delivered onto Jorvik the same unsettling chill that the sign of the medusa-like eye on the banner did before. It bore no familiarity in his mind, but the ring of it sounded all wrong.

Like the name of a demon prince.

“Who won?” Leaving little room for an answer, he asked, “Won what?”

“Atharian won. We won against the devils,” the leader said. He gingerly set the severed finger back down onto the altar, ensuring it was laid out just right. “I am prepared to die now, if that is what you came for. I—we—have served our purpose.”

Jorvik nodded, although the man could not see it as he still stood behind him. Finally, something that added up. His employers were in league with devils.

“The Empire sends their regards,” Jorvik said with a grim conviction.

He lunged forward and chopped down into the man’s shoulder with one swift blow, followed by another strike down into the other shoulder. He did not scream. He grunted after the first hit, but emitted not another peep. With one final stroke of the blade, Jorvik cut his head off with a precision that only executioners displayed.

The lifeless body of the leader of these “Ravagers” slumped onto the ground. Jorvik knelt and drew his hood back. He stared at the blood pumping, gushing out from the dead man’s neck. A fiery hunger clouded Jorvik’s mind, and a glint of a red glow flared up in his eyes. His lips parted, baring sharp fangs, and he sank them into the flesh of his mark. He drank from this fresh blood at the dead man’s neck, quenching a thirst that had lingered for a long time now. He drank and drank and drank, for he had not done so in a long time.

A shout erupted from the bottom of the tower. Jorvik moved to the stairs and leaned over. He saw torchlight nearing the fort’s courtyard.

Blood still dripped from his chin, his face a horrifying and gory mess. Hastily, he produced a scroll from a slender case upon his belt. He unraveled it and tossed it away from himself, letting it flutter to the ground.

“Treacherous conjurers of daemons and foul fiends are punished with death. Let this be a lesson to all that they will be vanquished with steel and cleansed from this plane of existence with infernal fire. Those who oppose the Empire shall fall, and those who lead these damned will be shortened by the length of their head,” the scroll read in harsh capital lettering.

Boots thumped and thundered at the base of the tower.

Wasting no time, Jorvik jammed a grappling hook into the corner of a window. He tossed the thin rope over the edge and climbed outside, clambering down the length of the tower. At the end of it, he redoubled his grip and pushed himself across the tower’s face, back and forth, until he gained enough momentum to swing across towards the fortress wall nearby. He bounced off of it like a cat and tumbled down, grabbing hold of some roots and dropping down the rest of the distance.

Like this, they would ill get to him in time. He scrambled up a slope, slid down between some rocks to the side of the old fort, and rolled down past the stream after bypassing the camp entirely. More shouts and commotion echoed out from the fortress tower, a sudden shriek escaped from its top. All the barbarians in the camp were awake, alert now, judging by the following shouts and trampling about. Jorvik jogged down another slope, darting between the trees, running the rest of the distance towards where he had left his horse behind.

When he paused to look back, he knew he had gained so much distance to afford such a brief moment. He peered up at the moonlight and wiped the blood from his face with the back of his glove.

Jorvik untied his horse from the tree and returned the feed bag to the back of the saddle where he fastened it. He mounted the beast and gave it the spurs, riding away.

What had Atharian won? At what price?

These savages were a husk of whatever army they supposedly had once formed. Perhaps the gentry had exaggerated their numbers to begin with. And given how easy it had been to murder their leader, they could be no match for any organized effort of royal troops to smoke them out of the mountains.

Whatever Atharian had won—to Jorvik, it seemed to be a hollow victory.

—Submitted by Wratts

[tendosaotome]

Ranma Secret Santa

The Replacement

For @pursemongerstuff for the @ranmasecretsanta exchange. I hope you like this! Have a happy new year! Also, I’m sorry this is unedited. I’m hoping I’ll have time to edit it later. :)

Everyday life without Akane took some getting used to for Ranma. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. Living at her house without her wasn’t the same.

All throughout their high school years, he griped about Akane’s temper, about her meddling, about her. And yet, here he was missing the times she would keep him in check. If something amiss was going on, she wasn’t there to fix it. If Shampoo was up to a scheme to trick Ranma into a date, Akane wasn’t there to stop it. 

If some mysterious martial artist wanted to challenge Ranma, Akane wasn’t there for moral support. She wasn’t there to stop the wandering traveler from being Happosai’s lingerie-pilfering apprentice. Fixing that on his own took Ranma longer than he would’ve liked. She wasn’t there when a lady who did Martial Arts Home Cooking claimed to be the best cook in town. Ranma had to help Kasumi with that one. (Actually, it was probably a good idea that Akane wasn’t there for that.) 

Akane also wasn’t there when Ranma was offered a job. If she had been living at home, she would have been able to tell him that it was a bad idea. Ranma really should have said no. But Akane wasn’t around to tell him he was being a dummy, so Ranma had accepted the job. 

“Ow,” Ranma said, as he nursed his bruised elbow. His stupid maid outfit tore at the bottom again. He’d have to ask Kasumi or his mom to mend it. “Stupid old creep. Learn how to keep your hands to yourself!” For once he wasn’t talking about Happosai. 

Ranma, in desperate need of money, took a job as a waitress at Ucchan’s. Ucchan may have been a good friend, but she was a ruthless, money-driven boss. Knowing it would attract more customers, she had Ranma and Konatsu dress in skimpy maid outfits with frilly aprons that they had to pay for themselves. On Ranma’s first day, there were so many pervy guys ogling at them that Ranma started to fight them. Together as a fighting duo, he and Konatsu served up roundhouse kicks and uppercuts in addition to Ukyo’s famous okonomiyaki. 

Instead of getting angry, Ukyo learned to roll with it. “COME SEE THE SEXY FIGHTING WAITRESSES,” read the flyer posted on the window the very next day. It was still up there. Ranma cringed every time he walked past it. 

Ranma used to change out of his uniform once his shift was done, but he didn’t feel like going up to Ukyo’s apartment upstairs to change. Ukyo kept “forgetting” that he was in there. Somehow she knew when Ranma had changed back into a boy and had his shirt off. 

“Ahhhhh!” Ranma had scrambled to cover himself. He’d changed in record time. 

“Oh sorry, Ran-chan!” Ukyo said in a too-delighted tone. She made no attempts to look embarrassed or to even look away. “I didn’t realize you used my home as a changing room.” 

Ranma wasn’t really sure how she didn’t know that. Ukyo was the one who offered her apartment as a locker room. “I guess I should’ve warned you I would be upstairs.” His face was as red as his shirt.

“It’s okay, sugar! Of course you can remove your clothes in here anytime. My house is your house!” 

It took Ranma four more times before he caught on that Ukyo was barging in on purpose. Akane was right. He probably was an idiot. 

Ranma resorted into changing in the dojo before stepping inside the house. He spent more time in the dojo nowadays. At first he told himself that Akane moving out was a good thing. He would be able to train more and be less distracted. But he found himself napping in there more often. He’d bring books in there, lay down, and after a while, he’d fall asleep with the open book either resting on his face or his chest. 

The dojo was comforting more than ever. It took months for Ranma to realize that he missed Akane. Her absence was weird at first, yes, but life was busy and didn’t pause just because she had moved out. There were still martial artists to defeat, unwanted fiancées to fend off, and family members to help when they needed it. But he found himself hanging out in the dojo more often and it wasn’t until he woke up from a nap that it hit him: he missed his stupid, stubborn fiancée. 

He missed lounging around the dojo while she trained, pretending that he was there to make fun of her when it really was an excuse to hang out with her. He missed her screams as she trained with her wooden dummy. He missed the way her face would get scrunched up when she punched the air. He just missed her. 

Ranma really didn’t know what to do with that revelation, so he kept it to himself and tried ignoring it. It proved to be a difficult task since Akane would call every now and then to catch up or show up randomly on a weekend. Ranma had gotten used to everyday life without Akane and had gotten used to missing her that when she was actually home, Ranma didn’t know how to act. Knowing that he missed her embarrassed Ranma. He’d see her and his face would go hot. 

He’d see her and— 

Ranma stepped into the dojo. Speak of the devil. In the far right corner sat Akane, several open books surrounded her as she wrote in a notebook. 

She looked up and smiled. “Oh hi, Ranma!” Ranma ignored the fact that his heart rate sped up. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Oh,” Akane said, reverting her focus on her notebook, “hope you don’t mind me studying in here. It just seemed so peaceful and quiet.” 

“I meant home. What are you doing home?” 

“Masako and her boyfriend got back together after a two-week breakup.” Akane made a “yuck” face. “I didn’t wanna be there for the reunion.” 

Masako was Akane’s roommate at her dorm. Ranma never met her, but Akane said that she was always breaking up and making up with her boyfriend. Akane said that she liked the both of them, but she didn’t really like sticking around when they were all over each other. 

Ranma watched Akane as she wrote on her notebook. Her left had moved just ever so slightly and the gold band on her ring finger glistened by a ray of sunlight. He took a step back. “I guess I’ll just change in my room.” He’d just remembered he was still in his maid outfit. 

Akane looked up again. “Oh, were you gonna use the dojo? I can move.”

Ranma was already stepping out of the dojo. “Nah, don’t worry about it.” 

“Nice outfit, by the way,” Akane called out after him. She failed to conceal her giggle. 

“Aw, shut up!” Ranma muttered, but there was a little smile on his face. 

.

Not that he would ever tell her, but Ranma hated it that Akane wore a ring now. She’d been sporting it since the first time she visited, about a month after she started university. Ranma noticed it right away, but no one else seemed to notice and Akane didn’t mention it. 

The whole weekend, thoughts plagued Ranma’s mind. Did she get married? To who? Who could she have met? Was it Kaoru? It was Kaoru, wasn’t it? She mentioned a Kaoru in one of her letters to their families. 

That weekend, Ranma avoided her, choosing to help Shampoo and Mousse find a vase that was rumored to grant pretty girls wishes. (The vase had deemed Ranma ugly and vanished into thin air.) 

Still salty about that outcome, Ranma’s mood worsened when his dad forced him to walk Akane to the train station. “You haven’t spent any time with your fiancée, boy!” Genma exclaimed. Ranma only obliged when his mother agreed that it was a good idea. 

Even though she didn’t need the help, Ranma carried her light suitcase as they walked in silence. Every now and then, Ranma glanced at Akane’s hand. He felt glum every time he saw the ring, and he didn’t know why. 

“You have fun with Shampoo this weekend?” Akane asked. She tried to sound casual, but he could detect the accusatory tone in her voice. 

“Hey, it wasn’t like that!” Ranma said. “Mousse was there too, okay?” 

Akane rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. You know, now that I’m not around, I’m surprised Shampoo hasn’t just kidnapped you and taken you to China yet. She still planning on marrying you?” 

“And you?” Ranma bit back and stopped walking. “You planning on marrying someone else?” 

“Someone else?” Akane turned around looked at him confusedly. “What are you talking about?” 

“You got another fiancé up in your dorm?” Ranma knew he was being stupid, but Ranma was annoyed that Akane was playing stupid too. 

“Ranma, what the hell are you talking about?” Akane said a little more loudly. “I don’t see you the entire time I’m back and now you’re talking about me getting married to someone else?” 

“Your ring, dummy!” he yelled, gesturing to her hand. “Didja forget or what?” 

A look of realization spread on Akane’s face. And then, unexpectedly, Akane burst out laughing. She laughed so hard that her eyes started watering. 

Ranma frowned. “What? What’s so funny?”

Akane took off the ring from her hand. “This ring? Ranma, you idiot, I bought this ring.” 

Now Ranma was the one to look confused. “You?” 

Akane explained that guys at her new school kept hitting on her, even though she would tell them she was engaged. None of them believed her because, as one classmate had put it: “What guy doesn’t give her pretty fiancée a ring?” The first chance she got, Akane went to a jewelry store and bought a ring herself. It didn’t stop all guys from hitting on her, but it stopped some. 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me this entire weekend?” Akane asked, a few minutes before her train was set to arrive. “Because I was wearing this ring?” 

“No, of course not,” Ranma denied, but the look on Akane’s face told him she knew otherwise. Akane took his hand and squeezed it gently. The ring felt like ice against his hand. “Ranma, everyone knows you exist, even if they don’t believe you exist.” 

Two days later, Ranma accepted a waitressing job at Ucchan’s. It was Akane’s fault, really. She wasn’t around to tell him it was a bad idea. 

.

 Since Akane’s first visit back, their relationship changed, even though they never talked about it. Sometimes Akane would call and Ranma would pick up. Instead of asking to talk to her dad or one of her sisters, she’d talk to him. They’d talk about nothing, about everything. About that stupid time Kodachi tried to poison him and he woke up in a wedding chapel. About Akane’s new friends. 

“You should come up and visit sometime, Ranma,” Akane said quietly once. “Most of my friends think I’m making you up.” 

She started sending two letters instead of just one: one to Ranma and one to the rest of the family. They never really said much—sometimes it was just pictures of Akane at various tourist spots around her university—but Ranma would put the letters away in his drawer anyway. 

Akane would show up randomly on weekends, either to study for an exam or just to hang out. If Ranma wasn’t working, sometimes they would watch TV. Sometimes they’d walk together to get a snack. 

One time, on a hot day, they went to get ice cream cones. Surprisingly, Ranma went as a guy. They walked idly around the neighborhood, eating their ice cream in silence. Ranma is still not sure who made the first move, but they found themselves holding hands. It was only for a few minutes, but Ranma’s heart thumped loudly in his chest the entire time. 

Since then, without even speaking about it, it was agreed upon that if they were getting a snack alone together, at one point they would be holding hands. 

They even kissed the last time they got cheesecake together. Akane had pulled him into a secluded alley a few streets ahead of the bakery. And before Ranma could even ask why they were in the alley, Akane kissed him. It was a soft, clumsy kiss, but Ranma leaned into it and kissed back. 

“What was that for?” Ranma asked breathlessly, as he pulled away. 

“We’ve been engaged for years now, Ranma, and we never kissed,” Akane said. “Were you never curious as to what it was like?” 

“N-n-neko-ken,” Ranma sputtered. 

“While you were a cat doesn’t count. I wanted to see what it was like.” 

“And?” Ranma said, asking for a verdict. 

Akane smiled a bright smile as they walked out of the alley. “We could use a little practice.” 

.

After changing out of his uniform, Akane knocked on Ranma’s door. “Kasumi wants me to get ingredients for tonight’s dinner. Wanna come?” 

As soon as the house was out of sight, Ranma checked to see if any of their friends were around before taking Akane’s hand. They said nothing as they walked to the supermarket, but Akane nudged Ranma’s shoulder with hers. Ranma looked at her questioningly, but she just smiled and shrugged.

They separated as they got the ingredients, Ranma holding the basket while Akane picked out the zucchinis and carrots. 

They walked home, each taking a handle of the plastic bag. “Hey, Ranma,” Akane began shyly. Even though they were more comfortable with each other, they still sometimes were nervous around each other. “Want to get crepes tomorrow before I go to the train station?”

“Can’t,” Ranma said. “Gotta work at Ucchan’s tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Akane said, a little crestfallen. “Kasumi says you’ve been working there a lot. You like working with Ukyo that much?” 

“Yeah, it’s fun sometimes,” Ranma answered. “I don’t like the creeps, but it makes good money. And I get to train while I’m working. Ukyo and Konatsu are fun too.” 

“Oh, okay. I’ll guess I’ll see you the next time I come home then,” she said quietly. She took the grocery bag from Ranma and opened the house gate, leaving Ranma alone at the entrance. 

Akane was quiet all throughout dinner, which in turn made Ranma quiet. Ranma went after her before she went upstairs. “Hey, Akane!” 

She looked at him expectantly. “Wanna train in the dojo?” he asked. 

“Sorry, Ranma,” she said, making her way up the stairs. “I have a paper due in a couple days.” 

Ranma spent a sleepless night wondering what the hell happened. 

.

“Isn’t it obvious, Ranma?” Konatsu said, punching a grabby customer in the face before setting a pork okonomiyaki on the table. “You said you liked working with Miss Ukyo. Miss Akane’s jealous.” 

“You think so?” Ranma said, kicking another customer from across the restaurant.

“Definitely. Miss Akane knows you have to go to work, but you said you liked it. You should’ve sounded regretful that you couldn’t get crepes with her.” Konatsu threw a plate of squid okonomiyaki like a ninja star. “Look, just go and see her before she leaves on the train, okay? I’ll tell Miss Ukyo that you went home sick.”

“But I’ve got an hour left here,” Ranma said, elbowing a man in the stomach. 

“Just go! Before she makes you work overtime! And be romantic!” Konatsu shouted out as Ranma ran out the door. 

Ranma changed in an alley (funnily enough, the alley where Akane had kissed Ranma), and checked his pockets. He grabbed his wad of cash that he’d been saving since he started at Ucchan’s. He didn’t have much time before Akane went back to the train station. He had to hurry. 

.

He caught her just before she left the house. 

“Wait up, Akane!�� Ranma panted. He took the suitcase from her. 

“What are you doing here, Ranma?” Akane asked, surprised. 

“Walking you to the train station, dummy,” Ranma said. 

“Don’t you have work?” 

“Left early.” 

“Oh.” They walked in silence for a few minutes. And then: “I’m sorry about yesterday.” 

Ranma shrugged. “You think- you think it’d be okay if I visited you sometime?”

“Visit?” Akane asked. “At my university?” 

He shrugged again and scratched his head. “I was just thinkin’ maybe it’d be a good idea. Put a face to your friends you mention all the time.” He looked at her and couldn’t read her. “If you don’t want me—” 

“No, I think that idea is fine,” Akane said quickly. They had reached Akane’s platform. “I’ll call you. We can plan it for sometime next month?” 

Ranma smiled. “Sounds like a plan.” Akane took her suitcase from Ranma, her ring clicking against the handle. Ranma took her right hand and squeezed it. “Um,” Ranma started, “I, uh, have something for you.” 

He took out a small box from his pocket, where his wad of cash had previously lived, and put it in her hand. She set down her suitcase and opened the box. Akane’s breath caught. In the center of the box was a silver ring with a small diamond. 

“Sorry it’s nothin’ fancy or anything. It’s just… You shouldn’t have to buy your own engagement ring, you know?” Ranma said, absentmindedly scratching his cheek. “That’s why I’ve been working at Ucchan’s.” 

“And is that what this is?” Akane asked in a quiet voice, her gaze avoiding Ranma’s. “An engagement ring?” 

“Only if you want it to be.” 

Akane looked up. “I want it to be if you want it to be.” 

Ranma grinned. “Okay, then. It is.” 

Akane took off her gold ring and put on her new one. “I love it,” she said. 

They blushed as they held hands, waiting for Akane’s train to arrive. The new ring felt warm against his hand. It felt right.

[abakersquest]

CHAPTER TEN – A THORN IN THE MARSH

Wistea and Elder Ygg quickly explained the danger of any of Kota’s soldiers taking the Silent Marsh. As Planaetians approach old age, the blessing of the First Tree fades and they become as they were always meant to be, a simple plant like any other. Some will seek a place to settle in the world, other choose the Silent Marsh. In essence, the marshlands have become a graveyard for the oldest Planaetians to walk Mondia. Because they had garnered great stores of magical energy in their lives, the remnants of it transformed the nature of the marshlands and enchanted the entire space to a still unknown degree. Yet, while the matter of the Marsh was certainly pressing, Elder Ygg insisted they leave after resting and tending to their wounds, as it would do no good to race there now in their current conditions.

With Mycete left in Ygg’s care, the band was shown a secret exit to the temple that left them just under the roots of the First Tree. As they walked into the cool night air someone spotted them and gave a shout, and before the four could react they found themselves surrounded by celebration and thanks, as well as a surprise appearance by Rozzi’s bandits. Amid many tearful reunions and some impulsive emotional action, the gathering at the First Tree became something a few steps shy of a festival. Unable to resist, Wally set about cooking whatever he could to help feed all the attendees, as well as taking some time to teach some very interested Planaetians the long lost recipe for Nandi Bread. The Bandit Circus performed for the gathered soldiers and citizens as they ate and drank to what history would no doubt come to call ‘The First Triumph of Sir Wally, the second Flarebearer.’ Despite any of Wally’s protest against him getting all the credit.

The party was fervent but short lived, exhaustion quickly swamped over the masses and makeshift beds abounded. Wally had just finished covering Hector in a blanket when he spotted Rozzi, making her way up to the canopy of the now former war camp, clearly aiming to treat it as a hammock. After a quick mental tug of war, Wally headed over. He quietly tip-toed over many sleeping Planaetians and carefully climbed up a corner post, propping himself up by his arms on the top of it, somehow managing to not alert Rozzi to his presence as she had begun to settle in.

“You know, I haven’t slept in a hammock since I was a boy,” He said, much louder than was called for in this particular situation.

Rozzi scrambled for balance as she had tried to turn toward Wally’s voice, failed miserably, and became a bundled mess of limbs instead. She looked up at his upside-down visage from her tumbled position and saw a content little smirk on his face. “Alright… Guess I had that comin’ eh?”

“No, but I honestly couldn’t resist.” Wally climbed up the rest of the way and found a suitable amount of slack in the canopy to settle into. “That is to say, I know why you do it.”

Rozzi was flustered for a moment, even more so when Wally laid down a few feet away, but she managed to shake it off and go about settling in for the night herself. “Do what exactly?”

“The flirting… Actually what I should’ve said was, ‘I know why you keep doing it.’ At first you just liked watching me squirm. Now, it’s more you just want to keep me level headed”

She froze on the spot, surprised by Wally’s insight. Eventually she plopped onto her back and sighed. “That obvious?”

“No, I’m just a lot more insightful than you gave me credit for.”

“… Sorry.”

“Wasn’t asking for an apology, just… If it’s so you can keep me grounded in the face of all this, you don’t have to try that hard. But…” Wally tried to swallow down his nervousness. “B-but if it’s actually more than that… Maybe… I don’t mind as much as you think I would…”

Rozzi quickly propped herself up to look at Wally, only to see him calmly staring up at the massive branches above their heads swaying in the breeze, moonlight flickering through small short lived gaps. She smiled before she lied back down to take in the sight herself and considered what he just said in silence.

The brief respite passed as the first rays of dawn slid over the horizon. After sad but quick goodbyes shared between Rozzi and the Bandit Circus, Wistea and her family, the four gathered whatever supplies Arborledan could spare and set off to the west of the city toward the Silent Marsh. The path there being free of small towns and roads capable of baring any carriages, they were limited to whatever they could carry with them on foot.

At the top of the first hill away from it, Wistea turned back toward Arborledan. It was an act that Wally quickly recognized, having done it himself what felt like ages ago now. “You’re going to think about it a lot,” he began. “In fact when you aren’t thinking about anything else it’ll always be the first thing that comes up.”

She didn’t look at him as she replied, “How do you deal with it?”

“I don’t think of it as missing home. More like, carrying a piece of it with me wherever I go.”

Wally couldn’t explain how, but somehow he could see the metaphorical weight of leaving home become lighter on Wistea. The two of them set down the hill to catch up with Rozzi and Hector.

“You know…” Wistea began. “You are quite wise for someone your age.”

Wally was about to say something sarcastic before he thought better of it. After all, Wistea probably didn’t know anything about Animani outside of books that made it into the library. “And how old do you think I am exactly?”

“Careful,” Hector spoke jovially. “I guessed wrong and Wally put me through a wall for it!”

“That’s not what happened and you know it!” Wally snapped.

“Certainly never called you ‘lad’ again, did I?” He said with a laugh.

“Hang on a bit…” Rozzi said, rubbing her chin and thinking. “That’s right, Planaetians get pretty old, so we probably all look like kids to Wisty, don’t we?”

Her expression and tone soured at the impolite curtailing of her name. “Actually I am one of the generation of Planae born after the war. I had assumed Wally was closer to my age.”

Wally looked up at her. “If you don’t mind us asking, how old are you exactly?”

“As of the last winter season, I have lived for fifteen years.”

Wistea watched as all three of her new companions slowed down to a stop to look up at her with surprised and concerned expressions.

“Um…” Wally was the first to say anything for a while. “Don’t suppose you measure years differently here than you do in Animana…”

“We live in the same temperate zone with four seasons; each passing of the four is a year, no? Wait… You wouldn’t say that unless my age was far higher or lower than you expected, but given context the number is most likely much lower so… You must be…”

“Older by a full decade, yes.” Wally watched as the fact registered in her mind and she recoiled. He knew that face, the ‘desperately apologizing faster than the words could come out’ expression he’d seen on his little sister’s face hundreds of times. ‘This isn’t what she needs right now,’ he thought. ‘If I don’t say something her confidence will be shot for who knows how long…’ The speed of thought is a remarkable thing, as before she even began to say a single stammered word Wally interrupted. “Mind you, Chief Librarian at fifteen! Damn impressive! When I was fifteen I was a glorified dishwasher.”

Wally did his best to casually nod at Hector and Rozzi to get them to follow his plan wordlessly.

“Right!” Hector caught on. “I was as far from knighthood as a rock is from flying. Back then, I spent more time mopping the barracks than sword training!”

Rozzi wore a smart smile, tucking her hands behind her head and turning to walk away from the group toward their goal. “Well when I was fifteen, I was already in charge of the whole Circus. Keepin’ ‘em fed, clothed, sheltered, and makin’ sure we did 3 shows a week. So you better keep up the good work Wisty, ‘cause I don’t wanna have to pick up your slack y’hear?”

A swell of pride overrode any embarrassment as she stomped her foot down. “Slack?! I shall leave you no such opportunity! And my name is ‘Wistea’, not ‘Wisty’! It is enough of an informality that you leave off my full title; I will not tolerate you turning my name into some dull noise!”

Wally smiled, relieved that Wistea’s confidence survived another hurdle. He thought on what it would’ve felt like to face what she has and leave home at her age, now that he knew it. He silently commended her on her courage and continued on with everyone.

---

As the land beneath their feet grew plainer and a thin fog began to develop, Wistea told the group they were approaching the outer limits of the Silent Marsh. With a serious whisper she explained that the Marsh was called that specifically because the act of speaking was forbidden. The bygone residents somehow enforced this rule, despite the absence of their living will. It is said that for some who sought solace in the marshlands, it never came, their longing souls wandering forever in search of it. But thus far these are only stories and rumors.

Wistea then explained that she would take the lead from this point forward. The marshlands were difficult to navigate for anyone but the most skilled forest mages; it would be far too easy to become lost there for anyone else. As they continued on behind her, the water level rose and soaked their feet; she soon turned to them all and placed a finger to her lips, letting them know that they’d finally crossed into the Silent Marsh.

Wally looked around and realized he could no longer see the sky or the horizon; the fog had grown thick and blocked sight of anything further than five feet in any direction. Just barely he could make out the silhouettes of trees, each rooted far from the other. Suddenly a tug on his sleeve forced him to snap back into a defensive stance, only to see Rozzi standing there, rolling her eyes.

She pointed down to her waist where a rope had been tied, the length of which lead to similar lassos around the waist of Hector and Wistea. Wally nodded as he took his end of the rope from her and tied it around his waist.

Wally’s experience with cemeteries was limited; his mother took him to see where his grandparents were buried only once when he was very young. He wondered if it was natural for the air of sacred places to muffle sound, as he remembered the graveyard visit of his youth being just as quiet. Even though the lot of them were walking ankle deep in marshland water, he couldn’t make out anything that even vaguely sounded like the sloshing he would expect. Without a thought his hand found its way to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating.

Without the sun, time vanished into memory and the passage of seconds became a meaningless endeavor. No one behind the stalwart Planaetian knew how long they walked before finally coming to a stop. Wistea stood rigid at the foot of a tall tree, its branches were barren and bark black as charcoal, it was clear to them all it was dead. Wally’s ears picked up on a very small sound above him, something he knew he couldn’t ignore. He looked up and saw Wistea, the hand she held over her mouth and the tears running down her face.

“He’s dead,” she spoke in a barely audible whisper.

The Animani looked at each other, each wondering if they should say anything before Wally finally whispered, “Who?”

“My grandfather… But… He wasn’t that old… Just barely 500. This is not right, something is very wrong with the Marsh.”

Wistea wiped the tears away and continued on, leading them deeper into the marsh. As they went, the smell of decay grew with each step and every tree they could see through the fog was dead. The grass became sparse and the ground water little more than shallow mud. Wistea knew that the life of the marsh was being drawn out, the remaining vitality of the old trees and their magic, yanked away for what could only be a sinister purpose. Sorrow quickly turned to anger at the very idea of such a sacred place being defiled by villainous will, and so her pace quickened, almost dragging her new friends off their feet. “I can feel it,” She said, shattering the eerie silence. “I can feel the life of the marshlands being pulled away, all toward one spot.”

The ever present fog vanished from one step to the next, and before them was a barren clearing where the earth had grown dry and the air stagnant. At its center a shimmering dome of light cut into the landscape, its presence apparently pushing back the fog. As they approached it, smoky figures charged from the fog wall only to be pushed back by a gale of wind that did not exist. The ethereal limbs of these wisp disintegrated as they struggled toward the dome before evaporating entirely. These were clearly the restless spirits of the Silent Marsh, attempting to defend it from a corrupting force.

With righteous anger dripping from every syllable, Wistea threw her hands out and began a spell. “Eight forms to one shape, from heart to hand and destroy! EMERALD COFFIN!” The ground around the dome erupted and enormous thick vines emerged from deep below. The vines reached toward the dome, wrapping around its entirety.

The dome shuddered against the ground and the vines creaked and groaned as they squeezed their target. Wistea’s clenched fist trembled more and more as the vines worked to collapse the offending mystical construct.

The others untied themselves from the rope and readied their weapons, braced for whatever could lie inside as the magic structure cracked and finally shattered under the pressure. Its pieces vanished into nothingness as they fell and revealed what they hid. Inside a small patch of still green marshland was quickly reduced to dried-out remnants around the feet of the offender who stood calmly at the center of it all.

As the mystic dust settled and vanished, the lone figure stepped forward toward the group pocketing something that shimmered brightly. Wally was quick to look them over as they approached. It was just taller than Wistea, putting it at over 8 feet in height. Its skin, what little of it could be seen, reminded him of a flower stalk in both color and texture, the rest was covered by what looked like a combination of a ball gown and a suit of armor. The armored components were however made from earthenware and not steel which surprised him. Atop its head was a sort of crown comprised of large bright crimson petals, and its eyes matched the shade. It wore a serene expression, clearly undaunted by the approach of a threat.

“Well now,” it spoke with a deep and feminine voice. “The Rogue told me the Flarebearer was a little fellow, but you’re much smaller than I expected.”

Wally tightened his grip and readied his defenses. “I’m surprised he told you anything after I lit him on fire and knocked him into the ocean, guess he wasn’t made to be embarrassed.”

“Ooh, that’s interesting. The last Flarebearer didn’t talk all that much… Speaking of,” She turned to look at Hector. “How is daddy’s precious little one? Grew up with a mean streak without your father to teach you better?”

Hector said and expressed nothing, his face as rigid as stone.

“Ah,” The would-be enemy clasped her hands. “There we are, that’s the nostalgic hero face I was hoping to see.”

Wally called to her attention again. “Excuse me, just thought I’d ask. What does Kota want?”

Kota’s General eyed Wally the way one eyes a potential meal, but said nothing.

“I mean, from here, nothing she’s done makes any sense. What’s all the wanton destruction and death get her in the end?  I can understand if she’s some manner of sadist… But if there’s more to it than that, I’d really like to know.”

Wally felt the ground beneath his feet tremble hard, thinking quickly he leapt backward, narrowly avoiding a massive stone spike.

“Do not presume my lady’s thinking, dust mote.” Her playful tone had been utterly erased. “The Rogue didn’t take you seriously and you caught him off guard, I shall not do the same.” With a sweep of her arms the clearing was surrounded by tall stone walls that bore deadly spikes, each sprung from nothing but flat terrain. “I AM THE THORNED PRINCESS! IN THE NAME OF MY MISTRESS, I SHALL HANG YOUR SHREDDED BODIES FOR ALL TO SEE!”

Wally steadied his nerves and breathing before he looked over to Hector. “Was really hoping we could talk our way out of this.”

“Good effort, she’s just not the talking-it-out sort.” Hector lowered both his stance and voice.  “Follow my lead, Rozzi you come in behind us while we distract her, Wistea your magic works best at range so if we make you an opening, take it, understood?”

Wistea glared at the Thorned Princess, barely hearing a word Hector said.

“Wistea.” Wally said firmly.

She turned to face him, her fierce expression locked in.

“She’ll pay for what she’s done, but only if we do this together, alright?”

She turned back toward her enemy and tried to stop herself from shaking in anger. “Alright,” she finally said through gritted teeth.

Wally and Hector nodded at each other before they charged toward the Thorned Princess, swords held at the ready. She laughed haughtily as she summoned one massive stone spike after another in their paths, forcing them to zigzag around her strikes. Frustrated, Wally levied the Flare against one of the offending stones and cut clean through it before kicking the separated peak directly at the Princess. It was reduced to nothing mere inches from where she stood.

“Right… Magic…” Wally grumbled before setting off on another dash toward her.

Hector’s reflexes proved better against the deadly stone spikes, allowing him to close the distance between himself and his quarry. The Thorned Princess turned her attention toward him, creating enough of a gap for Wally to rush in as well; both reared their swords back to strike her down when a massive round wall of stone emerged around her. Ugly sounding clangs rung out at their swords bounced off the makeshift barrier.

During their charge however, inspiration struck Rozzi. Experimentally she leapt as hard as she could toward the nearest spike, feeling a jet of air carry her the whole distance. As she landed she smiled broadly and said, “Well that’s handy…” With the aid of her newfound magic she sprang from one summoned spike to the other, moving faster than she ever had on her own, and just as Hector and Wally’s swords struck wall she landed on the lip of the instant barricade and stared down at the Princess. “‘Ello love, special delivery!” Rozzi jumped backward into the air and slashed her sickle toward the Thorned Princess, sending a ball of sheering air at her.

Kota’s General screamed in anger as she brought her arms up to block the magical gust, the seemingly clay armor of her battle dress stretching into a shield shape.

From her vantage point, Wistea saw the opportunity she was waiting for, her hands outstretched as she readied the extent of her abilities. “Eight forms to three shapes, from heart to hand again and again, strike, defend, and destroy! QUICK LOBAT!” A stocky tree instantly grew beneath the Princess’ feet, launching her high into the air and out of her encampment. “GREATER SAMARA!” Large leafy propellers then emerged from her back, dragging her quickly through the air and toward the ground. “RAVENOUS NEPENT!” an enormous pitcher plant rose from the dry earth just before she landed, its gaping maw catching the readied meal easily.

Everyone watched as the Thorned Princess plopped into the enormous yellow plant that lowered a thick leaf over its mouth to keep hold of its prey. They could see her thrash and beat against the walls of the pitcher plant before finally growing still. The sound of rumbling then filled the air as the encircling spiked walls began to slowly move inward. The pitcher plant was torn open by long ceramic blades, its acidic contents spilling onto the ground as the villainous warrior stepped out, seemingly unharmed. With a quick flourish she shook off the remaining acid and bowed to her assembled challengers, revealing the earthenware bracers on her wrist as the source of her freshly revealed weapons. “Thank you all ever so much, I’d hoped you were truly worthy of my time and you did not disappoint.” As she raised her head she darted toward Hector who barely managed to block both her blades, but the force of the blow was enough to send him skidding backward on his feet.

As he still reeled from the first blow, Hector couldn’t raise his guard when she sprang into the air, looking to pierce him from above. Rozzi thrust her hand forward to create a solid gust of air barely pushing the fiend off her course, missing the landing by inches.

Hector took the chance to swipe at her, forcing the Princess backward. With that back step, four large and spiny cucumbers jutted from the ground. “STRIKE ELATERI!” Wistea shouted, commanding the new plants she’d summoned. A spray of seeds fired off from each cucumber. The Thorned Princess spun on the spot, her blades deflecting every seed fired at her. Every one of the assembled fighters winced at the sound of the wicked and joyous laughter that followed.

The advance of the imposing wall sped up considerably, time was running short and they were running out of room to maneuver. The Princess, who began to move more like a dancer, put some distance between herself and her opponents before she drove her blades into the ground, then pulled upward forcing the earth to roll forward like a powerful wave onto a shore. The closest, Rozzi and Hector, scrambled away from the upturned terrain, while Wally dashed to scoop up Wistea and bound off the side of the wave to where the surge died down, leaving them all with their backs to one of the many deadly walls.

“Runnin’ out of room here!” Rozzi said as she eyed the walls. “Anybody got any bright ideas?!”

Wally quickly looked around to see if anything at all would inspire some solution before finally he screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to think. There, in the dark and desperate seconds of furtive thought, a spark of an idea was brought to life. “Rozzi! Hit one of those walls with your sickle, doesn’t matter how hard I just need to hear the sound!”

Confused but willing, Rozzi carefully approached the wall behind her and struck it. It was instantly clear to her the walls were far too dense for anyone but Wally to make any kind of dent. As she turned back toward Wally she saw a smile form on his face, a look of confidence that was wholly encouraging. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Hector! Grab Wistea and run as fast as you possibly can, Rozzi you keep close, I don’t expect the gap to last all that long!”

His compatriots all asked, “What gap?”

Wally turned toward the approaching wall directly behind him, pulled back his free hand and struck it with all his might, blasting a sizable hole in the magically constructed stone. “GO!”

With no other instruction needed Hector quickly hefted Wistea and leapt through the hole, followed quickly by Rozzi. The three watched as the hole rapidly sealed behind them leaving Wally within the closing trap.

“Ah, it seems the moronic nobility of the Flarebearer is universal,” mocked the Thorned Princess. “You know it will only take me a few minutes longer to kill them after you’re dead.”

“Well Ma’am” Wally said in his best shop voice. “I don’t exactly plan on dying ‘til I finish this quick little lesson.”

The walls began to move even faster, forcing Wally to approach the Princess. “Better talk fast, little one…”

“Intend to ma’am. See, the last Flarebearer? He was a soldier through and through, trained all his life as a fighter. But me, I’m a baker by trade. Made my way working in all kinds of kitchens… So suffice it to say, stone walls? Dried out plants all around our feet?” Wally spun the Stellar Flare in his hands, sparks of flame dancing off the blade and his arms. “I know a good fire pit when I see one.” He held the end of the blade facing the ground as he spoke his spell. “EIGHT GODS INTO ONE MOMENT, FROM MY SOUL INTO THE WORLD! DRAGON’S CALDERA!” Wally drove the end of his sword into the ground as hard as he could, deep red flames racing across the surface, coating it entirely.

The Thorned Princess tried to speak, only to have her voice entirely drowned out as the flames erupted upward, the walls funneling them into the shape of a pillar that lit the dried out marshlands like the morning sun. The roar of the blistering flames could be called nothing but deafening.

Slowly the fire died down and the walls cracked and crumbled into nothingness. Behind them, a perfect circle of scorched earth where Wally knelt exhausted from the effort. Across from him, ironically frozen in a moment of terror, stood the charred body of the Thorned Princess.

<[Chapter 09]–[Index]–[Chapter 11]>

[mediafocus-blog1]

HOW AN IOS DEVELOPER JUST UNCOVERED THE NEXT IPHONE

New Post has been published on https://mediafocus.biz/how-an-ios-developer-just-uncovered-the-next-iphone/

HOW AN IOS DEVELOPER JUST UNCOVERED THE NEXT IPHONE

WHEN DEVELOPER GUILHERME Rambo noticed that Apple had launched firmware for the approaching HomePod speaker, he thought it has to have been a mistake. The HomePod doesn’t pop out until December, in the end. Curiosity piqued, he started out digging via the code, in which he located possibly the ultimate issue he predicted: Apple’s subsequent iPhone. While a few info concerning Apple’s redesigned, excessive-stop iPhone—called the iPhone eight or iPhone Pro, even though no one out of doors Cupertino knows the reputable name yet—had formerly leaked, Rambo observed in the HomePod no longer rumors or recommendations, however, Apple’s very own documentation of one in all its biggest releases in years. It confirms a brand new appearance with a slimmer bezel, the loss of life of the house button, and an effective new face-recognition function. It’s the most important bombshell Apple leak in years—and it came from Apple itself. Phone Home The HomePod firmware first seemed on a reputable Apple public replace feed a few days in the past. Rambo unpacked it, hoping to glean something thrilling approximately how Apple’s Siri-powered speaker works before Apple found out its mistake and pulled the code.

Ike the iPhone, HomePod runs iOS. That in itself is unremarkable; developers have had access to a beta version of iOS eleven for greater than a month now. But Rambo, a developer for a Brazilian e-commerce corporation, speedily made a crucial discovery: The HomePod firmware that Apple released was iOS 11.Zero.2, full patches ahead of what’s publicly available. That manner that it covered some performance-related tweaks, positive. But more importantly, because it wasn’t supposed for public launch, Apple hadn’t yet scrubbed the code for mentions of its unreleased products. Like, say, its upcoming iPhone, that is expected in September. “It’s a procedure Apple is going via each year, to make sure builders can nevertheless access the imminent iOS with out revealing too much approximately the unannounced iPhone so that it will come to the final launch,” says iOS developer Steven Troughton-Smith, who sponsored up Rambo’s findings. Realizing the potential for discovery, Rambo set to work

“I determined to search for strings inside the firmware that might be associated with the rumoured ‘Face ID’ characteristic,” Rambo says. “I looked for the phrase ‘face’ and noticed it matched several symbols in BiometricKit, the framework that presently handles Touch ID.” Those references do not exist in the iOS eleven beta. Rambo was onto something. So he saved digging. Pearls Before iPhones References to stand reputation do now not an iPhone might make. But as Rambo continued to comb through BiometricKit, he found out that the same terminology used to sign up a new Touch ID finger (“EnrollTouchID”) had a face-authentication counterpart: EnrollPearlID. “Pearl ID” persevered to expose up for the duration of his searches, usually tied to facial recognition. That won’t grow to be being what Apple calls its face-popularity feature, but calling it Pearl ID at this stage likely is not supposed to hide its motive. “The codename simply makes it less complicated to find all the associated portions of code within the OS, and with the aid of examining the code you could then see what type of features it has,” says Troughton-Smith. What Rambo saw at that factor, in different words, become an unreleased, unannounced Apple feature laid naked. Figuring out what “Pearl ID” meant led to an even bigger locate. “During the look for references to this ‘Pearl ID’ aspect I found a reference to ‘Pearl-D22,'” says Rambo. “I decided to look for ‘D22’ and determined it is the inner codename for the ‘iPhone Pro’ or ‘iPhone 10.'”

While there are not many D22 references, Apple left no doubt as to what it means. What sealed it? Rambo found a report in the PassKit framework, used by Wallet, known as “Payment_glyph_phone-D22.Carr,” a format kind that Apple uses to store vector photographs for lively UI elements. When Rambo rendered that picture, he saw an iPhone unlike any he had visible before, because it does not yet exist.

Rambo found another connection with D22 in a video record, no longer gift inside the firmware, called “Enrollment_Tutorial_Loop-D22,” which probably suggests iPhone eight owners the way to register their face with Pearl ID.

“There are also a few references in the firmware that advise this D22 model may have a one-of-a-kind battery charging technique,” Rambo says, although iOS eleven.0.2 gives no clues as to what the one’s differences might be. Scooped These leaks element Apple’s unreleased iPhone to a previously unthinkable diploma, excepting the iPhone 4’s early debut by using Gizmodo in 2010. The minimal bezel layout and absence of a home button mark the iPhone’s maximum big overhaul in years. The face-ID function seems primed to be a focus of the business enterprise’s eventual creation of the telephone. “This is a hard scenario for Apple,” says Troughton-Smith. “For them to be the supply of the most effective concrete leaks about it and its layout goes to disillusioned numerous people internally.” Embarrassment apart, the impact on actual sales may be muted. “I think the kind of people probably to wait for a brand new iPhone primarily based on leaks were in all likelihood well aware of all of the reporting on the situation already,” says Jan Dawson, founder of Jackdaw Research. Dawson also notes that whilst this appears to affirm present rumours, the actual check of the iPhone’s upcoming features is how nicely they work. Firmware can simplest inform you so much. In which case, the most important takeaway says that Apple’s internal protection has all over again slipped, as it did while macOS Sierra confirmed off Apple’s MacBook Pro with OLED contact panel last fall, a few days earlier than the product’s authentic debut. The lapse this time appears even extra obtrusive; Apple has greater driving on the iPhone 8 than it does on its whole computer line prepare, and even as airing it out a month earlier than its launch can also have a cloth impact on the business enterprise, it, in reality, does not assist. “We’re seeing what we agree with to be a pause in purchases of iPhone, which we believe is because of the earlier and much more frequent reviews about destiny iPhones,” Apple CEO Tim Cook stated throughout the business enterprise’s maximum latest earnings name. This time, at the least, Apple has nobody guilty however itself.