#and the god of life in stiff dark clothes with bright accents

[glitchyvoice]

runs on stage

ITS DONE GUYS I FINALLY FINISHED IT IM SO LATE BUT WE BALL

[magnoliasinbloom]

Lie To Me - 19

AO3 :: Previously

Jamie prays as he has not done so in a long time. He prays on his knees in the hospital’s nondenominational chapel, long enough that there are likely permanent dents in the bone. He lays prostrate on the weathered linoleum, hands held fast in supplication, hands beating at the floor in anger and desperation.

His voice in the empty chapel is rigid with fear and grief. He pleads; he bargains; he threatens; he begs for a miracle out of the lavishness of his God’s grace.

“Dinna leave me, Sassenach. This time I’ll beg. A Dhia, dinna take her from me.”

Dr. Denzell Hunter is listed on a whiteboard as the man responsible for operating on Claire. She had been rushed to the nearest operating room, and it had taken several nurses and a security guard to stop him from going in after her. The threat of being kicked out and banned from the premises had made him acquiesce.

Now, curses mingle with his prayers as he recalls the fabric of Claire’s dress turning almost black with her spilled blood. He vows to destroy the MacKenzie, to strangle Dougal with his own bare hands and watch with fervent glee as the life leaves his eyes.

Jamie had failed, once again, to protect her. That particular thought gnaws at him and will not let him rest. He briefly touches the bright red stains on his white jacket, some already rusted brown; a nurse had offered him clothes from the lost and found to change into, but he had refused. He would wear this until he knew for certain whether Claire lived or died.

Claire.

He struggled to his feet, knees protesting from the hard floor. He stumbles to the nurses’ station near the waiting room, hoping for an update on her condition. Geillis rounds the corner, in surgical scrubs but an incongruous, fully made-up face from the gala.

“Jamie!” She hugs him briefly and takes in the bloody jacket with a gasp. “I came as soon as I heard. The group chat blew up, saying a doctor had been shot outside the museum. I’d hoped it wasna Claire, but…” she trails off and suppresses a sob. “Hunter’s operating, he’s one of the best. She’ll be alright, Jamie.”

“They dinna ken… they havena—” He gestures helplessly towards the board and the nurses’ station and Geillis grips his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“Aye. They’ll talk to me, let me see what I can find out.” She whirls away through the doors marked for authorized personnel only. Jamie feels time slog by in fits and starts, minutes dragging on endlessly, and before he knows it, it’s already been three hours since Claire arrived in the ambulance.

Geillis returns and takes him by the arm, dragging him to a secluded corner of the waiting room. “She’s stable, for now. The bullet hit her liver, which is very vascular—meaning there was a lot of blood loss, because it has many blood vessels,” she adds, understanding the look on his face. “But the liver regenerates itself, and she’s received blood transfusions to replace it. She was damned lucky.”

“Not lucky enough, to be with the likes of me,” Jamie whispers, dragging his hands through his hair. Geillis pulls his hands back down roughly, shaking him out of his stupor.

“It verra well could have been you, and I’d be having a different conversation with Claire. Now.” She regards his blood-soaked jacket with distaste. “I’ll take you to the doctors’ lounge, and ye’ll have a shower and change into something less morbid. Ye have to take care of yerself too—do it for her, at least.”

Her words tug at what’s left of Jamie’s heart and he agrees, if only to kill more time while the other half of his soul lies on a cold operating table.

X-x-X

“John Grey is here to see ye, Fraser,” Geillis calls into the lounge where Jamie is tying up the drawstring on the too-short scrubs. He fits the brace back over his hand and comes out to meet John Grey.

Jamie’s first instinct upon seeing the chief inspector is to wrench him into a hug. It catches Grey by surprise, but he is quick to return Jamie’s tight embrace.

“Thank ye, John,” Jamie manages, fisting handfuls of Grey’s shirt in his hands, the struggles of the previous night catching up to him once more. “I dinna ken how to thank ye.”

“No need, Jamie.” Grey pulls away and gestures toward the waiting room. “If you don’t mind, there’s someone here from SCD who would like to take your statement regarding the… incident. I know it’s a lot to ask, with what happened to Ms. Beauchamp, but it’s important to have all our ducks in a row. We’re moving ahead with the legal process, and bringing Leoch down. And I brought Murtagh along as well.”

The thought of seeing his godfather lifts Jamie’s spirits. The waiting room holds an elderly couple and a young man reading a French newspaper, and Murtagh surrounded by a few police officers. He sits and at Grey’s prompting, begins to recount everything that happened. Remembering the moment that Claire was shot makes his voice and hands shake with anger, and he glances at the clock behind the nurses’ station. Almost 3 AM. As he signs the affidavit, he’s suddenly yanked to his feet by Geillis.

“Family for Claire Beauchamp?” A tired-looking surgeon with blue paper booties covering his shoes emerges from the direction where they’d taken Claire.

“Yes, doctor?”

“Are you family?” He has an American accent, odd amongst the Scottish burr he’s accustomed to hear in Glasgow.

Jamie wavers, but Geillis intervenes before he can say the wrong thing. “He’s her fiancé, Dr. Hunter. Jamie Fraser.”

“Very well, Mr. Fraser. Miss Beauchamp is presently in the post-op recovery room. We managed to extract the bullet, and patch up her liver as best we could. The next 48 hours will be critical, as we’ll be watching for infection, but hopefully that won’t be an issue. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me. She was very lucky indeed.” Hunter extends a hand to shake Jamie’s, and he feels a small weight lift off his shoulders.

“Can I see her?”

“We’ll make sure to let you know when she’s in a room. She’ll be sleeping most of the time. And yes, Inspector Grey, I’ll appraise your team when she is in fit condition to talk to you,” Hunter adds, anticipating the officer’s comment.

With a grateful handshake, Jamie watches Dr. Hunter walk away. He drops onto the vinyl couch like a stone, his face in his hands, as the storm within finally gives way to racking sobs.

Alive. Claire’s alive.

X-x-X

Claire is aware of her body before anything else. A dull, throbbing ache laces her right side, and it feels rigid. Bandages, her mind thinks fuzzily. Why am I bandaged?

Her eyes still closed, she tries wiggling her toes. Still there. The feeling traverses up her legs, avoiding her abdomen which she instinctively knows will hurt like bloody hell, and then a fluttering of her fingers. She finds her left hand entrapped and she panics for a second. At this, she struggles to open her eyes. She blinks at the harsh white lighting above her head.

Claire glances down as she feels a warm wetness, and she realizes it’s Jamie. Jamie is crying, kneeling by her bedside. She wishes she could cradle his face and wipe his tears away, but decides it would hurt too much to move. She settles for speaking, after clearing her throat.

“I’ve decided… not to die.” Claire’s voice is soft and rusty from misuse, but it still startles Jamie. He comes out of his reverie to see that her eyes are open, a luminous gold in her white face.

Jamie doesn’t know what to say to that, so he manages a strangled, “Oh, good.”

“I could have. This is… bloody awful.” She winces as she tries to shift her body, but Jamie stops her. He is afraid to touch her further, for fear of hurting her, but can’t bear not to. He lays a hand as lightly as he can on her cheek, finding it cool. No fever; the IV pumping antibiotics into her via the needle in her right arm seems to be working.

“I know,” he says roughly, recalling the weeks spent in hospital healing from his own wounds. Jamie brings her untethered hand to his lips. Her bones feel frail. She hasn’t even the strength to squeeze his hand.

“But I… wouldn’t do that to you.” Already this small interaction is tiring her, and she is out of breath, but it seems important to let him know, that she is here, and she is still fighting. For herself, and for him.

“Thank ye, Sassenach. Truly.” He pushes himself off the floor with a groan, knees stiff and painful. He drags an uncomfortable-looking chair from the corner of the room and sits, still as close as possible to Claire. She looks him over, notices the dark bruises under his eyes and how his hands shake slightly.

“You haven’t slept or eaten, have you?” she asks critically; Jamie ducks his head and she knows she’s right. Claire is mindful of how much energy each word expends. She wants to remain awake, to drink him in, to just be with him, but knows the road to recovery is just beginning. “It won’t do me any good to have you sick, either. Go eat, please, and then get some rest too.”

“I dinna want to—”

“Stubborn Scot.” Claire sighs, and exhaustion wants to pull her under again. “There’s a couch. I’m sure it pulls out.”

Jamie offers a small smile. “What I want right now, Sassenach—I want verra much to kiss ye.”

“Come here, then.” Afraid to hurt her but even more desperate to feel her lips against his, he brushes his mouth in the gentlest kiss.  

“Do ye need anything, Claire? Shall I call the nurse? Geillis has been around, but ye were still out.” Jamie is anxious to leave her, but understands that he cannot run himself ragged; he would be unable to help her recover and be with her.

“No.” Her eyes are already drifting closed, with a combination of what her body endured and the pain medication. “I just need… you. Go. I’ll be… here.”

With a final peck on the lips, Jamie heads for the door. Even though Claire is sleeping again, he makes her a promise, out loud: “You werena the first lass I kissed, but I swear to ye that ye’ll be the last.”

[leviskokoro]

Can u just imagine the Pomefiore trio + the tweels and Malleus scaring the crap out of Mari’s mother? No child deserves to have a mom or grandmother like that (I’m also looking at Riddle’s mom)

thanks for the ask! I turned this idea into a fic! warnings: implied abuse, fatphobia, colorism, gore

Tick tock...

Tick tock...

Tick tock...

Rows and rows of dolls in gothic dresses were lined up on shelves around each corner of the room; Their lifeless gazes from their beady little eyes were already enough to manifest a gnawing feeling at the woman’s stomach as she explored the room. It was as though they were watching her every movement, orhs following her back. The amount of dust on each piece of antique furniture gave off the impression that this place hasn’t been used in quite some time, as if centuries has passed since its last use. She was told that her daughter should be here but she hasn’t found a single trace of her. 

The room was strange; It was as if it was in an eternal state of abandonment and chilling silence. Not a single noise could be heard, only the ticking of the pendulum clock had prevented her from going mad. 

Why was her daughter here anyway?

“Hey, hey, Jade~” A jolly voice came from the distance; Deep, yet seemed to have such a childlike tone to it. “When’s the show starting? I’m getting bored just waiting” 

Brown irises scanned the area for any sign of other people but found every corner to be vacant, empty. Her eyebrows furrowed and she clutched her purse as she turned her head to different directions.

“I believe in a minute or so. Fufu, I’m excited for the story they’ll tell.” The next voice seemed to speak as if he was merely amused, full of mirth. “I heard they had been able to acquire the Cursed Doll of Nightmares.”

… What? This all sounded so ridiculous. And yet, the way they spoke to each other seemed so eerie in such an environment like this. It didn’t help that their voices seemed to be coming from nowhere. And wherever she went, she always heard them.

“Eeeh? A cursed doll?” 

“Oya? So you haven’t heard of the legends surrounding it.” 

The woman decided to continue looking in different rooms. Right, this was probably just a strange effect of the haunted house for this event. Really一 Her daughter should get better hobbies than play dress up.

“The legend is actually quite recent but it’s spread to be infamous to the entirety of Twisted Wonderland. The story goes like this: There was once a young man grieving because his previous wife died. He met a young woman and fell madly in love with her, so much so that he turned her and his son into marionette dolls so that they can never leave his side like his wife did. But then, a fire consumed his home. The only things that survived were three dolls.” 

“Eheh~ Humans can be so funny. Their stories are so different compared to merfolk.” 

“Fufu, yes. But it’s merely a story.” 

He was right. Tales like this were only meant to scare children into behaving well. The woman clicked her tongue as her hand gripped the doorknob and opened it. Inside was a theatre with a stage and blood red curtains. There were lined up seats, the cushions oddly enough looked brand new. But the dolls didn’t seem to stop. In fact, there were more all around her and in larger sizes. Their porcelain-like skin seemed to shine in the incredibly dim light of the candles above; So perfect, yet there was such a haunting quality in that near lifelike perfection. They had a similar gaze to the dolls from earlier, seeming to be watching her every move. 

As she approached the stage, the curtains had been drawn to reveal一 The woman’s eyes widened at the familiar sight of her daughter, dressed in such soft pink clothes as if she came from the 19th century. Her eyes scanned over her body from head to toe. It was as though she was an actual doll, sporting porcelain-like skin similar to the rest of the dolls in the theatre, lifeless glassy eyes whose gaze could send chills down anyone’s spines and a vacant smile on her rosy lips. There had been bright red strings attached to her limbs. 

Goodness, it looks like her daughter has gotten fatter. Not only that, but her skin has grown darker一 and uglier.

At her sides stood a boy and a man, both wearing clothes from a similar era. The shorter one had such fragile-looking features; Soft lavender hair and aqua blue eyes like the sea that complimented the childlike stature of the boy. The man was blond with lavender highlights and captivating amethyst eyes that shone. He had a much more mature and refined atmosphere compared to the rest of the dolls. They all looked far more hauntingly perfect among all the dolls in the exhibit. 

But then, a deep yet enigmatically charming voice spoke up一 Did it come from behind the stage? It was difficult to pinpoint exactly. 

“Here we have a tale of a beautiful man and his family, a tale of madness and love~” 

The sound of a piano playing a jolly tune echoed all throughout the theatre, yet that did nothing to ease the strange sense of dread that ate away at her being. It was as if every note had a haunting undertone to it. 

“Cruel Mistress Fate had separated the man and his previous wife,”

“How he grieved every night after her absence,” 

The dolls started moving at those words, the marionette of her daughter and the young boy was pulled to the side, leaving only the blond in a depressing state as he sat down, slumped over. His stiff movements were befitting of a doll as he laid limp and lifeless on the wooden floor. His glassy eyes looked down, vacant and empty. Yet despite this, he still seemed so regal and elegant. 

“Women had done their best to charm such a refined and wealthy man一”

Several dolls much smaller compared to the others were pulled onto the stage, surrounding the man. They danced around him with such fluid movements coming from whoever was pulling at their dark strings from above. 

The woman had seated herself on a soft cushion in front of the stage, feeling like she had no choice but to watch first despite her confusion and unease that made her stomach churn. She didn’t know why but the show seemed to captivate her attention enough to want to see it to the very end. 

“But none had come close,”

The rest of the smaller dolls were pulled away and left him to be in solitude once again. Shadows of the sun and moon cycled over his head, as if to portray the passing of time of him being like this. His son had been controlled to try to pull his father up but it was all in vain when the father refused to move. 

“Many years later, he had come across a woman as beautiful as he.”

The marionette that looked like her daughter was pulled back onto the stage with the red strings that were connected to her limbs. The man’s head was turned to look up at her, then he was pulled to his feet and approached her. 

“With a similar pain yet a heart of gold, she caught his own broken heart in an instant.”

“She revealed that a great many people had harmed her in the past一”

“As well as losing the one closest to her.”

The two dolls circled around each other in a waltz-like dance, the supposed puppeteer had such expert hands to be able to control their every movement.

“They got married soon after and the woman became a wonderful mother to his son.” 

“Ah… Beaute, what a magnificent family~” 

The lavender-haired doll was pulled in, depicting her and him being mother and child. It was as though they were playing with each other. The blond father had joined in soon later. Their movements were lively and joyous despite the eternally still features on their faces. 

But then一

The stage had been set aflame, piercing screams of agony came from the stage. It was as if the dolls had come to life, only to die in a fire only seconds after their fragile-looking bodies were engulfed by bright green flames. It spread throughout the stage, incinerating everything in its wake. Was that blood?

The doctor stood on her feet, body completely alarmed by this as she screeched. She turned around to run but a gasp fell from her lips to see that her exit was blocked by a pair of twins that gazed at her with the most frightening look she’s ever seen, like predators about to pounce on their prey. 

“Wh-Who are you people?!” She cried out, backing away. 

The twins said nothing; Their movements stiff like wood as they approached her. The ribbon-like pieces of fabric swayed as their arms reached out for her. Their toothy grins revealed their razor sharp teeth that glinted threateningly.

“STOP THIS INSTANT!” She tried to yell at them again but to no avail. 

Her heartbeat pounded against her ribcage the closer they got. Was this all just part of the show? Was this all some terrible nightmare? Her mind swarmed with questions as she tried getting away from them. The awful heat coming from every direction as the flames consumed everything with each moment that passed seemed to be proof enough that this was all happening. But she didn’t want to believe it. This couldn’t be happening. Why would God let such a thing happen to her when she’s done nothing wrong?

“Ara, is this that cruel woman you spoke of, dear?” A new voice entered the scene; cold like ice, a heavy contrast to the heat of the flames. 

What…?

“She’s the one who hurt you all those years?” Another one came, seeming to be delicate and yet had a bit of an underlying country accent.

But she’s never done anything wrong!

A dark feminine chuckle could be heard behind her. Her head whipped behind her and her eyes were met with a sight that was horrifying enough to make her heart lurch up to her throat, like her very soul was being ripped from her body. 

“Hello, mother.”

It was her daughter and the two other dolls, bloodied up and walking towards her. Their skin looked to have such severe burn marks and the flesh seemed to be melting off their bodies, going deep enough that parts of their bones were exposed. Tattered clothing with ashes sticking to it. The blood that dripped from their bodies stained the brown carpeting a striking crimson. 

“Remember when you used to be so proud of how much you hurt me with the belt?”

Her voice sent shivers down her spine at the very sound of it, a cruel bite to it. It was as though there were five of her voices layered on top of each other to create an echoing effect. Their gazes were locked, the crazed glint in her eye pierced through her soul as she tilted her head to the side. 

“Now it’s my turn.”

The mother screeched when her daughter lunged at her all of a sudden with lightning fast speed. Her legs moved before she could even think, sprinting as fast as she could towards the nearest emergency exit, leaving everyone in the fire. 

In the blink of an eye, the theatre was cleaned up and it was as though not a single spark of flame had touched it. Footsteps echoed against the floor as a new figure entered the scene. A smirk pulled at his lips at the sight of the groups’ victorious expressions. Glimmering green eyes gazed at his friend, who seemed to be in especially good spirits. She looked up and her soft brown irises lit up at the sight of him, like the sun rising. 

He had remembered his conversation with her earlier. 

“I’ll make sure that she gets the fright of her life.” Malleus held a serious tone in his voice, with sadistic undertones in it. All he wanted was for his friend to enjoy a Halloween in Twisted Wonderland for the first time. The magicam monsters were already troublesome enough for her and Grim to deal with, but then her mother had to show up. The discomfort in her eyes doubled when she realised that her mother somehow followed her into Twisted Wonderland. “Consider it a gift for being in my good graces.” 

She sighed and shook her head, soft brown locks swaying lightly in the motion. Resolve burned in those milk chocolate irises as she turned her gaze to him. 

“Actually, I’d like to deal with her myself.” A mischievous smile graced her lips, one that he was unfamiliar with. She had always presented herself with such a delicate demure disposition, but he wasn’t so naive as to think she was fragile. “But I’d appreciate some assistance from you. I’ve made a good plan and it will require your specialty.” 

Malleus returned the smirk, interested in what she had to say. “Oya? And what could that possibly be?” 

“First, I’ll need to ask Vil and the others for some help as well.” 

The gleam in her eyes turned sadistic. 

“We’re going to put on the show of a lifetime.”

Sure, Malleus was fully aware that the deep wounds inflicted onto her by that woman would take much more than that to heal, it may take many years even. But seeing that satisfied smile on her face brought warmth to his cold heart. Her radiance as she chatted with everyone, thanking them for their assistance with making the show a success, was like the sun that rose during the dawn; A hope for a better tomorrow. 

A whisper flowed out from his lips.

“May your journey to healing be fruitful, child of man.” 

[spoiler1001]

Heartbeats were a strange feeling, if one was aware of them. Lucien-no that wasn't right- felt his pulse from his scar. He opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by old friends. They looked at him with bright eyes, with Cree being the only exception. She looked at the tiefling with sharp eyes. It was dark, he couldn't tell the time. But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, nobody looked happy to see him. 

"You have a friend. Said this was his fault. What should we do with him?" Cree spoke in a low tone. There were quiet sounds of suppressed sobs and soft gasps. It sounded like-

The tiefling turned around and the pulse beating against his scar froze.

Caleb looked awful. His skin was pale, blue veins showing through and his lips blue. His hair was matted and muddy. He was shivering from the cold and shaking from hunger. His clothes were bloodied and he had bruises on his face. The bandages were dangling off of his arms, stained red. Lucien practically could sense the infection growing. He sat in front of the grave on his knees, clutching his clothes to his body. It was at this point that the rain and cold made itself known to the Nonagon, making his hair and red, torn clothes stickbto him like a second skin. Caleb was soaking wet, rain making his clothes even worse for the situation. A small puddle of reddish mud built beneath him.  

"What happened to him." The tone was harsh, maybe too much so but the wizard was important to him 

Caleb flinched at the sound of his voice. Yes, the voice was too harsh. The Nonagon kneeled next to him. Two fingers were placed under his chin and Caleb let his eyes meet- Molly? Mollymauk fit for the moment, right now. Caleb took a shaking breath. He looked even worse up close. There were dark bags under his eyes. Some of it bruising, some from exhaustion. Green stains colored his skin, matching the grass around the grave. 

"What happened to him?" Mollymauk repeated. "He travels in a group." Unease filled his mind. Were they-

"I left. Someone had to- after everyone was saved and Lorenzo killed- someone had to keep watch in case-" Caleb rocked back and forth. "It's just me." Ok so as far as he knew, they were alive. Maybe Cree can scry on them later, but that's not important right now. 

"And the bruises?" Molly let his hands grab Caleb's shoulders. There was dried- something- it was nearly impossible to see what it was without light,  but it ran down the part of his neck behind his ear, and onto his back.

"Someone tried to grab your coat." Caleb looked away, towards Cree. Lucien stood up. "Find us the nearest Inn with a hot bath. Take him with us." 

"As a prisoner?" Cree asked, almost happy at the thought. 

Molly hid his frown at the thought. "This man is loyal. He comes with us as a friend. I will make anyone answer for any injuries."

"As the Nonagon wishes." Cree sighed and roughly brought Caleb to his feet. Not healing him, Lucien noticed. He was tired. Coming back to life was...unpleasant. He was tired. His soul felt like it was floating through the air. He needed a nap- or a drink. Getting out of the rain would help. It was starting to sting. 

"Bring the coat." Molly added. Cree openly scowled. Caleb wobbled towards him. There was a horse and cart. Molly helped Caleb into the cart and climbed in. 

"Is it you?" Caleb whispered. The hope and wonder in his voice was heartbreaking. Molly wanted to bundle him up and tell him it was ok. 

"When it's just us? Yes I'm me. I'm Molly, otherwise I'm Lucien." Molly nodded. Caleb let tears fall from his cheeks, leaving streaks in the mud on his face. Molly opened his arms and Caleb buried his face into the crook of Molly's neck. Molly purred and hummed. 

"I'm sorry you died." Caleb whispered. 

"Just...there's time for that later." Molly promised. "Thank you for staying."

Caleb responded by whispering something into Molly's chest. Molly purred louder and Caleb drifted off to sleep.

Molly placed a hand on the back of Caleb's neck, feeling him breathe.  Caleb's hair had grown out well past his shoulders. It would look so nice washed and brushed out. 

"Nonagon, is it wise to bring along someone that claimed responsibility for-" Cree spoke up, climbing into the cart that was now moving. 

"I made my own choices, both when I died and now. The fact that he stayed says more about his character than me falling. I think such kindness should be returned." It felt weird to Molly, speaking so formally, but he had memories of Lucien again. Had the memories and habits. Even his accent was thicker. "I need to recover my strength in these coming days then we make our way north." 

"Finish what we started?" Cree asked hopefully.

Molly frowned. It would take a lot for that trip. "Yes." 

The Tombtakers found a nice inn rather easily. They rented three rooms to rest. 

Molly settled into a lush room with the mattress being a giant pillow. There the actual pillows were wonderful for heads with horns while the mattress enveloped him. The blankets were silk and felt wonderful against his skin. The walls had beautiful murals of the gods that was allowed in the kitchen. The platinum dragon danced on the ceiling, seeming to sparkle against the candle lights.

There was a door to the side, a bath that could fit five. The wash room was just as painted but with murals of the moonweaver and wildmother hidden in a mural of fields lit by a full moon. Molly stretched out on the bed. Caleb laid next to him, absolutely filthy but solid enough to make Molly want to grab onto him and never let go. His eyes were moving quickly under his eyelids.

Molly let his hand rise, becoming even with Caleb's cheek, but pulled away at the last second, letting it come to rest in the area between them. Caleb didn't let his face change but raised his hand, resting it over Molly's. 

Molly hummed and let sleep overtake him. 

----------------

Molly woke up to an empty bed. He lifted his head to look around. Cree sat in a nearby chair, crossleged. There was a familiar orange cat sleeping by his head.

"Your companion is washing. It would be unsightly for one to travel with you to be so…" Cree let her words die out. "How are you feeling?" 

Molly felt worse than before but he felt more alive than how he felt when he immediately woke up. Mud was still all over him but he could wait for his turn. 

"And the coat?" 

"We have it, but you don't expect to wear it." Cree huffed. 

"It would be nice to keep for sentimental value." Molly smiled, not mentioning that if someone were to peak in from his old friends, they have something to look on from. 

Took a step out into the main room, dressed in nice looking travel clothes. His hair was tied back and brushed while still looking a bit damp. 

He wore an off-white shirt, the sleeve pulled up to see dark gray cloth wrappings around his forearms. And black pants. Only the shoes were the same, but they were made for travel. Molly took a moment before looking up at Caleb's face. Oh. He was shaved. Molly had to pull his eyes away. "I need to sleep for one more day, but afterwards we can move out." Molly stood up. 

"If that is what you want." Cree sighed and walked out of the room. Molly looked at Caleb. After she left he physically relaxed. 

"You look better." Molly hummed. 

"Lucien, I do not think she likes me." Caleb spoke carefully. 

Molly frowned. "So what? I do. And you are clever." 

"She's worried about me outranking her." Caleb raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't exactly at my best last night."

"You were more composed than most would be. We'll see how traveling together goes." Molly hummed, patting Caleb on the chest. Caleb took a step back, letting Molly into the bath. 

The door remained open as Molly took his bath. 

"Talk to me. I need….I don't know. Just-" Molly sighed. 

"What do you wish to discuss?" Caleb's voice was even. 

"What happened after-" 

"I killed Lorenzo. We saved the others, we came here, dealt with the gentleman. Someone in the group told Cree, but I couldn't be with them anymore. There's a new cleric with them." 

Molly sighed. "Did you leave because of the new cleric."

"No. Caduceus is wonderful. Good for them. It's just that, years ago, I had a teacher that said I was not good enough to be a leader and had to be built up. He...asked a lot of me. When you died…" Caleb let out a self loathing laugh, the sound raspy. "I do not handle death well."

"I made a choice to use too much magic. Not you, not anyone else." Molly countered. "And Yasha?" 

"She left after mourning at your grave." Caleb shrugged. 

"Maybe she'll find us on our way." Molly smiled. 

The water was warm. Like flames reheated it before he went into it. It helped with the stiffness of his joints. His muscles relaxed as it became easier to wash the caked mud off of himself. "I know Cree did something to you." Molly said quietly. 

"Do not fault her for it. She and I had a disagreement about the people who had the privilege to see you awaking." Caleb froze. 

"How bad was the disagreement?" Molly sat up. 

"Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises." Caleb shrugged nonchalantly. 

"I don't like that. She has no right to say anything given how they abandoned my grave but you returned." Molly stood up and looked around, seeing fresh clothes waiting for him, with a deep red coat. 

"I'll be sure to pass along your discontent." Caleb said, almost to himself. 

"I can tell her myself but- Caleb…." Molly took a look at Caleb. There was a small trail of blood from the back of his head, behind his ear. Molly grabbed a bit of his red coat and held it to the wound. "Let me guess- Cree?" 

Caleb's silence said everything.

"You shouldn't let her walk over you. This can't continue." Molly sighed. 

"There were more pressing concerns." Caleb whispered. "I'll get food." He stood up, leaving his notebook open to show about a dozen different spells. Molly recognized a couple of them but they were personalized. None of these spells were anywhere else. Clever wizard. Molly's Lucien instincts told him to protect him because of the advantage he brought. Molly's Mollymauk instinct told him to protect him because of friendship and- nope not going there. 

"He's an assassin, you know. Those scars on his arms are the same as Volstruckers." Cree whispered. Slipping through the door as Molly closed the book. 

"The what?" Molly didn't care about what she was saying. 

"Cerberus Assembly assassins. They hunt traitors. Will kill even their own family. The Gentleman deals with the Assembly from time to time." Cree shrugged. 

"That's none of my business." Molly shrugged. Mentally he was trying to will her out of the room. 

"It should be. What if he's with the woman who-" 

"I doubt that very much." Molly hissed, shutting her up. "Thank you for your concern but issues regarding Caleb are mine and mine alone." So fuck off. Molly added mentally.

"If that's what you want." Cree sighed with exacerbation. 

"Yes it is. Leave him be unless I say otherwise." Molly swallowed his anger. He knew that Caleb had a past but he didn't want to know. It didn't affect him. Cree just shook her head and stepped out of the room. 

Caleb came back with a plate full of meat and potatoes. Molly perked up a bit and noticed that Caleb had Molly's coat in his arms. The necklace he always wore showed through his shirt. Caleb handed the plate over to Molly. Caleb sat on the bed and looked at the coat.

"The walls are rather thin here. One could hear a lot of conversations." Caleb hummed. 

"You heard Cree." Molly facepalmed. "I'm sorry-"

"She's right. I was trained for that line of work, but...I dropped out of school." Caleb took a deep breath. "'Caleb Widogast' isn't even my birth name." 

"What do you want me to call you?" 

"Caleb." 

Molly gave him a smile. "Then Caleb is all that matters. Now eat, we need to gain our strength again." 

--------------

Caleb wore the coat. It was colorfully loud and sparkled delightfully, and Caleb wore it, matching it with the necklace he never took off.  Molly loved it. Magic morphed around Caleb. Caleb had written a few spells of his own. There was a tent, a giant cat's claw, a tower. The tower was his favorite. It was warm, colorful.

There were separate rooms for the Tombtakers. 

There were intended separate rooms for each of the Tombtakers. 

Molly liked to sleep in Caleb's room. Molly was on his way to bed when he heard a conversation. 

--------------

Caleb had braided his hair as he was ready for bed. Cree was sitting on the couch in his room. She was not invited into the room but she was there. Practically purring. 

"I'm just saying that the rest of us have a bond. The Nonagon can use us whenever he needs. The rest of us are able to be communication tools for him. It's wonderful. It's like never being alone. It's like letting something devine overtake you." 

That made his stomach drop. 

"That sounds wonderful to those that enjoy it, but I will have to refuse." Caleb smiled politely, but opened the door for her. 

"It is what it is, Bren." Cree shrugged. Caleb froze, causing the lights to flicker in the tower for a moment before his smile dropped. 

"I don't know what your deal is Cree, but stop. I'm not stealing your precious Nonagon from you. I am his friend." Caleb glared. "I have no intentions of betraying him." 

"I know. I just like knowing who I travel with." Cree smiled and went on her merry way.

Caleb just shook his head.

"She still bothering you?" Molly asked, slipping into the room. 

"She's just showing that she's watching me. It's nothing." Caleb shrugged. 

"She said a name that bothered you." Molly pointed out. "I'm assuming it is your birth name." 

"Title, really. It is no matter. How close are we to Aeor?" Caleb smiled. 

"A few days' travel, normally. We do have to stop. I have to go...even a score. A Cerberus Assembly member, she hallowed me out for my magic. She has to die." Molly hugged himself. 

"Any way I can help?" Caleb looked Molly in the eyes. 

"Stay safe. Stay here in the tower. She's hired some old friends." Molly sat on the bed. 

"Who?" 

"The Mighty Nein." 

Caleb raised an eyebrow. 

"They don't look happy about it either." Molly laughed. "Yasha is with them. They look good." 

"Do you want me to prepare warm beds?" Caleb rubbed his hands together. 

"You are a genius." Molly laughed. 

"It will be nice to see them again." Caleb sat down next to him. 

"When this is over, do you think that they'd let me back in?" Caleb asked. 

"You want to leave?" Molly asked.

"I'm worried about...Cree is worried that I might prove a distraction to you in regards to this team. I might agree, so after this, I might return to them." Caleb shrugged. 

"If you go, I'm going. Fuck the Tombtakers." Molly bumped his forehead against Caleb's arm. "They don't get me. You do." 

"I've always seen kinship with you, Mollymauk. I was always worried that you didn't see me as such an equal." Caleb ran his thumb over the decorated horns. 

"I've always saw you as an equal. I am lucky to have met you." Molly slowly giving Caleb time to back out, let his tail wrap around Caleb's leg, right above the knee. Caleb took a deep breath, let his lips turn up, and those smirking lips pressed against Molly's. 

Molly let out a chirp, followed by a high pitched ecstatic noise. Molly pulled Caleb closer and only let him go when he needed to breathe.

"Charmer." Molly smirked. 

"Rest, Mollymauk. We have a big day tomorrow."

-------------

The next day was hard. Killing Vess was easy. Too easy. Maybe the Mighty Nein wanted her dead. Molly danced in the cold, waiting for the Mighty Nein to greet them, his black swords stood out against the snow.

"We never did go waltzing." Molly mused. Caleb, still wearing the large colorful coat, but this time layered with cotton to keep warm. He smiled warmly. 

"I can work on adding a ballroom to the tower." Caleb promised. "We can talk about it later." 

"Promises, Promises." Molly giggled. 

"You two are worse than Yasha and Beau." A familiarly friendly voice rang out. 

Caleb and Molly smiled at Jester. There was a big hug with tears in everyone's eyes. Yasha pulled Mollymauk into a bone crushing hug. Caleb watched the hug as a small green goblin jumped into Caleb's arms.

"Caleb! We thought you were dead." Nott yelled.

"I'm alright. Let me set up camp and we can talk." Caleb smiled. 

"Just like that?" Fjord asked in disbelief. Both Caleb and Molly blinked in surprise. That voice was new. Neither Molly nor Caleb had any ground to comment, but it was new.

"We are not enemies." Caleb promised. "I missed all of you."

"We missed you too." Jester smiled. "You look good." 

"So do all of you." Caleb grinned and summoned the door to the towers. "Welcome to my tower. I hope it is to your liking." 

[pedros-mustache-main]

when your love reaches me (i)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 9.3k+ (i am abundantly sorry for how long this is. curl up with a snack, my dudes)

warnings: required: total suspension of disbelief. also: screwed up historical timeline, slight angst, language, innuendo, suggestive moments and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smut (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: hi! a day late, but i wanted to respect the ‘out of time’ epilogue which came out yesterday as this is very much inspired by @perriwiinkle​ and her lovely fic. this is my take on a similar theme, only with brian and just three (3) parts. thank you to @deacyblues​ for your beta-ing help on this mini-series; i heart emoji you. anyways, let me know what you think. enjoy! xoxo!

in this chapter: something—be it fate or otherwise—transplants you to a place you do not belong.

it’s raining hard, thunder and lightning battling for dominance in the gray sky. you clutch your textbook to your chest and duck your head against the onslaught, feet nearly slipping on the flat stones of the sidewalk. london weather has always been unpredictable, but you’ve never seen a storm like this, never been caught in one either. it’s too far to make it back to your flat without catching pneumonia and the library feels just as far away so you push forward. the sky turns bright white followed closely by a boom of thunder, and you squeak, picking up your pace. 

across a muddy patch of grass stands union concert hall. it’s likely to be locked on a saturday evening, but it’s worth a shot. you squelch through the mud and run the remaining hundred yards to old brick building. your hands, wet with rain, scrabble against the brass doorknob, which, to your surprise, turns with ease. muttering a prayer of thanks, you wrench the door open as a gust of wind turns the rain sideways. you slip inside, breathing heavy, and fall against the door as it shuts.

silence. blessed silence.

you heave a sigh of relief and run a hand through your drenched hair.

the concert hall is empty, but the lonesome rows of chairs and desolate stage come as no surprise. with fall break around the corner, imperal college is largely devoid of students on the weekends. there’s parties to be had, memories to be made; no one wants to be cooped up on campus. you, however, don’t have that luxury. there’s too much to be done in too tight a span of time.

as the rain pounds the roof and slides down the windows, you take a seat at the back of the hall. the plastic chair creaks underneath your weight, and each time you move a soggy squish echoes about the room. your textbook—creating exhibitions: collaborations in the planning, development, and design of innovative experiences—rests open on your lap. the laminated binding curls as it dampens, but you’re soaked to the bone. there’s no avoiding the damage. if you must, you’ll pay the thirty pounds at the end of the semester to turn your rental into a purchase.

if you think about it, it really is quite sad, the way you’re sitting on your own on a saturday night, highlighter clamped between your teeth, eyes scanning the pages of your textbook with far too much interest. if you think about it, you know you should be out with your friends. this morning rachel had tried to convince you to come out after your shift at the museum, but you’d said no—again. you’ve been given a full ride in the masters of science communication program, and you’ll do nothing to jeopardize the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. rachel insists that a simple evening at a local pub is harmless, and you know she’s right, but your answer is always the same: no. it’s easier that way.

you read for awhile, highlighting the text and annotating the margins of your textbook with the thoughts or questions that flit through your mind. as you dry, the legs of your jeans turn stiff, and your hair feels frizzy with humidity. not for the first time, you wish you’d remembered the pink umbrella leaning against the coatrack in your flat.

an hour passes, maybe two. with a heavy sigh, you shut your book and meander through the rows of chairs toward the bathroom. the washroom light flickers a muted yellow when you switch it on, an incessant electronic buzz filling the room. crossing to the counter, you stare at yourself in the mirror. you look atrocious: tired bags under your eyes, streaks of mascara on your cheeks, hair unruly, clothes sodden and weighed down on your body. you’d laugh if it wasn’t so damn depressing. you look like a madwoman, like some sort of victorian nightmare. in an effort to clean yourself up, you splash cold water on your face and scrub the makeup away until your cheeks hurt. you wet your hair, run your fingers through the tangles, and attempt to dry yourself under the hand dryer. 

it’s still raining outside. there’s a single skylight in the bathroom, and when you look up, it’s a funny sensation, watching the rain slam against the window but never hit your face. you smile faintly; there’s just something about being inside when it rains. it’s similar to a warm hug or a—

a crack of lightning breaks you from your reverie. the sound goes straight to your heart, stopping it with the force of its blow. with a gasp, you clamp your hands against your ears, eyes screwed shut, and you’re suddenly six years old again, scared of a simple thunderstorm. white light pours through the skylight, drowning the room in an almost heavenly glow. thunder trips over the heels of the lightning in an effort to make itself known. the thunder is more like a roar, and you swear you can feel the foundation of the building jostle.

then all is quiet. even the sound of the rain on the roof has stopped.

you pull your hands from your ears, breathing heavy, and look around the bathroom. maybe... maybe you should call a cab or an uber. you’d rather not be stuck in the concert hall overnight, and the storm feels eerily close. 

grabbing your bag from the counter, you fumble for your phone in its depths. you come away empty-handed, but you must have left it on your chair alongside your textbook. you pull open the bathroom door and step into a crush of bodies.

your heart stutters in your chest, confusion stealing the air from your lungs.

there’s a crowd of people in the concert hall. it’s hard to move, to breathe, to think. the room is dim, lit only by orange and white lights on the stage. there’s music pounding through the room, and it sounds vaguely familiar, but you’re too stunned and confused to place it. a haze of smoke filters over the heads of onlookers; the air smells like cigarettes and sweat. where had everyone come from? how long had you been in the bathroom? surely not long enough for a band and a crowd and—

a thought strikes you: this is not the union concert hall you were just sat in seeking shelter from a bad storm.

a hand circles your arm, and you startle, head twisting to the left. “you okay, love?” a voice asks. the man is short with warm-toned skin, his hair like a dark halo around his head. he stares at you in earnest, and you’re sure you’ve gone pale.

in lieu of answering, you stumble backwards, back into the bathroom. the subway-tiled walls of moments past have turned a dull green, and the hand dryer has been replaced with a paper-towel dispenser. the linoleum under your shoes is grimy, unwashed and stained. the air is heavy with cigarette smoke thanks to the women lounging around the open stalls, dripping ashes to the floor with a simple flick of the wrist. the scent clings to the inside of your nose, and you blame the tears pricking the corners of your eyes on the smell.

“excuse me,” you mutter, shouldering past a lithe woman with blown-out blonde hair. she gives you a once over, her brow furrowed, before leaving the bathroom.

at the sink, you brace your hands against the edge. the sink feels like cheap plastic, easy enough to rip from the wall. where the sturdy white countertop has gone, you aren’t sure. for the second time in one day, you splash water on your heated face.

“hey. are you okay?”

you look up and meet the doe eyes of a short girl standing behind you. her hair is bobbed at her neck, her eyes lined with a deep purple liner. her appearance is warped by the faded mirror, but you can see the way she’s looking at you, and you don’t blame her. you’re sure you look as crazy as you feel.

you straighten at the sink and shut the water off. “i’m just...” you flounder for a good excuse. your insides feel like mush, and your brain has paused, as if the loading symbol is looping over and over in place of producing any coherent thought. “do you have a phone i could borrow?”

“there’s a payphone around the corner,” she says, her words slow with apprehension. “did something happen out there? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

there’s a pounding in the back of your head, hard and steady, and you rub your temples. “i was studying and then i was here and i don’t really remember the rest.” you pause. “it’s been a long day.”

the girl’s face softens as she smiles. she moves to stand beside you and withdraws a thin tube of lipstick from her clutch. “i know what you mean. i can get pretty bogged down and feel like the time’s flown by and i’ve been asleep the at the wheel, but, god, it’s queen! they started here, you know, in this very concert hall. and now they’re back, just for us! how bloody exciting is that?” as she speaks, her irish accent grows stronger, in tandem with the excitement lighting her face.

you frown, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. “queen? like... the band queen or queen elizabeth?”

she pauses in her lipstick application. “the band queen, silly. are you really that knackered?” with a grin, she puts the lipstick down and takes your shoulders in her hands. “you’re at a queen concert, love. it’s friday, september first, ninteen-seventy-eight. has been all day, ever since you woke up in your jammies.” she laughs, her blunt bob swaying as tilts her head to the side. “you gonna be fine?”

your first thought: no, absolutely not. 

the only answer you can give, punctuated by a weak smile: “yeah. yeah, i’m gonna be all right. thanks.”

the girl puts her makeup away and gives your shoulder a final squeeze. “i think they’ll be finishing soon, so i’m gonna pop back out so i don’t miss it. try and get some rest, yeah? you look like you could use it.”

she exits the bathroom, a song momentarily pouring through the door, and you find yourself alone in the empty room.

before you can stop yourself, you twist on your heel and lunge for the nearest toilet. you vomit, heaving what little remains in your stomach, until there is nothing left to unearth. dropping back against the stall, you duck your head between your knees. 

this is just a fever dream. maybe you got scared during the storm, hit your head, and passed out on the bathroom floor. there’s no way in hell—no way in hell—this is nineteen-seventy-eight. that’s preposterous. and sure, queen might have gotten their start at imperial college—everyone knows that—but that was eons ago. freddie mercury is dead, john deacon is retired, and brian may and roger taylor are well within their seventies. the girl must be mistaken or strung out or high or all of the above.

or maybe you are. you can’t be sure anymore.

your legs tremble beneath you as you stand. if any good has come of this, it’s that you’re dry now—suspiciously so. despite the pale sheen on your face and layer of sweat on your forehead, it’s as if you were never drenched to begin with. your cream pleated trousers have no wrinkles along the back after you spent all afternoon stuffing and unstuffing boxes on the floor. your navy top is void of the stubborn coffee stain you’d gotten this morning as you rushed into the museum ten minutes late. it’s almost as if the day never happened.

it’s almost as if the day—saturday, september fifth, twenty-twenty—is still forty-two years in the future instead of thirty minutes away from ending.

“all right, we’ve got one more for you lovelies tonight! this one’s new, so keep it a secret ‘till the record comes out, okay?”

you turn at the sound of a familiar voice amplified over a loudspeaker.

freddie mercury.

though you’ve never been a huge queen fan, you’re positive anyone with even a passing knowledge of classic rock could hear his voice and pick it out in a lineup.

heart in your throat, you sling your bag over your shoulder and squeeze out the door. the energy in the hall has heightened tenfold since you last stood in the bathroom doorway. perhaps it’s due to the fact that the concert is rapidly drawing to a close and everyone wants to drink in the last moments before it’s all over.

perhaps it’s simply because it’s queen.

as your eyes slide to the stage, you can’t help but feel a giddiness rise in your chest. your throat goes tight, eyes misty, as you weave through the crowd on auto-pilot. you’re drawn to them; who wouldn’t be? the floor shakes beneath your feet as the music surges around you. he’s magnificent—freddie. he commands the crowd with ease, and you feel at home, relaxed, like you’re watching a friend goof around. seeing him there—whole, well, happy—is nothing short of a miracle.

“aren’t they marvelous?” you turn to see the girl from the bathroom. she holds your bicep tight in her fingers. her smile is radiant, her face glowing with unbridled joy. “i’m glad you made it out for this!”

you nod dumbly, swiveling back to drink in the final moments. matthew at the coffee shop you frequent would kill for something like this. you want to text him, to rub it in his face with a good-natured wink, but he hasn’t been born yet, has he? seeing freddie mercury on stage confirms it.

you’re not in twenty-twenty anymore.

the song draws to a close, and you find yourself smiling despite the uncertainty of your current situation. you can’t help but applaud alongside the rest of the audience. someone shouts “encore” but freddie waves him off with a laugh.

“we just did a fucking encore!” he says.

they take their bows—all four of them—and then disappear backstage. a moment passes before the house lights flicker on, and the crowd begins to disperse. trash litters the floor, and the room doesn’t feel as magical as it did seconds before, but you find it hard to breathe nonetheless. try as you might, you can’t tear your eyes away from the stage.

“oh my god, wasn’t that brilliant?” bathroom-girl practically jumps up and down on her ballet-slippered feet. “i’m anna, in case you were wondering,” she says.

you hesitate. there’s too much going on around you, so many things you’ve only read about or seen in pictures: the fashion, the hair, the fucking band. you feel dizzy—dizzy with fear and excitement. it’s like you’re standing in line for a rollercoaster. you know what’s coming: the slow climb up the first hill, anticipation bubbling in your stomach before the first drop, then the madness of letting yourself plummet at incredible speeds. all you can do is laugh, just like you do on the rollercoaster.

“[y/n],” you say between fits of amusement. “sorry! i don’t know what’s gotten into me!” you press a hand to your mouth, shaking your head back and forth.

anna grins. “that was me when the concert first started.” she bends her head toward yours conspiratorially. “i nearly pissed myself when i saw john deacon walk out for the first time.”

your laughter turns to girlish giggles and holding her forearm is all you can do to keep from falling to the floor. you’re drunk, surely. drunk off what, you can’t say, but you’ve felt like this before.

“hey!” anna’s eyes go wide, and you can see the lightbulb turn on above her head. “i saw where they parked their vans. we could go have a look-see!”

your initial reaction is a resounding no. just the thought of standing mere meters away from queen makes you want to break out into hives. you’re sure to say something stupid and embarrassing or screw up some time-continuum-thing. you’ve seen enough doctor who to know not to mess about with time.

oh god, you must be really fucking crazy if this is what you’re life has come to, deciding what the right or wrong move is based on a children’s television show.

yet there’s still a sliver of your heart holding on to the hope that this is all a dream. you could wake up at any moment, still in the concert hall, yes, but where you belong and a soaked mess from the rainstorm. so, even though you know you shouldn’t, even though your heart of hearts tells you that you’re a girl out of place and far away from home, you nod and let anna drag you toward the a side-exit door.

outside, the air is chilly, but it soothes your hot skin. 

standing outside the concert hall is perhaps more strange than standing in it. you know this spot; you walk behind the building every day. if you follow the winding path toward the dormitories and then veer to the left, you’ll eventually reach your flat—or you would if this were some other time. it’s not a terribly long walk, and most of the time, you find it refreshing. but today, with the sun replaced by the moon and the evening air and anna’s nervous energy, you find yourself a mite too cold. the cold settles in your stomach, not on your body, and you catalog the area. the parking lot has been repaved, all the dips and cracks you know so well gone. the tree which overhangs a dumpster in the corner is but a small sapling, and the dumpster is nowhere to be seen. the cold in your belly spreads to your chest, and, for a moment, you forget what it is anna dragged you here for.

but then her fingers grip your wrist tightly, and you remember: queen.

“look,” she whispers. “there they are.”

you follow her eyeline to the gaggle of men descending a ramp propped beneath a set of double-doors. in the thin veil of darkness you inhabit, it’s hard to make out who is who. brian is unmistakable, what with his gangly arms and legs and tilted shoulders. freddie is easy to pick out, too; he walks with a swagger only he can pull off. everyone else is a jumble of faces obscured by the night and a cloud of cigarette smoke. they’re loud, but not rowdy, and it reminds you somewhat of a group of teenage boys out to make trouble.

“let’s go over.” anna steps forward, but you stop her with a hand on her elbow.

“no, we shouldn’t. i’m sure they’ve got security, and we really can’t just waltz up there. besides, what would we say?” you shake your head. “this is close enough, don’t you think?”

“fuck no!” her exclamation startles you, your eyebrows lifting, and she laughs. “this is likely the only time we’ll be able to meet true rockstar royalty. you can stay back if you want to, but i’m gonna go.”

“go where?”

in unison, you turn with anna on the ball of your foot. your movements are slow, hers hurried, but you both come face to face with roger taylor and you both inhale sharply. 

your first thought is foolish: he looks so young. but of course he does. he’s twenty-nine here, not seventy. half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, and his blond hair brushes the collar of his jacket as he goes to remove the cigarette and puff a plume of smoke to the side. he wears sunglasses, despite the late hour, and if you weren’t so bloody unsettled, you’d find him attractive.

anna finds her voice first. she points her thumb over her shoulder. “well, we were gonna go and... that is, we thought we might...” she heaves a sigh, and her smile turns angelic. “you put on a great show tonight.”

roger grins, his eyes fixed on anna. “i thought i saw you in the crowd.” his voice is raspy and high and dripping with innuendo. you all know he did not see anna from behind his drum set, but that doesn’t stop her from pulling her lower lip between her teeth and batting her eyelashes. 

“oy, rog, can we get a move on, please?” 

roger frowns and slips between you and anna, his hand firm on her bicep. he shouts in the general direction of the disembodied voice. “don’t get your fucking knickers in a twist, crystal, jesus!” he rolls his eyes and looks back at anna. “sorry, he’s like a damn mother hen. i didn’t catch your name.”

“anna.” she’s breathless, ready to drip to the floor in a puddle of goo. it’s painfully obvious, and roger seems to like that. his hand rubs an untraceable pattern over her shoulder. 

“and your friend?” he doesn’t look at you when he speaks, just jerks his head in your direction.

you should be offended, but really you feel like crying. an overwhelming homesickness builds in your chest. everyone you know, every place you hold so dear, none of it is as it should be. those fleeting magical moments during the concert are quickly wearing off, and you feel yourself slipping back to the panic you’d fought in the bathroom.

“that’s [y/n].”

“would you gals like to join us for some drinks?” this time roger does look at you, his gaze soft but purposeful. he’s daring you to turn him down.

maybe it’s the homesickness. maybe it’s the idea that you can be anything, anyone, here with few personal repercussions. maybe it’s the haughty glint in roger’s eye. whatever it is, it finally gets you talking.

“lead the way,” you say, your eyebrow raised in silent challenge.

roger’s smirk widens, and he tugs anna against his side with an arm around the waist. “gladly.”

the inside of the tour bus is cramped. you suspected it might be so based on the outside, but you didn’t realize just how tight the quarters would truly be. you’re stiff, sat on a stool between two men with long brown hair and equally long faces. there’s a tremor in your leg, and you itch to steal the cigarette out of the man-on-your-left’s mouth and smoke your anxiety away. 

for anna’s part, she seems at ease, and you envy that. she’s wrapped around roger’s arm, pressed against him on the couch, and in that moment you feel a certain flare of hatred toward her. you’d always been jealous of the girls who could so effortlessly flirt and make a move and get what they want. you never had to the confidence to follow suit. sitting as you are near the back of the bus, crammed between two sullen and tired roadies, you’re reminded of secondary school lunches. a rush of discomfort heats the back of your neck, and you shift on the stool. your movement must disturb to the man next to you because he shifts, too. he leans away, twisting his neck to look at you.

“you good?” the smoke that leaves his parted lips circles around your head, stinging your eyes.

“i wish everyone would stop asking me that,” you mutter. it comes out before you can stop it, and when you realize what you’ve said, you sink down further on your stool. your hand comes to squeeze your forehead. “oh god.”

but the man just laughs. “here.” he hands you an unopened beer. it’s cold to the touch, dripping with sweat. “you look like you could use it.”

you lift it slightly in a sign of thanks before popping the tab and taking a swig. it’s cheap, and that surprises you considering it’s queen, but you drink it anyway. 

“so, who picked you up?”

your eyebrow arches, and you look at the man on your left with a mixture of shock and distain. “no one, thank you. i came on my own accord and i’ll leave in the same way.”

out of the corner of your eye, from his place on a low bench in front of you, you think you see brian turn slightly, his curls swaying with the movement. but he doesn’t face you after all, so it must have been your imagination.

“okay, okay!” the man holds his hands up in surrender, mirth etched along the lines in his face. “sorry!”

you resist the urge to huff, cross your arms, and pout like a child. you pull at your beer instead.

the man nudges you with his elbow. “chris taylor, by the way. crystal.” he points to the man on your right. “that’s ratty—pete.”

pete looks tired enough to fall out of his chair. all he can do is raise his eyebrows in greeting and drop his head back against the wall. 

“i’m [y/n].”

crystal mirrors ratty’s movements and stretches his legs out underneath the card-table. “well, i must admit that you might be one of the most level-headed lasses we’ve had in here—and we’ve had plenty of girls grace this bus.”

you aren’t sure if he’s bragging or simply making conversation, so you ignore the comment and say, “i’ve had a... strange day. it’s a lot to take in.” 

you’re not lying. really, it is a lot to take in. the tour bus is hot and sweaty, but conversation is quiet, like a background hum. it’s not what you thought it would be; nothing is.

“didn’t think you’d end up here?”

you shake your head. “absolutely not.”

crystal smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, the truth in your words humorous to you and you alone.

the bus door opens, and a flurry of sound enters the already-cramped space. crystal sits forward; ratty seems to wake up. at once, the energy is higher. you feel your heart begin to pound against your ribcage. 

freddie enters the bus in all his post-concert glory. you’d been a baby when he died, but now you sit at the back of his tour bus, watching as he laughs and jokes and lives. it makes you want to throw up all over again.

he stands in the center of the bus, hands on his hips, surveying the jumble of roadies and groupies and band members. “well?” the corner of your mouth quirks upward at the sound of his voice; you can’t help it. “have we decided where we’re crashing yet?”

“uh, yeah.” john deacon pipes up from his spot at the front of the bus. you hadn’t noticed him all night, but there he stands, leaning against the driver’s seat, a map in hand. “i think we’re gonna—”

“oh hell, we don’t need that!” roger slaps the map out of john’s hands. it crumples between his fingers, and he all but pulls anna onto his lap. she squeals in delight. “we’ve got our own personal tour guide right here. not to mention brian. he’s got to know his way about.”

“don’t forget [y/n], roger!” anna says, ever the good friend.

no, please. please, for the love of god, forget [y/n].

as one, the tour bus turns to look at you. this time bile does rise in the back of your throat. 

sitting in the back of the bus you can handle. crystal is nice, and simply being in the presence of music royalty is sure to be the peak of the rest of your life—whatever that may look like. but having them all look at you, expectantly, waiting for you to giggle or blush or say something, it’s that too much you told crystal about moments earlier. only this time, it’s so much you feel like your head might explode.

even though it feels like decades, only a few seconds have gone by since everyone began waiting for you to make a peep. so when you look at anna and say, “i’m sure you know better than me,” it doesn’t sound awkward. it sounds like a comment shared between friends. you’re thankful for that, at least.

“okay, fine.” anna claps her hands together. “what are you in the mood for, freddie?”

your eyebrow lifts at her familiarity, and beside you, crystal chuckles behind his hand. god, she’s good. you are... decidedly not.

“anything fabulous. we’ve just had a good show, if i do say so myself, and i want to have some fun before we really have to start working.”

“we are working, fred.” it’s the first thing you’ve heard brian say all evening. you can’t see his face from where you’re sitting, so his voice sounds far away. far away but ever so nice to the ears.

freddie waves his hands dismissively. “you know what i mean.”

“there’s a disco club a few blocks from here,” anna offers. “it’s not garishly disco, but it’s fun.”

there’s a pause before freddie says, “it’s late, so it’ll have to do.” he turns to brian with a grin. “do you think we should call ahead?”

twenty minutes and three phone calls later, you’re walking side-by-side with crystal and ratty, hands twitching at your sides, desperately wishing for the comfort of a pair of pockets. if you’d hazard a guess, you’d say there’s about twenty people headed for the club. you know you should feel happy, exuberant at the chance to party with queen in the 70s, but your head hurts. it really, really hurts, and you haven’t the faintest idea where you’ll spent the night. you have no money, no contacts—nothing but the clothes on your back and the half-empty purse thrown over your shoulder.

“[y/n], where are you from?” ratty asks. his questions is harmless enough, but it breaks your underarms out in an uncomfortable sweat. how can you explain that you’re from here, the very here you’re walking on, without also explaining why you have no idea where the disco club is or where the charming flower stand on the corner has gone? 

you settle on something vague, but passable. “not from around here.” the toe of your shoe kicks at a loose pebble, which skips forward, nearing the long strides of brian. 

“on holiday then?”

“something like that, yeah.” you smile to soften the blow of your unsubstantial answers, and it seems to appease.

you chat with the roadies about inconsequential things—roger’s horrible morning breath, the oil crisis and its impact on the upcoming tour, whether or not pigeons lay eggs. it’s small talk, and you ask more questions than give answers, but it relaxes the ache in your shoulders. you have to remind yourself breathe, drink in what you can while you can. you’ll be okay. 

you have to be.

the group rounds the corner like an amoeba, all uneven edges and uncertain direction. though the hour is rapidly closing in on one a.m., the road is filled. a few of the cars closest to the curb honk and frenzied arms reach out windows to wave as queen passes them by. a girl flashes her tits from the sunroof of her car; roger gives her a thumbs up.

“is it always like this?” you ask.

crystal laughs. “this is nothin’, dove. we’ve got this party planned for october in new orleans, and i am honestly a little bit afraid of what might happen.”

the club comes into view, music ebbing through the open front door. climax is written in bright yellow lightbulbs across the marquee, and someone squeezes anna’s shoulder with a laugh. the line waiting to enter is long, roped off in anticipation of your arrival. those in queue push forward as your party begins to enter. freddie signs a few autographs on the back of receipts. brain scrawls across the crest of someone’s hip with a shit-eating grin on his face.

the resounding thought that you shouldn’t be here flickers through your mind and not for the first time. you ignore it as crystal leads you into the club, a hand tucked in the small of your back. his touch is anything but sexual, and it’s a relief. he likely sees you as a lost puppy, out of her depth, and you might have to lean into that come closing time.

“do you want something to drink?” he shouts over the music and laughter and shouting. 

you nod eagerly. “yes, please!”

weaving through horde of dancers, you find a spot at a cocktail table tucked near a back corner. “boogie wonderland” plays over the louder speakers, and it grates against your headache. the disco ball in the center of the room spins and spins and spins, casting sprinkles of white light over the room. you can’t stop watching it, wondering what it would feel like to wrap yourself around the ball and stay there forever. it probably wouldn’t feel very different from how you feel right now, though your legs are planted firmly on the ground.

“lost in thought?”

you turn, expecting to see crystal with your drink, but you’re met with the incredibly tall form of brian may. you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes he’s standing so close. he must notice because he takes a fraction of a step backwards, his smile widening.

your mouth goes dry, but you manage a shaky nod. “yeah, i guess.” you blink and run your eyes over his face. like roger, he’s painfully young. his curls are dark and full, his skin smooth. he’s handsome, ridiculously so, and despite what some may believe, you think he knows it too.

“you’ve been awful quiet tonight.” he leans against the table with ease. the edge, which reaches your chest, seems to dig into his hip, and he adjusts himself to a more comfortable stance. “most girls are chatty.”

“that’s what crystal said.”

brian chuckles under his breath. “yeah, crystal would know.” he glances over his shoulder then looks back at you. “[y/n], right?”

you’re surprised he remembered or overheard or asked someone before walking over. it’s a simple thing, but just hearing your name grounds you. you don’t care who says it; it reminds you that you are, in fact, still human. and it doesn’t hurt that brian’s voice is like butter. it could put anyone at ease.

for the first time that evening, you feel a lightness in your chest as you smirk and meet his gaze. “brian, right?”

at this, he throws his head back to laugh. his reaction brings a blush to your face, and you duck your head, uncertain where your burst of flirty energy has come from. moments ago, you’d been yearning for the comfort of a good bed and solid night’s rest. now, you could stand in this dark corner and look at brian, hear him laugh, until you fall asleep standing.

when he’s calmed, brian looks at you again. there’s a shift in his stare, one you can’t quite place. “what do you do, [y/n]?”

this time, you decide to answer honestly. “i’m a student, most of the time,” you say. “but eventually i’ll be a curator for museums.”

his eyebrows lift. “a curator? that’s bloody brilliant.” 

you shrug. “i like history and photography and design. it’s kind of the perfect blend.” glancing at your empty hands, you fumble for your words then meet his eyes through the underside of your lashes. “a little birdie told me you’re pretty smart yourself.”

he tilts his head in a noncommittal manner, and you swear you can see a tinge of color rise along the top of his exposed chest. “i suppose.”

“what is your specialty again? besides the guitar, of course.”

“astrophysics with a concentration in interplanetary dust.” before you can make a quip about how much interplanetary dust is actually around to study, he leans close. he has to bend at the waist to lower his mouth to the shell of your ear, and when he speaks, it’s hardly above a whisper. “i’m good at other things, too, you know? besides space and the guitar.”

you draw back slightly, enough look into his eyes. his pupils are dark, overpowering the hazel tint of his irises. if you move an inch, your lips will brush his mouth; you stay still, your eyes darting back and forth between his.

you feel utterly ridiculous for a fraction of a second. he’s brian may, first of all, and you are decidedly not worthy of his attentions. but more than that, this isn’t your home, your time. the thought makes you cringe. 

fucking hell, you don’t belong here.

his long fingers skim your waist. the touch is feather-light, a mere whisper, but it pulls you from your thoughts.

“what are you thinking?” he breathes.

“not much.” it’s a half-truth; you can barely focus on your existential crisis with his fingertips working along your skin as they are. he’s brazen enough to dip underneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch the skin of your hip. you bite your tongue. “wondering where you got the nerve to be so cheeky all of a sudden.”

he withdrawals his hand as if he’s been bitten by fire, cheeks gone red as flame. “sorry, sorry,” he stammers. “i just thought that—”

you know you shouldn’t, that it will only lead to trouble, but you do it anyway.

you grab his wrist and squeeze tight. “i’m only joking, brian.” your grip relaxes as you grin. “come dance with me.”

he huffs a sigh of relief, shaking his head. “damn, you really—”

you interrupt him again, your feet moving on their own accord toward the dance floor. there’s this strange desire in you—a desire to forget—and he seems willing enough to be the one to help you lose track of your troubles. “come dance with me.”

“i don’t really know how,” he admits, though his smile is wide, showing off his teeth.

“me neither! we can look like idiots together.”

somewhat reluctantly, brian follows you onto the dance floor. the music is louder here, the song changed to something you don’t recognize. you weren’t lying when you said dancing wasn’t your forte. in primary school, you’d stepped on the toes of every boy in your music class during the week of mandatory dance lessons. things haven’t changed much since then as you promptly land your foot on brian’s seconds into the song.

you gasp and clamp your hands over your mouth in an effort to obscure your laughter. “shit, i’m sorry!”

“it’s fine!” he yells, straining to make his voice heard over the thrumming of the music. “the clogs, they’re kinda like a protective shell.”

swaying to the beat, your hands slide along his forearms. “oh yeah? what do they protect you from?” 

“klutzy girls like you.”

looking back on the moment years later, you wonder if that’s when you fell in love with him first, on the dance floor, his gangly body unaccustomed to fluid movement. he makes you laugh with his two left feet, and you forget, like you’d hoped, that you do not belong in his arms. as the music ebbs and flows like the tide, you follow it, swinging, swaying, twirling in whatever way you can. you’re sweaty, and he’s sweaty, but you’re both smiling. at some point, you bump into anna who bumps into roger who bumps into freddie and then it’s some version of disco mosh pit, arms and elbows and feet tangled together. you’re laughing—truly laughing for what feels like the first time in ages—and, if you could, you’d stay in that moment forever.

the music slows. you breathe hard, nodding as anna whispers something in your ear about leaving with roger. you aren’t sure if you’ll see her again, aren’t sure if it matters, but you’re thankful for her nonetheless. hers was the first kind face you met, and for that, you can never repay her.

a pair of arms wrap around your middle, pulling you tight against a lean chest, dipping you side to side as the music trills in the background. he mumbles against the skin of your neck. “rog’s leaving with anna.”

you nod and curl your fingernails around his forearms. “i know.”

“is it too presumptuous of me to ask if you’ll do the same? not leave with him, i mean. leave with me.”

you could say something about his proposal being too forward after only a handful of hours together, but you don’t. you feel dizzy from dancing, dizzy with a sense of freedom. normally, you’d never follow a guy home after just meeting. it’s never been in your nature, despite the times you wished it were. tonight, though, you feel like you can do anything.

and if that means letting brian may take you back to his hotel where he’ll likely screw the daylights out of you, so be it.

you twist slightly in his arms, enough to look up at him. you repeat your words of earlier. there’s no hint of a challenge in your voice this time, only desire. “lead the way.” 

by the time you reach the door of brian’s hotel room, you’re fumbling with what buttons on his shirt are actually buttoned. his lips are pressed against yours, and you can feel his smile on your teeth as you struggle to both kick the door open with your heel and work the last two buttons.

“you know,” you mumble against his mouth. “you’d make it a lot easier for me if you just don’t button any of them. you’re halfway there, anyway.”

“so i’ve been told,” he replies, his own fingers pushing the three buttons of your blouse through the small holes.  

the comment gives you pause. your hands still on the warm skin of his shoulders, and you pull back. his eyelids are heavy, his lips parted and plump. you don’t know what it is about his words that make you stop. maybe it’s the idea of him in a similar situation with another girl. of course, you know you aren’t the first concert-goer he’s dragged home; you aren’t that much of an idiot. still, the thought niggles at the back of your brain.

his hands slide away from your shirt to cup your face, and he bends down to kiss you softly. this kiss is different from the ones he’d given you in the lift—hungry and demanding—and in the hallway—earnest and consuming. he’s gentle, painfully so, and tears spring to your eyes. you’ve never been kissed like this, not so tenderly. it makes your heart stop.

“just you and me, [y/n],” he whispers when he breaks the touch. “just you and me.”

you nod and finish pushing the white shirt off his shoulders. 

he doesn’t fuck you. he truly makes love to you, worshipping your body until you both are spent and sweaty, sheets tangled around your limbs. when he collapses beside you with a soft groan, you feel the overwhelming urge to cry. it’s embarrassing, really. but it’s been such a long day, and you’re tired—tired and happy and warm. you throw your arm over your eyes to keep from showing your emotion. you absolutely refuse to be the girl who cries after having sex with brian may.

you feel the bedsheets rustle as he props himself up on his elbow. his fingernail skims along your collarbone. “you’re so... divine.”

you drop your arm to stare at him, heart thumping in your chest. his eyes flick up to meet yours. he smiles and looks at you as if he’s known you his whole life, not seven hours. there’s nothing you can say that will capture how you feel in this moment, so you simply grab him by the neck and pull him down for a bruising kiss. 

later, when you’re drifting off to sleep, one of his sleep shirts swallowing you, his chest against your back, one leg pushed between both of yours, you wonder if you’ll wake up in the morning and find it was all a dream. it certainly would make for a good story once you make it home to your flat. even so, if it isn’t a dream, the part of you that so desperately yearned for home hours earlier is slipping away. 

you could stay here, like this, if he let you. 

shaking your head, you burrow against him. such silly thoughts. even if you have to stay here, out of place, for the rest of your life, this night was a one-time thing. you must know that. so, you’ll cherish his arms around you while you can and commit everything to memory. 

come morning, you find yourself still in nineteen-seventy-eight and deliciously sore. you’re embarrassed to say you smile at the revelation of both situations.

stretching your arms over your head as your eyes flutter open, you groan with your stretch. after your eyes have adjusted to the bright morning light streaming through the open curtains, you look around the room and find brian sitting at the small table in the middle of the kitchenette. he has the hotel phone cradled against his shoulder and ear and looks delightfully sleep-muddled. you slip from bed, uncertain how you should act.

will he send you away now that the night is gone? you wouldn’t blame him. your fingers twist the hem of his shirt as you sway from foot to foot at the base of the bed.

he looks up and waves you over. a good sign, at least.

bare feet padding against the carpet, you cross to his side, but don’t reach out to smooth the unruly curls on his head as you wish you could. the thought crosses your mind that you are painfully in love with him already, and it doesn’t even phase you. it just makes you laugh to yourself.

“what do you want for breakfast?”

you blink. “sorry?”

“breakfast? what do you want?”

“i don’t really care. anything,” you say with a shrug. at his pointed look, you concede with a roll of your eyes. “fine. a waffle.”

he adds a waffle to the order, thanks the person on the other end, then puts the phone down. he’s quick to grab your waist and pull you to his lap, his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck. you giggle and swat his shoulder.

“i thought you wouldn’t be so keen about me come morning,” you admit, keeping your tone playful as you pull back to brush the hair from his face.

his forehead crinkles. “why wouldn’t i be?”

you shrug. “we barely know each other. plus, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n] and you’re brian may. not exactly an obvious match.”

he’s quiet a moment, eyes searching yours, before he says, “what do you think about plato’s allegory of the cave?”

you choke on a laugh. “i’m sorry?”

“you know, plato’s cave—what do you think about it?”

he’s being serious, something that absolutely stuns you into answering honestly. you settle on his knee, arms twisted around his neck, as you consider your response. “well, i mean, i think it’s a good metaphor.” you pause. “it makes me think of people and their cell phones.”

“cell phones?”

shaking your head, you backtrack. “i mean, just technology in general. when it comes to technology, we never really know what we’re getting, do we, usually until it’s too late. i know it wasn’t his intention, but the cave makes me think of that. the way technology can so easily take control and we’re powerless to stop it.”

your words hang in the air for a long while. then he dips forward and claims your mouth with his. you shuffle in his lap, surprised, a soft oh parting your lips. he kisses you with that same hunger you’d felt in the lift the previous evening. when he draws back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“come with me,” he breathes.

you still completely, hands dropping from his neck to his arms. the clock on the desk in the corner ticks, loud and annoying. “what?”

“come with me.” he draws back to run a hand over the hair framing your face. “on tour. we leave next month.”

“you’re insane, brian.”

he shakes his head. “no, i’m not.” his words are resolute, anything but unsure.

“we’ve only just met and i don’t think you know what—”

“i know what i’m saying, [y/n].” his hands move to hold your face. “come with me. i’m crazy about you. say what you will about the timing, but i don’t care. you’re smart and funny and beautiful and i want to get to know you more, but i’m leaving. i’d kill to have you by my side.”

“brian...”

your head is spinning, your throat gone dry. someone knocks on the door in the hall—room service—but he keeps talking.

“it’s north america first, then europe, then asia. it’s long, i know, but you don’t have to stay the whole time. i couldn’t ask you to leave your studies like that. you can leave any time you want.”

“brian,” you say again, this time more forcefully, yet he continues.

“i just think that... after last night... fuck, i really like you, [y/n], and i’d hate to see some other guy swoop in while i’m gone.”

he stops at last, breathing heavy, his wiry frame practically trembling with anxiety. you smooth your hands down his neck and across his shoulders, smiling softly. and maybe you’re just as crazy as he is because you lean in, kiss his lips, and say, “okay, i’ll come with you.”

you don’t think twice. don’t have to, really.

he grins, his fingers squeezing your thighs. “really?”

you nod. “really. but only so long as we can go to a disco every now and again. i think john would like that.”

he laughs and delves his fingers in your hair, kissing you hard. you forget about the breakfast waiting in the hall. it doesn’t matter.

a month and a half later, you’re stood outside the record company’s london office, thumbing through your hastily-acquired, perhaps-not-totally-legal passport. crystal had gotten it for you. there being no record of your birth, you aren’t sure how he managed it, but you don’t ask any questions.

the last month and a half have been a whirlwind, to say the least.

you’ve been, largely, happy. any chance you get is spent by brian’s side, and he seems just as eager to pass his free hours with you. you were able to snag a job at a corner diner to make some money for basic necessities—a change of clothes, for starters—and anna, also invited on the tour, gave you free reign of her pull-out sofa without asking for an explanation. 

but despite spending more time in brian’s hotel room than anna’s living room, and despite the blissed-out evenings and comfortable mornings and long chats and shared moments of quiet, despite everything that makes you happy here, you still know it’s not right. it’s not where you belong.

so as you’re standing outside the record company, heavy suitcases at your feet, roadies and groupies alike milling about, you can’t help but feel on edge. it’s that same feeling you had the first night you arrived: your heart is in your throat, your chest tight. 

maybe it’s the clothes: the tight, flared jeans, white prairie blouse, chunky tan heels. it’s cute, but it’s not you. not yet, anyway.

maybe it’s the hair: you’d had to get it cut earlier in the month, anna dragging you to a salon after claiming your hair was too dowdy. when you look in the mirror now, you feel like farrah fawcett, and that’s not totally bad, but it’s taken some getting used to.

maybe it’s the lack of technology: you’re so used to your phone being attached to your palm, or your car keys jingling in your purse, or your earbuds falling out of said purse at inopportune times. now, you just have a bag with a book in it and a few pieces of really uncomfortable makeup. 

all of it serves as a reminder that this is not home.

“ready to go?”

you look up from your passport and squint as the sun hits your eyes. brian stands in front of you, and he moves to block the sunlight. you laugh. “you’re like my own personal sunblocker.” 

“it’s a gift and a curse.” dropping a duffle bag, he bends to unzip it and pull out a box wrapped in plain brown paper. “here, i got you something.”

you frown. “brian, that’s not necessary.”

he pushes the box toward you. “just hush and take it.”

with a sigh, you take the box from his hands. over your shoulder, gerry stickells, tour manager, calls for everyone to load the bus with their belongings. the flight to dallas doesn’t leave for several hours, but he likes to be punctual, and the band plus thirty-odd crew and three or four extra girls makes for a hard group to wrangle at once. you don’t envy him his job.

brian leans a little closer, dropping his voice as he watches gerry herd stragglers toward the bus doors. “open it before he comes to shout at us.”

“fine, but you still shouldn’t have gotten me anything.” 

you rip the paper from the box then slide your nail under the edge. pushing back the cardboard folds, you find a camera nestled amongst sleeves of tissue paper. it’s a small camera, the name canon etched along the silver rim. a thin leather strap is curled around the black casing. 

“brian,” you breathe. you meet his eyes, which shine and sparkle and send a thrill to your chest. “this is too much.”

“when we met you said you liked photography. i figured there might be things you’d like to take pictures of while we’re gone.”

cradling the box against your chest, you rise to your toes to press a firm kiss to his mouth. your fingers wind in the hair at the back of his neck, and his hands come to rest on your sides. as has become custom, you feel his smile on your mouth.

“does that mean you like it?” he murmurs. 

drawing back, you nod. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide. “yes, of course! thank you!”

gerry’s voice interrupts brian’s response, and you turn to see him, red in the face, pointing to the running vehicle. “hey, you can do that on the bus! get a move on!”

by the time you find your seat on the bus, the tour is already running behind schedule. gerry blames brian, who only shrugs in apology. there’s a brief speech of general safety and schedule from gerry then one of excitement and giddiness from freddie. then the bus rolls out of the parking lot.

you’re nestled on brian’s lap, his arms around your stomach, a game of scrabble on the table in front of you. to your right, john pulls at a cigarette.

“fred, we haven’t even left the country. i don’t want to be sick of this game before tomorrow.”

freddie sticks his tongue out. he places a letter square down and rubs his hands together. “ha! that’s... sixteen points. deaky, write it down!”

brian shifts to glance over your shoulder. “no, that’s not a word, fred.”

“of course it is!” he points to you. “[y/n], please tell him it’s a word.”

instead, you smile and take a picture of him, consternation on his face, finger pointed in the direction of the camera. he groans and rolls his eyes, dropping back against his chair. brian snuggles you close, his breath ghosting over your neck. 

as the bus heads for the airport and the game of scrabble continues, crystal leaning over your seat to add his two-cents, you lean back and sigh. there’s a warmth in your chest, in your heart, that you haven’t felt in a long time. you intertwine your fingers with brian’s and squeeze his knuckles.

maybe... maybe this where you belong after all.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay​ @grigorlee​ @teenagepeterpan​

[junie-bugg]

The Heartrender - Chapter One: Ashes

Hey everyone! Here’s my latest Enemies to Lovers Everlark fic. It’s a fantasy AU inspired by Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows duology, more specifically Nina Zenik and Matthias Helvar. You don’t need to have read Six of Crows to understand this story since I took ideas from Bardugo’s world and then made it my own. It doesn’t take place in the Grishaverse but is heavily influenced by it. I came up with countries, parts of a new language, and backstories for my witch!Katniss and witch-hunter!Peeta. 

All four chapters have been written and I plan on uploading every Friday:)

You can read here on Tumblr or here on AO3.

Rating: Explicit

Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content

Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark

Tags: Enemies to Lovers, witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta, AU - Shipwrecked, AU - Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Furs and Fires, Angst and Fluff and Smut, sexually experienced Katniss, virgin Peeta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, Laughter During Sex, Blood and Injury, Imprisonment, Peeta has some prejudices to work out, Peeta also has an accent, Inspired by Six of Crows

Summary: 

He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.

After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Chapter One: Ashes

Peeta had imagined his death many times. A slit throat or an ax in the chest. Perhaps run through with a sword and thrown from a cliff. A warrior’s death, a man’s death, as was expected of him in his service to Sjorkden. Never did he think he’d pass bloodlessly and without a foe to fight. Yet here he was.

Drowning.

The frigid water wrapped around his body like a salt casing, water-logging his shoes and pulling at the cloth of his uniform. He imagined clammy hands latching onto his limbs, dragging him down, down, down. In the harrowing moments before he ran out of air, he watched dreamy streams of moonlight filter towards the black bottoming out of oblivion that was the ocean floor. Below him gaped miles and miles of seawater, and he would be lost to it.

He prepared himself for what was to come, slowly counting down the seconds to when he would snort salt water into his lungs and end it. No use in prolonging the inevitable, though his dreams lay like air pockets in his stomach, lifting him to hope there was still time for him to change things. To achieve something with the life he would have had if not for this stroke of bad luck.

Water pressed at his lips like an unwelcome guest. He was truly out of air now and the suffocating vacuum in his chest was enough to burst him apart from the inside out. The tips of his fingers began to tingle painfully, oxygen deprivation or the effects of cold, he couldn’t tell.

His last thoughts before he lost consciousness were of the countdown to drowning himself.

Three… two…

And then nothing.

X

Peeta awoke to an embrace. Thin arms twined about his ribcage, hoisting him above the frothy crests of waves.

His people believed in Gratka, the valley of heaven, the holy place of worshippers, warriors, and the most pious of women. A divine world spun from light and cloud, flowing with rivers of honey wine and heavy with the scent of eternal orchards. Peeta was not sure if he had been worthy of Gratka, but surely the chasms of hell would have been hotter than this.

He jerked his head about, trying to get his bearings back. His lips dripped with saltwater and his lungs burned with every ragged inhale.

He and his companion were bobbing on the frigid waves. The sky wheeling above was full of black, ominous storm clouds and the ship, The Bloody Rose, was on fire.

He hadn’t meant to, but he must have let out a cry because suddenly the arms tightened around him and a pair of lips pressed against his ear.

“You can’t save them. Just help me swim.” Then a strangled grunt and a: “Gods, you’re heavy. What do they feed you? Horses?” The words were choked, spoken in the voice of someone who had swallowed too much seawater and was struggling against the current. She spoke in Krellian, a sharp language of hissing consonants and hard breaks, only punctuated by the occasional swooping vowel. He twisted to face her, his lip curling in disgust when he saw those flashing silver eyes.

The witch.

How had she gotten out of her cell?

Her eyes bulged in panic as he kicked away, ripping himself from the circle of her arms.

“No!” she screamed as she grabbed at him, but without her there to buoy him, his head quickly slipped beneath the waves once more. His arms felt sluggish and he realized with a paralyzing rush of cold that she had been keeping his blood warm with her magic.

He struggled to break the surface, coughing up a mouthful of seawater and thrashing about as he tried to find her once more in the dark. “Witch?” he sputtered, ashamed of the sharp edge of fear in his voice. They reached out for one another, barely holding on by their fingertips as a wave crashed overhead, but then it passed and they were righted once more. He didn’t try to get away this time, afraid of his dipping heart rate and the hazy rush of dizziness that quickly abated with her touch. He didn’t feel warm, but the numb ache in his limbs lessened. He pulled her to his chest, locking her body within his arms like a vice.

“We can make it to shore, but I need you to kick. I can’t swim and keep both our hearts beating.”

He blinked the water from his stinging eyes, already exhausted.

She pressed the back of her head into his shoulder in frustration. “Jųlaik, ” she begged.

Please.

He grunted in reply and then started swimming. In return, she kept their hearts beating despite the cold. They weren’t sure which way the shore was. For all they knew, Peeta could be bringing them further out to sea, but with every passing minute the blazing ship they’d escaped from grew smaller and smaller until it collapsed in on itself, a charred heap dipping below the waves.

Not only had Peeta’s brothers in arms been on that ship, but Peeta’s future had been on that ship. Seventeen witches, four of which he had captured and that he could claim, all dead, except for one.

In his service as a witcher, he had brought forty-six witches to court and he had witnessed them all, his bounties, burn at the stake. The sweet stink of smoke and the way that charred flesh falls away from bone were all too familiar. This was his country’s way. This was justice. Four more would have won him his freedom, his manhood, his honor. Four more witches and he would have held the world in his palm like a flowering bud ready for plucking. All the blood and sweat and sleepless nights spent scouring the wastelands of countries far from home would have been worth it.

Hours passed. The storm clouds released their last torrents of icy rain and then cleared to reveal a bright purple smattering of stars above, carving their ancient celestial paths across the sky. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the sloshing of waves. Peeta’s legs felt as if they were going to fall off, both burning from the physical exertion and freezing in the arctic water. His nerves didn’t know what sensation to succumb to, retreating into numbness. He felt as if he were kicking around two logs.

The witch hadn’t spoken since the ship disappeared, but Peeta could tell by the way she was gritting her teeth that it was taking everything in her to keep them from freezing to death. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The witch and the witch hunter. Not a pair destined for groundbreaking teamwork.

So why had she saved him?

Dawn peeked over the horizon, pulling it’s smoldering pinks and oranges upwards until the stars faded and the moon was just a paling ghost of its nighttime brilliance.

“There,” the witch whispered through chattering teeth, her voice weak with exhaustion. Peeta turned his head to see what she had gestured to.

A coastline with tall cliffs crusted in ice and snow, and there at the shore, a black stretch of beach. Peeta swam on against the surf, the waves pushing them back out as if the ocean wasn’t quite ready to let them go. Finally, Peeta touched bottom and they crawled to land, collapsing on the sand with water lapping at their ankles. The two were heaving and freezing and giddy with the fact that they were alive, against all odds they had survived, though the silent celebration didn’t last long. The air was bitter and their wet skin puckered beneath its needle-sharp caress. They needed to find shelter, and fast, or the witch’s magic wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive.

Movement was hard. Peeta’s body felt as stiff as a piece of plywood and each attempt to stand left him trembling under his own weight. He looked back at the witch lying prone in the sand. Her hair was a tangled mess and clung to her face in dark, wet clumps. He almost thought she wouldn’t make it, that she’d just stay collapsed and never get up again. But she managed to rise onto her hands and knees, and then slowly to her feet.

They didn’t talk as they climbed a narrow pass up the cliffside. The rock was black and smooth, flowing magma that had cooled, dotted here and there with the greenish-brown blooms of lichen. Perhaps the land had once been volcanic, but that must have been a very long time ago.

As they reached the top of the cliffside, they found themselves marooned in a land of winter. Sharp white mountains jutted up in the misty distance and the foothills that spread out before them were dotted with boulders and stretches of snow and the shrubby, paling vegetation that hinted at a short growing season. It was a harsh land where only the most adaptable species could survive, and Peeta knew if they didn’t find a cave or some sort of outcropping to huddle in soon, they’d be done for.

Luckily, they stumbled across a cluster of circular lodges at the top of the cliff. The witch, shuddering so violently Peeta almost thought she could be seizing, disappeared past the thick curtain that acted as a door, shuddered one final time, and then collapsed onto a pile of discarded furs.

Peeta limped inside and scanned the den. It had been constructed and then abandoned by a whaling expedition, which were common this far north, though whaling was only done in the spring. The walls were layers of tanned animal skin and were held up by thin ashwood beams running from floor to curved ceiling. They looked like the bones of a rib cage bleached chalk-white in the sun. A thick column stood sentinel at the structure’s center so the roof wouldn’t sag and beneath it lay a small fire pit with a few half charred logs. The lodge was designed to house upwards of fifteen people, whalers with thick cloaks and packs full of food and supplies, but now just sheltered two shivering, salt-crusted water rats with nothing. The whole place smelled of wet fur and welcomed Peeta with open, shadowy arms.

“We should start a fire,” Peeta croaked, his throat ravaged by salt and exertion. He nudged the witch with the toe of his boot when she didn’t respond. “Are you dead?” A part of him wanted her to be. He hated owing her for his life, a debt he knew he would have to repay before this horrible nightmare was over. But if the swim had killed her, he wouldn’t have felt a shred of guilt.

As he circled around he saw that she was in fact very alive. Her eyes were propped open, wide and glassy, as if she didn’t have eyelids, shot through with red where there should have been white. She was chanting he realized. Praying perhaps.

It scared him.

“Hey!” He kicked her shoulder and the witch’s eyes cleared as if they were rising above a cloud line. “Stop that, it’s freaking me out.”

She glared up at him. “Never disrupt me again.”

“Why?" he sneered. "So you can curse me? Blind me or make me impotent? Cast a horrible death upon me and all my descendants?” Witches were known for curses. Pregnant women whose unborn babes had offered strong kicks days before, born bright blue and as limp as dead worms. Men cursed to wander the forests until they clawed out their own eyes and died of blood loss. Children swallowed up by thick mountain mists, never to be seen again. Death. Woe. Suffering. All at the hands of a wretched few.

“I have not cursed you. Your allegiance to a false god has done that.”

“And yet, we’re in the same predicament. Seems your gods have doomed you as well.”

This struck a nerve. Perhaps the same thought had been pressing on her mind. She narrowed her eyes, bunching her fists in the fur she lay atop of. “If I had the strength I would burn that blackened heart of yours right out of your chest.”

“Should I be worried about tomorrow then?”

“Very.” She rose to face him, hatred pouring forth from her eyes and twining about her head like a poisonous snake baring its fangs. He met it with a hardened look of his own.

“I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you’ for dragging you out of the ocean,” he said.

“And I’m waiting on a ‘thank you’ for keeping your tiny heart from shriveling up. Trust me, it was no easy task.”

He smiled coldly. “My, you have a big mouth for someone so small.”

“And you have a big head for someone with such little brains.”

He almost laughed, but they had been through a lot and Peeta was tired of arguing. He crossed to the fire pit and ignored the eyes boring into the back of his head.

“What? No response?” she goaded bitterly, but Peeta didn’t rise to her bait, focusing instead on starting a fire. After scraping two jagged rocks together, there was a spark. Thankfully the kindling was dry and after a few harsh blows and a prayer, Peeta was successful. The fire was delicious, like a tiny heart slowly beating life back into his frozen fingers.

He realized that this was the first time in weeks that he and the witch hadn’t been separated by iron bars.

As if in response to the shameful flush of heat that had radiated through his body at the thought, he heard a muffled sound, like a bird’s wings rubbing together, and turned his head.

The witch’s dress was off, her body bared to him. Her small, rounded breasts and jutting hips shone like caramel in the soft light.

Peeta’s cheeks flamed, afraid that he had been caught staring. “What are you doing?” he sputtered as he moved to shield his eyes.

She turned to pick her dress up off the floor and shot a look over her shoulder. Her very bare shoulder. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to spend the night in a wet dress, do you?”

“But you’re naked!” He winced at how petulant he sounded, how very much like a child he still was in some ways.  

She rolled her eyes at him, but he was too focused on avoiding the very sight of her that he didn’t notice. “You’ll get naked too if you have any sense. No use in wearing wet clothes when you can let them dry.”

“You’re perverted.”

“I’m being practical.” She twisted the seawater out of her dress and then snapped the damp fabric at his back. “Now strip.”

X

He had to admit, shucking off his wet uniform and wrapping his body in a pelt had made him feel much better, though he was careful to cover the flesh between his legs when he did.

“Aw, you’re blushing,” she laughed. The sound set Peeta’s nerves on edge. The witch lounged near the fire pit on a nest of pelts she had constructed, wrapped in a glossy black fur that reflected threads of reddish-gold in the firelight. As she sat, the weak glow of the flames cast her features into warm relief, deepening the shadows under her cheekbones and darkening her lashes. Her salt tangled hair was as ebony black as a night sky with no stars and her skin was flawless, the color of water beaten clay beds.

“Come here,” she beckoned.

Instead, Peeta took a step back. “I do not take orders from witches. Even naked ones.”

“It’s like you don’t want to survive the night,” she scoffed. “See this?” Her furs shifted as she reached out a hand, allowing a dark sliver of her inner thigh to catch the light.

Peeta tried not to stare.

She pointed a finger towards the dwindling fire. “We barely have any wood left, and when the fire dies while we’re sleeping, the only thing keeping us warm will be each other. Now get over here. I don’t plan on freezing to death when I have a big lump of muscle to keep me toasty.”

She made a good point, but still, Peeta hesitated. What if this was just a trick? A lure to get him close enough so she could pounce and gouge his eyes out. Or maybe she’d wait to finish him off when he fell asleep, his beating heart ripped from his chest while he cradled her against him.

In the end, he decided there was little chance of them surviving out here with no food and only three measly logs to keep a fire going. If he was going to die, he’d rather die warm. Besides, having his heart ripped from his chest would be over faster than starvation.

He moved towards the nest, and only after he had discarded his pelt and shimmied under hers did she speak.

“Closer, lieutenant,” she urged in a singsong voice.

He growled in response.

“Seriously, you’re acting like a blushing schoolboy.”

“I do not wish to lay with a witch.”

“This is not laying. This is surviving. If you had any experience pleasuring a woman you’d know the difference.”

Peeta’s body stiffened behind her.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by it,” she chuckled meanly. “I thought the whole point of your pious Order was that you prided yourselves on being virgins. That and murderers.”

He ignored the word murderers. Only a witch would consider what the Order did murder. Everyone else considered it justice. Shearing the rot riddled branches off the tree that was the human race. Magic was a disease, nobody should have that kind of power over another. It was unnatural and the world was better off absent of her kind, but he didn’t expect her to understand.

Monsters were always blind to their own evils.

So instead he addressed her derisive use of virgin. “We marry only when we’ve proven ourselves worthy to the Order.”

“Shouldn’t you only have to prove yourself to your wife?”

What a silly notion, Peeta thought. “A man does not have to prove himself to a woman. He has responsibility over her. Nothing more.”

“How romantic.”

“Do not mock me, slum scum.”

“I think I like ‘witch’ better,” she quipped. She was infuriatingly quick-witted and Peeta seethed in silence, unsure that he could contend with such a sharp tongue.

“Whatever,” she said after the silence grew too long. “Just know that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I wanted to, I would never defile my body with the likes of you.”

“That’s reassuring,” he muttered.

Despite her declaration, the witch drew nearer. The goose flesh of her back felt clammy against his chest, but soon their body heat melded and all he felt was radiating warmth prickling against the chill that had settled into his bones.

“Why did you save me?” he asked lowly, unable to quiet his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to keep her talking so he wouldn’t have to close his eyes and picture Yasser’s bloated body lost at sea.

“Because you’re a human being,” she murmured, her voice saturated with drowsiness. “And because I knew if you survived I’d have someone to cuddle with at night.” Suddenly, and with a rustle of fur, she turned to face him. He scooted back. “Relax, lieutenant. This isn’t where I have my way with you. I just prefer to sleep with my back to the fire.”

“Are you always so lewd?” he asked, the disapproval in his voice as clear as a church bell ringing across a courtyard.

“If you knew me you’d know the answer to that is yes.”

“I do not wish to know you, witch.”

“Good. You don’t deserve to.”

With these terse versions of “good night” exchanged, they settled against one another, though Peeta was careful to avoid the brush of her breasts. She smelled of sea and sweat and the musk of fur, but something sweet lay underneath all that. Lavender milk. A chamomile bath. Medicinal salves. Jasmine blossoms suspended in freshwater. Long tumbles downhill.

The smells soothed him, until he remembered she’d been locked in the brig for a month and shouldn’t smell anything but horrible. A spell then. He was surprised. He thought all Krellian magic was blood rituals and sacrifices, not a spell in place of perfume.

Despite himself, his eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was of slinging an arm around her waist.

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 Jon cursed his lurching belly for the thousandth time. After falling into an exhausted sleep after dinner, he woke during the hour of the wolf to retch. Again. Even the fresh air above deck was no solace. Sleep was beyond him, thus he paced the deck. The damned sea churned beneath them, though the captain had been quick to reassure them that the weather was fine for sailing. The food was enough to turn his stomach—an overboiled pottage of grain and leeks. The berth bed was too small. Not that he minded sharing space with his wife. Still, he was unable to seek a more comfortable spot for fear of waking her.

His poor love. She suffered so much in her life. And yet, despite it, her heart shone bright and pure as a star. Gods, a festering rage boiled in his guts. He wanted rain fire and blood on those that had wronged her, exact every second of pain they’d inflicted on her tenfold on them. The love he held for her, so sweet and young yet, deepened into a fierce tenderness. A wave made the ship list drunkenly to one side and his thrice-damned stomach churned.

“Fuck,” Jon said, before retching up the remnants of the grain and leek pottage. He spit in the sea, rinsed his mouth with wine from his wineskin and spit again. The wine was weak and thin, more vinegar than any true vintage, but small sips washed the acrid taste from his mouth. Jon mopped the clammy sweat from his face on his cuff. The helmsman hummed some song in bastard Valyrian, another crewman cursed at a tangle of rope. Jon rested his chin on his folded arms, gazing at the waxing paring of the moon, falling now as dawn neared. The sky above was cloudless, stars shining cold. If he squinted behind them, he could make out the Ice Dragon. Ahead, he saw the Stallion galloping across the sky. The sharp salt smell of open water, the cool kiss of the breeze. Yes, if it wasn’t for his damnable stomach, then he could consider sailing to be pleasant.

Jon ambled along the deck, a fog of weariness blurring the edges of the world. The hours wore on as he walked. The moon sank toward the sea, the stars began to fade as dawn approached beyond the ship’s brow. A glory of colors: the black softening into indigo, then cerulean, seashell pinks and a brilliant limning of gold.

The captain approached him as the sun peeked over the horizon, a squat man with a long black beard.

“You’re up early, ser. Belly still troubling you?” he said in a thick Pentoshi accent, his voice sympathetic. Jon’s back went up regardless, disliking the implied mockery.

“Better today, ser. Thank you.” If the captain heard the ice in his tone, he chose to ignore it.

“A fine day for sailing,” he remarked, thumbs tucked into his belt.

“Indeed. My wife and I thank you for allowing us passage,” Jon said politely. The captain murmured something in reply, but Jon barely heard him. It felt as if his skull had been stuffed with cotton. He paused at the bucket of freshwater. Instead of risking waking Daenerys to groom, Jon finger-combed his hair, dashed ice-cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth.  

In their cabin, Daenerys had her back to him, bent straightening the bedclothes. Jon’s mind was wiped clean at the sight of her ripe buttocks in those leather trousers. Gods, she was glorious. Jon felt a tug low in his belly, the mild strain of their recent abstinence piquing his hunger all the more. She hadn’t yet done her hair in their usual complicated braids, it hung nearly to her waist in a thick wavy silver tumble. Starlight on the sea. He loved her hair. Combing it, tugging it as he thrust—The lurid imagining was broken by her turning at the sound of the door. She smiled, folding her cloak neatly.

“Good morning, Husband. Are you feeling better?”

Jon cleared his throat.

“Much the same, but I’ll be all right.”

Daenerys set aside the folding and cupped his cheek. Those lovely big eyes, long-lashed and the color of twilight. A concerned frown marred her brow. The burn of desire deepened into devotion.  

“You look tired. Did you sleep at all?”

“A bit.”

Daenerys made a low sound of sympathy, standing on tiptoe to drop a sweet little kiss on his nose. Jon wound his arms around her. It felt so right to have her in the circle of his arms. Like home. Daenerys nuzzled his chest with happy little sigh.

“I’m surprised to see you awake so early, Wife. Yesterday, I had to coax you from the bower like a yearling,” he teased.

Daenerys snickered, pinching his arse in reproach. Resting her chin on his chest, she peered up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Take it as a mark of how I esteem you, my dragon. I will seek you out before my morning tea.” Jon failed to stifle his grin at her casual endearment.

“‘My dragon?’” he repeated. A charming blush bloomed on the apples of her cheeks.

“Do you like it? You just have so many lovely names for me, I wanted to--”

Jon stemmed the surge of anxious words with a kiss. Mm, yes. That delicious yielding. She opened to him like a flower. The silky glide of her tongue, the eager little noises she fed him. Her arms wound around his neck, fingernails lightly scraping his neck. He was drunk on her, aflame with need. He would be her dragon. Her protector, her companion, her mount. Yes, yes, she could ride him as often as she pleased. A demented thought presented the image of just that: Jon tied to the bed, helpless and hard, ready for her to fuck at her leisure. Despite his mutinous stomach, despite his weariness, his cock had some very definite ideas of how to show his wife how he cherished her and any sweet name she wished to call him.

The pitch of the ship beneath their feet aided him a bit too strongly when he nudged her back. Daenerys staggered, catching herself against the berth bed with her elbow.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, love. The damnable ship--”

Daenerys shook her head in impatience, reaching for him.

“Come here, Jon.” That husky tone, the stern command had his stiff cock twitching. Hard and hungry and all hers. Jon fell forward into the cage of her arms, braced over her on the bed. The kiss was ravenous, a heated battle of tongues. Yes, he loved the teasing flicks of her tongue along the roof of his mouth. Jon angled his head, sucking gently of her tongue. Her fingernails bit sharp into the back of his neck, hips bucking against his. So sweetly responsive. Heat pounded thick through his veins. He could do this forever. Just kiss her. The heat and pleasure of it stunned and staggered him. Should he tell her she was his first kiss as well? Raised amongst guards and cousins, Jon had never even danced with a girl except at the occasional feast. Even then, there was always Uncle and Aunt Catelyn, watching with bright, avid eyes to see if a northern girl caught his interest.

Daenerys. He was fated to be hers and only hers. Jon smoothed his hands down her body, cupping the soft heft of her breast. Even through the smallclothes and tunic, her nipple pebbled beneath his careful plucking. Daenerys wound her legs around him, drawing his hips into the cradle of hers. As they kissed, they rocked together, aided by the ship’s roil. Yes. Yes. Even through their clothes, pleasure crackled like a stoked fire. Jon could scoop her up, fuck her hard against the wall . . .

No, no, no. Not even a hint of roughness today. Not after what she told him. Daenerys deserved his tenderness. All the pleasure her body could stand. Jon pulled back, breath heaving. His fingers fumbled with the laces of her trousers. With a husky laugh, Daenerys helped him, peeling off the butter-soft leather trousers. Jon pried her thighs apart, already salivating for the taste of her.

“Jon, wait. Wait. Are you sure? Your stomach--”

Jon grinned, nipping her thigh.

“Trust me Dany, your honey is all the sustenance I need.” Daenerys bit her lip, an over-bright shine to her eyes. His wife, his love. She was so surprised by pleasure, by care. Jon would change that, he resolved to himself. Lavish her with love and pleasure until she knew in her bones, in her marrow that she was worthy of it.

Jon bent to his task. He spent some time kissing the tender skin of her thighs, nuzzling her dark blond curls, breathing in the strong musky smell of her. Mm, her nether lips were swollen, flushed, and he’d barely kissed her. Daenerys carded her fingers through his hair lovingly. Jon’s heart gave a sharp twist inside him. Dany. He spread her open with his tongue, seeking more of that wonderful musky-sweet taste. Her cunt was so beautiful, a glass garden flower with petals in gradients of pink and red and scarlet. He wanted to overwhelm her with pleasure. Jon lapped at her nether lips alternating between broad and pointed strokes, listening to every catch of breath. He fisted himself, stroking roughly through his trousers. Yes, yes yes--

“Lighter, love. Gently,” she whispered. Jon kissed her thigh in apology. In his excitement, his strokers were too fast, too rough. He began again. Gentle on her sensitive little pearl of flesh. He licked in patient strokes, soft and slow, sliding one finger inside her, then another. Snug, plush flesh, slick with her honey. His mouth watered for more. Dany answered him with a broken litany of his name, begging for more. Oh fuck yes. Dany arched beneath him in climax, her muscles spasming around his finger. Jon groaned against her, easing her through it with gentle kisses. His cock ached, yearning for her. Dany’s dark violet eyes met his. Jon held her gaze as he kept at her, urging her on. Dany whimpered. He could feel the tension building and building again, quicker and sharper than before. Yes, almost . . . Daenerys’s cry was hoarse as she came again.  

“Seven hells,” Jon muttered. Gods, watching her writhe under his ministrations soaked his brain in fire. He had to, he had to—he fumbled with the laces of his trousers. His cock throbbed in the cooler air, the head seeping fluid. He stroked himself, to clear a little space. Her pleasure was paramount. Jon kissed her cunt messily, drenching his beard in her honey. Daenerys’ heels dug into his back, her hands tangled in his fistfuls of his hair. Riding his face.    

“Yes, Jon. My love, my dragon, my husband. I love you, I love you,” she said, hoarse and wrecked underneath him. Awkward with his left hand, Jon squeezed the base of his cock, overwrought. Desperate, Jon lapped at her pearl again, curling his fingers inside her. Once more, he needed her to come once more. The cadence of her breathing was harsh, gasping, tension quivering through her muscles. Yes love, yes Daenerys. Come for me. Come!

“Jon!” Daenerys arched beneath him. Her pleasure touched his like a match to a wick and he was ablaze with it. Heat and pleasure and glory. When Jon returned to himself, he was slumped against her thigh, come sticky on his hand, belly and trousers.

“Gods, Jon. You’re incredible,” Daenerys said, tugging him up to lay draped boneless on her chest. Jon hummed happily, his mind blank and empty. Though bare-arsed and sticky with sweat and come, Jon couldn’t convince himself to care, not with Daenerys warm and sweet in his arms, peppering his face with little kisses. They whiled away several minutes nuzzling and kissing. Sleep beckoned.

“Wait a moment, my dragon,” Daenerys crooned, wiggling free of his embrace. Jon grumbled, but rolled away, watching her as she rose to fetch a cloth from beside the ewer.

“Let me tend you,” she said. Tenderly, she washed him, adjusted his clothes, and tucked the blankets around him.

“Sleep awhile,” she said, kissing his lips. Jon fell into sleep with a smile on his face.

The warm scent of bread woke him. Jon stirred, cracking open one eyelid to find Daenerys sitting cross-legged on the floor, supping on toasted white bread and crumbly cheese. His stomach gave a long liquid growl.

“Good morning, slugabed. Hungry?”

“Ravenous,” he said with wink as he rolled free of the berth bed. Daenerys giggled. Jon sipped ginger tea and nibbled on the warm bread, grateful to feel it settle in his belly without a fuss.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Maybe a watch? It’s not yet midday,” Daenerys said. Jon nodded as he chewed. Missandei had performed her magic, twisting Daenerys’s hair into its usual intricate braids. Something was missing.

“Where is your wedding ribbon?” Jon asked. Daenerys gave a sheepish smile, wagging where it lay twisted around her wrist.

“I spilled tea on it this morning. I’m letting it dry.”

Jon nodded.  

“How do you feel?” Daenerys asked, a trace of anxiety marring her brown. Jon captured her hand and kissed the palm, as he had in the Red Keep. A lover’s kiss.

“Much better. Especially since I had my dessert earlier,” he said. Daenerys blushed, her gaze skittering away. Who knew he could turn a fierce dragons queen into a blushing maid? Still, Jon felt a hint of disquiet.

“What is it?”

Daenerys busied her hands with tidying their breakfast.

“It’s nothing.”

Jon stopped her, drawing her to sit directly across from him. He cradled her cheek.

“Tell me, love.”

Daenerys chewed on her lower lip. Such a distracting habit. Jon’s gaze fell to her lips. He hadn’t kissed her enough today. Not nearly enough. Her answer startled him.

“You’re just so . . . so generous.” From her tone, he gathered it wasn’t coin she meant. Jon frowned. Had he done something wrong?

“Is that bad?”

Daenerys’ hands tightened around his.

“No, of course not. I just . . . I feel selfish.” Now Jon did utter a snort.

“Though I haven’t known you long, I can say with confidence that you are not selfish. In bed, or out. Your people love you, that means you put their needs before your own. And with me . . .” Heat stung his cheeks. Gods, why was is so strange to speak of it when he’d fucked her with his fingers only a couple hours ago?

“You—You are exceptionally generous with me. Do you truly think I’m not enjoying myself?” There was a heartbreaking doubt embroidering her expression.

“My former husband--” Jon stoppered the words she was about to say with a gentle fingertip.

“Is dead,” he said with some savagery, “Ash. You are mine. And it is my joy to give you pleasure.”  With something like a sob, Daenerys fell into his arms.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck. Jon stroked her back.

“I love you too,” he said, “no more talk of being selfish.”  

The day wore on. Jon sat with Daenerys in their cabin, his head pillowed on her lap. Their conversation meandered to simple things. Horses, food, music. Her dragons. The places she’d seen. Stories of King’s Landing and Winterfell and all the lands in between. Uncle and Aunt Catelyn and his cousins.

“When he fled Dragonstone after my mother died giving birth to me, Ser Darry took me to Braavos. There was an old house with a lemon tree outside the window. I loved that place best.” Jon luxuriated in the peace of having her to himself and the sweet sensation of her combing his hair.

“We should find a beautiful place and build a house. We can plant all the lemon trees you want,” Jon said drowsily.

“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea. I think--”

A muted hail of shouting. Stomping feet. Jon shot up straight, already reaching for his swordbelt. A warning quell of nausea roiled in his belly. Seven fucking hells. A moment later Grey Worm burst through the door, along with Missandei.

“Corsairs, Jelmazmo,” he said.

Jon cursed, tightening his belt. He’d heard Tyrion speak of corsair kings raiding supply ships from Dorne, or the Stepstones. Raquira should be too small and poor a target for such an attack. What bounty was salt and wool to a corsair? A horrible thought occurred to him.

“If would risk attacking a ship like Raquira, then it’s not gold they’re after,” he said. Grey Worm understood, his black eyes were afire. Daenerys reflected that look of hatred, twining her hand with Missandei’s.

“Slavers,” Daenerys said. His father’s words echoed in his head. It might be sooner than later when you raise your sword in anger. It is not an easy thing, to kill a man. He would honor his vows to protect her. Jon bent and kissed Daenerys hard.

“Stay here. Stay hidden. Keep your dagger close.”

                                                          ~

 The door shut behind Jon and Grey Worm with a thud. In answer, Daenerys’ heart thudded hard against her ribs. Before leaving for King’s Landing, her bloodrider Rakharo bemoaned that she only chose to take three bodyguards. A khalasar would be better, he said. She had scoffed, thinking three was too many for such a short and straightforward journey. Now bloodriders and husband both went to defend her from slavers. Missandei’s face was pale and drawn. She muttered something under her breath in the Summer Islander language, her own mother tongue. Gods, this was a horrific echo her first kidnapping when she was a child. Daenerys wound her arms around Missandei. They rocked together on the floor as the din overhead grew louder.

“I can’t lose him, Dany. I can’t! I’m so afraid,” Missandei wept, her tears hot against Daenerys’ neck. Her heart gave a sharp twist in her chest. It wasn’t even for herself that put her in such a state, but the thought of losing Grey Worm.

“It will be all right, Missandei. It will. We have strong and skilled friends to protect us. Grey Worm will come back. Jon will come back.” He must come back. The Valyrian steel dagger felt heavy in her hand, awkward. She had no skill with it. Daenerys missed her dragons so much it was dull ache beneath her breastbone. Wait, dragons . . .

“Missandei, come. We can help!” Daenerys said. Missandei’s golden eyes blinked at her.

“He—Help?” she asked, cold hands painfully tight on her shoulders.

“Yes, we can help Grey Worm and Jon. Come!”

                                                            ~

 The corsair ship was twice the size of Raquira. Jon saw immediately they had no chance to outrun her. The captain and crew were trained fighters. Maybe they could win free. The helmsman veered sharply to one side to avoid the boarding bridges, but two landed hard, hinged iron claws biting deep into Raquira’s rail. Jon’s gorge rose and he had to turn to retch over the side. Gods how he wished for land. A shield. Ser Barristan at his back. A dragon or three.

Black-clad corsairs bellowed as they crossed, wielding swords and spears and boarding axes. With nimble ease, they picked their way across the boarding bridges, some swung across on ropes. Jon and Grey Worm, Kovarro and Aggo and the crew stood near the mast, in a rough approximation of a shield wall. The two Dothraki shrieked and howled curses at the corsairs. Aggo’s whip cracked like thunder, the end coiled around a corsair’s ankle. A deft yank and the men fell shrieking into the sea. Another lash opened a man’s face, he fell to his knees, blood pooling in his upraised palms. Two crewmen with crossbows shot from the rigging overhead. The corsairs staggered at the assault.

It was enough. Jon picked out the brute picking his way across the boarding bridge. With a shout, Jon lunged. His sword stabbed true, through the man’s belly. Blood trickled hot down the silver-bright steel. The brute fell off his blade and into the sea. Jon took a half-step back, staggering at the roil of the sea underfoot. Another corsair thrust with his spear. Jon darted back, not fast enough to dodge the spear. The edge sliced a jagged line of pain up his thigh. Jon snarled. The corsair pulled back and stabbed his spear at Jon’s belly. Jon caught the shaft and sliced off the spearhead. Blinking dumbly at the stub of his spear, Jon hamstrung him with a terse hack. As he fell to his knees, howling, Jon silenced him with a slice across the throat.

A tangle of men advanced toward him. Jon jumped back. He collided with someone. He swiveled; sword raised. Grey Worm stared back at him. Together they picked apart the group as if they’d been born fighting side by side. With a swift nod, they stood back to back. Somewhere to his right, he heard Kovarro and Aggo. Their sharp Dothraki war cries cut through the scrum of men, punctuated by the crack of Aggo’s whip.

Time seemed to crumple and tear like parchment. At once it felt as if he’d been fighting days and only heartbeats. A bearded corsair falling to his knees with Jon’s sword in his throat. The sour taste of bile. Retching on another corpse he’d made. Blood slid down his sword to slick the braided hilt. Grey Worm stalwart and unstoppable at his back. Throbbing pain in his thigh, the back of his shield arm. His sword arm growing sore and tired. Thirst.  

“Fire! Fire!” a man shouted.

Jon looked up to find the deck of the corsair ship ablaze. Corsair and sailor alike stared dumbly at the orange flames licking at the mast and sails. Chaos erupted. The corsairs hurried back to the ship to quench the flames. Kovarro and Aggo gave chase, slaying many as they fled. Grey Worm uttered a harsh cry, almost a sob.  

“Missandei! Keligon! Māzigon aril!” Grey Worm shouted, frantic. {Stop! Come here!} Jon followed Grey Worm’s gaze and found Missandei crouched atop the helmsman’s lean-to, holding a bottle of rum with a burning rag stuffed in it. Gods, Missandei had started the fire. Clever. Frightened golden eyes found Grey Worm and Jon. She pointed.

“They have Daenerys!”

On the boarding bridge, two corsairs, and a flash of silver hair between them.

Jon moved without thinking.

Dany. Dany. Dany!

“Come, we free the khaleesi!” Kavarro said, hot on his heels.

The boarding bridge wobbled beneath their feet. Yards below, the sea churned dark and cold. Thick with floating corpses. Jon hauled Kovarro over the rail on the corsair ship. The fire roared from the bowels of the hold. The heat seared his skin. Jon ducked low, coughing. Tears stung his eyes.

“Dany! Dany!” he bellowed, choking on the thick black smoke. Where? Where? Where was she? The corsairs paid them little mind, they were focused on trying to lower their dinghies or to smother the blaze. Kovarro’s square hand on his shoulder, they minced forward. Kovarro murmured under his breath in Dothraki. If they were prayers, they sorely needed them.

A woman’s scream. Jon flinched as if struck.

“Dany!” he shouted.

From the tail of his eye, Jon glimpsed her, struggling in a corsair’s grip. The brute had a fistful of her hair, dragging her. Jaw set, Daenerys planted her feet and tried to shove free. Time seemed to slow. Through watering eyes, he saw the corsair trip, fall. Fall toward the maw of flames. A breathless instant teetering on the edge before the flames swallowed them. The corsair’s dying scream.

The world fell from beneath Jon’s feet. Gone. Gone!

A shriek tore free from him. Of rage. Of grief. Madness swallowed him. He would kill them. He would kill them all before he followed her into death! Hard hands held him, dragging him back. His breath sawed harsh in his ears, blinded by smoke and tears.

“Dany, Dany,” he wept. He sat down hard, curling into himself like a wounded animal.

“Jon? Jon? Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

It couldn’t be. Jon lifted his head. Daenerys knelt beside him, naked, soot-stained, but whole and alive.

“Alive?” he croaked. Gods, his throat felt raw, “How?” Daenerys’s answering grin looked almost sheepish. Aggo thumped a cloak onto her shoulders.

“Thank you, Aggo. I suppose I should have mentioned it. When Khal Drogo’s pyre burned and my dragons sang to me, I—I heard them. I wanted to join them. So I walked into the flames. And when the sun rose, I was unhurt. The Mother of Dragons.”

Goddess. Jon’s mind flailed, drowning in the truth of her. His wife was born of some god, surely. How could a mere mortal walk through fire unharmed and tame dragons? Jon’s mouth worked like a landed fish.

“Are you hurt?” she repeated, reaching for his hand. Her grip, warm and real, anchored him. Jon yanked her into an embrace, needing her warmth and solidness more than his next breath. A formless need wanted to drag her closer, kiss her, fuck her, remind himself that she was here and alive and his. Into her smoke-scented hair, he murmured: “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m so sorry Jon. I should have told you.”

Jon grunted, closing his eyes. She was alive. That was all that mattered.      

[faveficarchive]

A Third Death

By: C.L. Bactad

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Desperate to have his Warrior Princess back again no matter the cost, Ares forces a deal with Xena in order to save Gabrielle’s life. Will they recover from what happens, or will they be forever parted?

Prologue

The warlord looked wearily at his mug of mead and momentarily contemplated the request which was just put forth. He looked across the table to the dark-haired man that occupied the chair and currently his time. "I need some guarantee." The warlord spoke, his voice hoarse from his recent siege.

The stranger smirked. " A guarantee? Of what? That you won’t get a boo boo?"

"Hey look! I’ve tangled with her before. She’s changed, but not that much." He took a large swig of his mead as if trying to chase away the memory. "She’ll kill me without hesitation. How do you think I got this scar?" He jutted a stubby finger up toward a long diagonal slash across his face. "Last time we met she just about ripped my - "

The other man held up is hand to quiet the whining warlord. "Spare me the sob story. I know perfectly well what she is capable of." Smiling, he turned his hand over to inspect his nails. " I made her what she is you know, all that leather and rage. Mmm, a masterpiece."

"Yeah, well your ‘masterpiece’ isn’t doing your bidding is she?" The warlord grinned thinking he bested the dark god sitting across from him. Proudly, he allowed himself another swig of his drink but before his lips touched the mug his throat became constricted. Gasping for air he looked wide-eyed across the table and tried to force out an apology. "Ar.." He started but he couldn’t get enough breath to push out the words. He clutched his own throat.

Across the table an evil smirk flashed uplifting the edges of a neatly trimmed goatee. "What is it Mercurio? Are you trying to say something? Seems like a God has got your tongue." Clenching his teeth he could see the warlord could not breathe at all now. He let the big, lumbering man struggle for breath a fraction of a second longer then released him.

Sputtering the warlord fell forward on the wooden table his forehead landing in a puddle of his own spilt mead. His back was heaving as he tried sucking in the breath that was taken from him. "Ares, I didn’t mean - "

"Shut your trap before I kill you!" Ares’ spat in disgust "Listen to me, Mercurio." His voice became quiet as he lowered his head toward the now frightened warlord. "Xena is not the one that you need fear the most." He paused for effect. "Do you understand?" Mercurio shook his head furiously in agreement and started to speak but thought better of it.

‘Mortals are so weak...well, except for Xena.’ The God of War silently mused then turned his attention back to Mercurio. "Good now have some more mead and I’ll tell you what you’re going to do."

Part one

Chapter 1: Declarations

All the while, believe me, I prayed

our night would last twice as long.

-Sappho

The sun began its ascent above the eastern mountains. The sleeping form underneath the blankets began to stir as the first rays of light fluttered across her eyelids. Gabrielle opened one eye cautiously fearing the rude brightness would jolt her too quickly from her slumber. The forest was covered by dew and a mist could still be seen floating in the cool air. Reluctantly, she opened the other eye and looked up into the forest canopy. Shadows and bright light battled against the large tree boles. The clarity of the early morning light sharply defined the green foliage above, which now came into a clear focus. Lifting her arms above her body, she stretched her torso trying to loosen the morning stiffness. Her nostrils picked up the drifting smoke of a small campfire. Xena was up, of course.

She focused on the figure kneeling by the fire feeding it small branches. "When will I ever see you sleep past dawn?"

Xena smiled as she heard Gabrielle’s voice, which was still rough from sleep. "And when will I ever see you get up at dawn?" She looked over to the woman who was still tangled in blankets. The bard shifted onto her side so she could see Xena more clearly, careful to keep the blanket tucked tightly around her bare body. She looked at her lover who was already dressed in her leathers. Her appreciative gaze did not go unnoticed by the dark warrior. Gabrielle smiled and effectively melted Xena’s heart at the same time.

Xena’s azure eyes locked with the grey green of her companion. Suddenly, overwhelmed with her own emotion she mouthed the words "I love you." She had not meant it to be silent but she could not will her voice to tone. The noise would seem like an intrusion.

Gabrielle closed her eyes and rolled over onto her back letting the silent words wash over her. Her reality was now better than her dreams. Three moons ago she would never have imagined that this was going to happen. Her love for the warrior was best kept to daydreams always pushed back at the first questioning look of her traveling companion. Now it was real and she still couldn’t believe it. She had what she wanted. What they both wanted.

"Xena."

"Hmm?" The warrior was tending the fire and looking intently at a small flickering flame.

"Come here."

Xena looked over to Gabrielle who was now holding the blanket open to her lover, exposing her naked flesh to the cool morning air and to Xena. The warrior stood and began to walk over to the shivering bard. One eyebrow raised on her beautiful face as she knelt beside her bard, eyes mesmerizing her insatiable lover. "Do you ever get enough?" She smiled knowing the answer already.

Gabrielle shuddered at her lover’s tease and memories of the night before warmed her body. She parted her lips to answer but that was all Xena needed before she descended upon Gabrielle. A groan escaped from the bard’s throat as Xena hungrily pressed her lips against her lover’s. She felt the warriors strong arms around her back supporting her just inches off the blankets. Gabrielle wrapped her arms around Xena’s neck pushing herself into the leather clad chest. The urgency of the kiss heightened into a blinding passion. Each woman pressing fiercely against the other, lips parting, pressing, heads shifting, separating and coming back for more. Gabrielle’s heart felt as if it would burst from the pressure of beating too fast.

Breathless, Xena forced herself to pull away. "We can’t...not now."

"Xena please don’t..." Gabrielle muttered still searching for Xena’s full lips.

"Gabrielle we have to travel today. I promised Celeste that we would be in Crete in three days." Lovingly, she stroked Gabrielle’s reddish-blonde hair still keeping her lips out of reach from the persistent bard. Gabrielle threw her head back in compliant disappointment. She knew if Xena made a promise she intended to keep it even at the expense of her highly aroused lover. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to see the amused look on the warriors face. Xena’s blue eyes shone brightly and a crooked smile accented her flawless features. Gabrielle was caught and try as she might, she could not help but stare into the eyes of her love. Focused on each other the world fell silent.

"Gabrielle," Xena spoke softly. "I want you to always look at me with those eyes." She reached out to run her index finger along the bard’s jaw-line. Gabrielle was stunned at the simple sincerity of Xena’s words. Trying to gain control of her now spiraling emotions she closed her eyes to the blue lights boring down into her soul. And then she heard her own voice. " Each breath I take is for you." She grabbed the hand touching her face and held it against her beating heart using it for strength and to still her own trembling. The bard opened her eyes and her heart instantly ached. Xena’s face was stoic as usual but tears ran freely from her eyes, unchecked by her need for control.

"What’s wrong?" Startled, the bard sat up not used to seeing her best friend and lover cry. Worry crept into her voice. "Did I do something wrong?"

Xena realized that she had been crying. " Wha...no Gabrielle." She reached out to grasp the blondes’ shoulders. "You have done everything right." Pulling her into a protective embrace, Xena now whispered. "I have come to need so much. I’m afraid for the first time in my life Gabrielle." A darkness came over the warrior who was angry at her own fear and want.

Gabrielle sensing the change in Xena pushed herself tighter into the warrior. "Xena I...I know what you’re afraid of. Your darkness won’t scare me away because I know that you would never hurt me. You aren’t that person anymore. There’s more love inside of you than hate. I feel it and that’s why you’ve captured my heart so completely. I’ll never leave you don’t you understand that? Every day I thank the gods that they have allowed me to find the other half of my soul. Some people search a lifetime for what we have. I can’t live without you."

They sat there holding each other underneath the rising morning sun. Energy passing between them and reaffirming a bond that no man, woman or god could break. Or so they thought.

In the forest a twig broke under pressure. Xena jolted back to reality jerking her head in the direction of the offending noise. Eyes narrowing she scanned the surrounding tree line still heavily shadowed. She detected a slight movement. "Stay here." She growled and the ice in her voice told Gabrielle that is was a command not a request. Quickly, she grabbed her sword and chakram and silently moved away from camp stalking her prey with feral grace.

Watching Xena stealthily slide out of camp Gabrielle quickly moved to her clothes. The last thing she wanted was to be attacked while nude. Fully dressed, she crouched down in a ready position. Staff in hand, she listened into the forest. She was not listening for Xena. She knew that she would not hear her. Instead, she listened for something else, fleeing footsteps, heavy breathing or perhaps a struggle. Gabrielle remained low and keenly alert to the stillness around her. She clutched her staff tighter steeling herself for a possible attack. ‘Traveling with an ex-warlord has it disadvantages’, she silently thought to herself. However, Gabrielle realized a long time ago that the adrenaline she felt in situations such as these also made her feel alive. A smile crossed her lips as she realized the other advantages of traveling with Xena. Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus. A lesson learned from her warrior.

She remained silent for what seemed like an eternity and looked around to Argo who was tethered to a nearby tree. Xena’s armor still lie next to the saddlebags. Gabrielle’s heart began to race. "Gods, she doesn’t have her armor on," she muttered to herself. The bard knew that many serious injuries had been deflected by the armor lying in a heap by Argo. For some reason, not entirely known to Gabrielle, she felt panic. Intent on regaining control of her racing heartbeat, she concentrated on her breathing. Slow steady breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth. Pushing away the panic Gabrielle was now bent on finding Xena.

A hand reached out and grasped her shoulder. Gabrielle turned on her bent knee swinging her staff in a low arc. Twisting her hips she continued the swing across her body and around her back. It was a fast, low swing that would have broken the shins of the offender. However, Xena, aware of the muscle twitch in Gabrielle’s back jumped easily allowing the staff to pass underneath. Landing squarely in front of the bard, she had a proud grin on her face. "Well, nice to see you too."

"Xena! Do you have to do that? Can’t you make just a little noise when you come back to camp?" Gabrielle stood abruptly putting her index finger and thumb close together to illustrate her point. The exasperated bard narrowed her eyes at her lover. "You know I used to think that - that sneaky thing was amazing and even a bit cute. Now I find it really annoying. Just save it for your enemies okay!"

Xena arched her right eyebrow and looked down at her furious bard. "Are you done?"

"Am I done?" Gabrielle looked at her incredulously. Tilting her head, she tried to stammer out a response. "You...is that all...can’t you..ughhh!" She shook her head looking down at her feet. The warrior knew that this was a gesture of passive frustration. It was soon becoming a trademark of Gabrielle and it amused Xena greatly. "Yes, I’m done."

"Good" Xena whipped her head around to her armor and quickly moved toward it.

"So, are you going to tell me what or who that was?" Gabrielle watched as Xena reached over to pat her horse then stooped down to pick up her arm bracers.

“I couldn’t find anyone," she stated flatly. "Must have been an animal." ‘That was no animal’, grimly, she thought to herself but she didn’t want to frighten her friend. She hoped that it was a hunter or a traveler passing through but every warrior instinct in her body told her different. Xena knew that she should have followed the tracks farther but didn’t want to alarm her lover.

Gabrielle could tell Xena wasn’t telling her everything. However, she knew not to push the subject. "Oh, well that’s a relief."

Xena adjusted her breastplate and scabbard. "Gabrielle, can you eat breakfast on the road? We need to get moving if we want to make it to Crete in three days." She waited for a nod of agreement then turned to saddle Argo. A sarcastic smile crept upon her face. "I’ll try to be louder next time I come back to camp. I didn’t realize you were getting so jumpy." She tried to hide the amusement on her face as a bedroll came flying at her.

Chapter 2: The Chase

The scout ran into the center of the large camp collapsing in front of a large white tent. Gasping for air, he began to push himself to his feet. Two stubby hands gripped the boy’s shirt helping him to his feet. The scout found himself face to face with Mercurio. The scout tried to turn his head away from the warlord’s foul breath. "Well!" Mercurio boomed into the young boys face.

"I found them sleeping," The scout was still trying to catch his breath. "in the forest about a half a days ride North of here."

"And" Mercurio released the boy from his grasp.

"And the darker one woke first and built a fire. The younger one slept a few candle marks more then awoke. They seemed very affectionate and - ow!" The scout startled as Mercurio slapped him across the face then grabbed him once again by the sweat soaked shirt.

"I’m sure the scene was very touching but I don’t give a rats ass about fires or who woke first!" Mercurio threw the boy down in disgust. "What I want to know, you idiot, is which way they’re headed." With that he belched. The boy flinched in disgust as he once again struggled to his feet.

" Okay. I didn’t get as much information as I wanted. I was moving in closer to camp for a better look and I stepped on a twig snapping it in two."

"You what!" Bellowed the angry warlord.

"I...I barely heard it. I have no idea how she heard it. I was a good league away from her camp. You would have had to have...I don’t know, but nobody could have heard that." Noticing the warlord’s impatience, the scout quickly moved to finish his report. "Anyway somethin’ must have spooked the dark one because she jerked her head up in my direction." His eyes grew wide as he further explained his situation. "She started to move away from camp like some animal; a cat perhaps. I felt as if she were stalking me." He shivered at the thought. "I had to move quickly but I assume she didn’t see me. Probably thought it was some stag or somethin’." He shrugged his shoulders happy with his explanation. "As best as I can figure out it looked like they were making their way south toward the coast."

Mercurio cocked his head to one side and smirked at the boy. Young as he was, he was still his best scout. ‘I suppose I let him live this time,’ the warlord begrudgingly told himself. "You know..." The warlord stopped realizing that he didn’t even know this gangly scout’s name. "What is your name anyway?"

"Julian, sir."

"Julian huh?" Mercurio wrapped his meaty arm around the thin boy’s shoulders. "Do you know who those women were? You know the ones that I sent you to spy on?" The boy shook his head no. "Oh that’s right. I didn’t tell you. Well that woman, the one with the dark hair that was Xena" He thrust his fingers in the air signaling quotation marks. "Warrior Princess and the blond is her personal bard-slash-sex-kitten."

Julian’s jaw went slack. "Xena?" Recognition washed white against the boy’s face.

"Oh so you have heard of her." Mercurio once again grabbed the scouts abused shirt. "So you know not to make assumptions of what she does or doesn’t realize." He threw Julian down into the dust. "You are very lucky pissant. It’s not every day that you survive your mistakes." With that he retreated into his tent bellowing for his second in command.

Julian remained seated in the dirt shaking his head in disbelief. ‘She did hear me’ he thought grimly. "Wait a minute; sex kitten?" The poor boy was so confused that he did not even realize his last thought was audible to a passing soldier. The soldier stopped in his tracks and looked down at the now very dirty boy. "What did you call me?" Julian shook his head. ‘This day just keeps getting better and better’ was his last thought before a large fist connected with his nose. Julian was out for the day.

Chapter 3: Color

The road was well traveled and worn into a pale brown, while the rest of the country side remained green. The sun was directly overhead and the hotness began to sear into Xena’s bronze back. Dark brown leather, although useful in battle, acted as a heat sink and got to be unpleasant during the warmer seasons. Shifting in her saddle she thought of it only as a minor inconvenience while others would think it excruciating. She moved the horse closer to the side of the road trying to take advantage of the shade provided by the thin trees.

The dust swirled under the tan warhorses’ hooves. Each stride releasing a whirling coalition of air and particle. Xena turned her head to look back at her bard wondering if the dust was beginning to bother her. Gabrielle was walking behind them but slightly to the side to avoid the worst of it. "Whoa Argo." Xena gently cooed to her horse. She stopped and waited for Gabrielle to catch up.

The bard was quickly beside her. "What is it? Why did you stop?" Xena looked down at her dusty lover. The leather of her saddle squeaking as she shifted her weight to extend a hand to Gabrielle. "Why don’t you ride up here with me?"

"Xena, you know how I feel about riding. I would rather walk. And besides, Argo really doesn’t like me." As if on cue Argo shuffled slightly and snorted. "See what I mean?" Gabrielle shook her head, "Nope, I’m perfectly fine down here."

"Gabrielle that’s ridiculous now get up here." Xena jutted her hand out again and shot the bard her best warlord glare. Gabrielle almost took the hand that was extended to her but a nasty little stubborn streak once again got the best of her. Her eyes narrowed and she deliberately pointed her staff at the warrior. "Xena don’t look at me that way."

"What way?" Xena feigned innocence.

"What way?" Gabrielle mimicked earning a dry look from her lover. "That way, the ‘don’t mess with me the mighty warrior because I’m always right’ way.’"

Xena studied the slightly cranky Amazon Queen for a moment before a sly grin touched her features. "Gabrielle I think the sun is getting to you. Maybe you should sit in the shade for a moment." She gracefully slid off her horse. "You look a bit flushed." With mock concern she reached her hand out and checked Gabrielle’s forehead. The bard rolled her eyes as Xena teased at her expense. "Hmm you don’t feel too warm." With a sigh, "Well I guess we’ll keep moving." She turned and started toward Argo.

"Xena"

"Yeah?" Xena replied as she was grabbing the saddle horn to mount her horse.

"That’s because you’re not feeling the right places." Xena stopped just as she was going to swing her other leg upon the worn saddle. Her eyebrow shot up and a crooked smile danced across her bronzed face. Slowly she turned her head looking at the strawberry-blonde over her shoulder. "I’m not huh?"

"Nope." The bard replied quickly watching Xena’s reaction and loving every minute of it.

"Gabrielle," The sleek warrior walked toward her prey.

"Yes Xena?" replied Gabrielle innocently while a wicked smile was fully displayed.

"I think we need to find a nice shady spot."

"What about Crete and the three days thing? I really don’t think we can spare that kind of time." The bard looked hungrily at her approaching lover. Her breathing now becoming ragged as the warm blue eyes lavished their attention on her body.

"I’ll make it a quick stop." In two steps Xena had grabbed Gabrielle around the waist and ushered her off the road into the seclusion of the green underbrush.

Some time had past before Gabrielle could get herself to roll off the spent warrior. "Mmm, I do love shady spots." She let her stomach relax with laughter. She looked down at her lover who seemed perfectly content to lie there all afternoon. However, the nearness of her sword and chakram belied her true readiness. Still Gabrielle had never seen her so peaceful. ‘Gods she’s so beautiful’, the bard mused. "Xena," the bard toned gently. Xena smiled, eyes still closed. "Open your eyes."

Xena turned her head in the direction of her bard’s sweet voice. Slowly, she forced her heavy eyelids open. With abated breath Gabrielle looked into Xena’s eyes. "They are so beautiful. I want to memorize every coloration, every speckle. They change color you know?" Xena’s left eyebrow shot up in a question.

"I love that" Gabrielle smiled as she ran a finger over the raised eyebrow. A moment later she continued her previous thought. "It was your eyes that I noticed first. The color, the way they could look right past me and not even realize their effect." Xena started to say something but was quickly quieted with a soothing look from her lover. " Right now I would describe them as a cloudy blue somewhat paler than they are normally." She looked up at the sky noticing the high clouds thinning and separating only to be rejoined again. "They’re that color."

Smiling up at her bard Xena decided she would take a moment longer to indulge herself before pushing onto Crete. Only Gabrielle could make her feel so calm and she was learning to appreciate these times more and more. "I didn’t know that there could be more than one color blue."

Gabrielle adjusted herself up against a tree and pulled Xena so her head rested on her lap. She loved the moments where she could get Xena to just sit and relax. "That’s better." She once again started to stroke her lover’s eyebrow. "There are many colors of blue. All of which can be seen in your eyes."

"Really?" the warrior asked incredulously.

"Hmmm, right before and actually in battle they get intense, so clear. The blue becomes almost a white; mere backdrops for your jet black pupils. I guess they sort of glow." Gabrielle couldn’t help but put a bit of her storytelling flair into her apt description.

Xena let out a laugh. "Well there’s a definite advantage of glowing eyes to scare an opponent. They probably think I’m insane." She stopped to ruminate on what she just said. A dark thought rushed to the surface before the warrior could push it back. "Sometimes I probably am."A moment of sadness flickered in the eyes the bard was now studying so intently.

"Xena, what’s past is past but I’ve seen you fight many times." Xena saw Gabrielle give a slight smile. " It’s not insanity. It’s determination. You’re so confident in battle that victory isn’t even a question for you. That is what frightens your opponents. Your eyes see everything. I’m glad that I can be a part of it...a part of you. Right now...the way you’ve turned your life around and your quest for atonement. Not very many people could do what you’re doing."

"What have I done?" A tone of regret crept into Xena’s voice. It was the same sound Gabrielle always heard when she comforted Xena through her nightmares. It broke her heart.

"Xena you’ve faced your past. Everyday you face it and beat it back until I can feel you hurt. That would have broken weaker people a long time ago...but each day you force yourself to do it again. Your pain manifesting itself in nightmares because you can’t take the time to look out for yourself. You’re too busy saving the world....saving me." Gabrielle closed her eyes and laid her head against the tree. She spoke the last sentence in a whisper. "Xena, one day you have to forgive yourself."

Xena turned her head in her lover’s lap letting her gaze rest on a distant cloud. Solemnly, she replayed the bards words in her head. ‘I wish it was that easy my love’, she thought to herself. Gabrielle didn’t know the true horrors that were nestled in a warlords nightmares. She couldn’t let her know just how complete Xena’s descent into evil had been. How could she forgive herself when she knew that Gabrielle would reject her so completely at the full knowledge of her cruelty? No, forgiveness was not a luxury she would let herself own. She was not sure that a lifetime of redemption would ease her soul either. What she did know, however, was that the only peace she had came from this woman beneath her. This fact haunted her because she didn’t fully understand what she had done to deserve it.

"Gabrielle we need to go." Xena said flatly as she pushed herself up to her feet. She whistled for Argo.

"Right, Crete in three days." Gabrielle reluctantly followed Xena’s lead. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I’m fine we just need to get moving." Feelings locked tightly inside she was once again in full warrior mode. Without looking at the bard she mounted Argo. "Will you ride up here with me? Please."

The other woman was about to refuse but thought better of it. Xena’s use of the word please wasn’t really a question but more of a gentle command. She grabbed Xena’s outstretched hand letting its strength lift her effortlessly onto the gigantic horse behind the warrior. "Xena I love you." The warrior pressed back into the bard. She smiled and with a quick nudge into Argo’s sides they were off.

Chapter 4: Capture

The second day had been uneventful so far. They were back on schedule due to Xena’s relentless pace. Gabrielle remembered when she first started traveling with the reformed warlord that this pace was grueling. The bard never did say a word about it in fear that she would make Xena angry or worse make her want to leave her behind somewhere. She followed biting her tongue and at night aching from the soreness of legs and feet. Now after more than two summers, she kept the pace easily. Her legs had become stronger and she could see the definition of her thighs contracting at each step. Her muscles were well defined and all traces of baby fat gone. She liked who she had become. More confident, wiser and very good with a staff. She smiled looking up at Xena, stoic and quiet as usual, astride her tan mare. She had shaped so much of her life in a short period of time. Gabrielle had grown physically and emotionally. Her love had no bounds, her gratitude no depths. Xena was all there would ever be for the bard.

"What?" Xena’s colorless word broke into Gabrielle’s thoughts.

"What?" she said squinting up at the warrior.

"You were smiling and not talking."

"So?"

"It was...odd." Xena smirked at the blonde who had been easily keeping pace with the mare.

"I was just thinking."

Xena rolled her eyes. "About your next story I presume." She knew when Gabrielle had ‘that look’ she was concocting some sort of tale with her usually as the star. "I told you that you need to be more aware of your surroundings on the road." she said slightly irritated. "Don’t let your mind wander so much. You need to save some of your focus for the things around you."

Gabrielle nodded at Xena knowing that it was a lesson she had tried to teach before. Awareness is what kept them both alive. She needed to stop being so reliant on the warrior to be her ears for her. Gabrielle sighed. Bards were dreamers with the compulsion to share them with others. Daydreaming was one of Gabrielle’s favorite past times.

"Xena I wasn’t concocting a new story."

"No?" the warrior raised an eyebrow obviously not believing the bard.

"No" she patted the warriors firm thigh.

Xena, against her better judgement, was intrigued. "What were you thinking about then?"

Gabrielle shrugged. "I’ll tell you later. Hey let’s play that game ‘Who am I’."

"Gabrielle," Xena’s low tone was meant to send a warning to the bard.

"Just go with it....I’ll tell you when we get to Crete. C’mon, is this person tall?."

Xena looked back down the road a crooked smirk draped upon her face. Sorry that she had reprimanded her friend she decided to let the bard have her way. "Fine. No."

***

Mercurio’s men were set up along the side of the road. A blind corner and lush vegetation proved to be the perfect ambush spot. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, he had brought at least fifty of his best men. Of course, he knew that some of these men would be sacrificed to the warriors anger. It almost saddened him but only because he didn’t want to go through the trouble of recruiting and training more. ‘Oh well,’ he thought to himself.

The pudgy warlord sat hidden among the bushes. Five mercenaries were precariously perched on limbs overhanging the road. A thick net camouflaged with foliage stretched among the branches. The rest of his men were hidden in positions along the road. A deadly trap had been set. Mercurio let a sick smile flood his thick face. Xena had taught him well. As a soldier in her army he was careful to observe every move the warlord made. Her success in conquest obviously proved that she was a worthy teacher. He had followed as they pillaged town after town. Those were the good days before she found her conscience and hooked up with that little do-gooder. "Bitch," he muttered under his breath. She was the reason Xena gave him his facial scar. A little reminder that the bard was not to be toyed with. Luckily, Xena was merciful that day or he would surely be dead. Of course, that bard bitch urged Xena to spare him. Strange, he reflected, but he hardly gave it a thought as he ran from the tavern. Perhaps, he would have his fun anyway.

As luck would have it the wind had shifted and they were upwind. Another card dealt in their favor. One element of chance taken away from the warrior. She would not be able to smell them until they were right on top of her. Quietly he and his men waited for their prey to arrive.

***

"Is it Draco?" Gabrielle asked.

"Finally. How many questions do you need?" Xena let her amusement show in her voice.

"Draco. Yuck. What made you think of him?" Gabrielle was slightly irritated by the warriors choice and the fact that it took her so long to figure it out.

"Why not? We both know him?" Xena stopped Argo suddenly. Her head jerked slightly to her right. They had just come around a sharp corner and now she sensed something was wrong. She thrust her hand down to Gabrielle "Get up her now!" she yelled but it was too late.

Men came out of the trees one after the other. Xena let out her battle cry as she vaulted off her horse. Landing in front of two rushing men she jumped up letting each foot connect with their chins. Quickly, she unsheathed her sword spinning around and thrusting it into another. Her clear blue eyes searched for Gabrielle; she saw her furiously battling a group of three with her staff. The bard’s movements were quick and fluid as the staff whooshed around sending one of the men crashing to the ground. Xena launched her chakram towards the group slicing through one of the men before returning to its mistresses’ grip. Gabrielle quickly finished the other one. Xena turned her attention back to the mass of men now rushing her at once. Her eyes became wild as she took one out after the other blood coating her sword and splattering her face.

"Xena!" It was Gabrielle. Without a thought, Xena spun towards the voice. Breathless, she called for her. The bloodied warrior’s face paled at the sight before her. A net was now discarded by Gabrielle’s feet and her staff lie a few feet away red from use. She was slumped down to her knee with her body bent as if protecting ribs in pain while blood trickled down her face from a head wound. Her eyes pleading as if to say sorry. Her arms stretched out to the sides held by men.

"Gabrielle!" Xena growled as she started in a dead run towards the bard ready to kill her captors.

"Oh not so fast now Xena." Mercurio stepped from out of the trees behind Gabrielle. A knife blade flashed around to the front of Gabrielle’s neck. "I would hate to have this lovely girls blood on your hands." He pushed the blade into her neck drawing a trickle of red and causing the bard to let out an involuntary whimper.

Xena skidded to a stop. Fear blended with anger in her eyes. Mercurio had the upper hand. "If you hurt her I’ll kill you....painfully." She spit out through clenched teeth. ‘Please don’t let anything happen to her’, Xena pleaded inwardly scared far more than her exterior would allow her to show. "Gabrielle don’t move."

"I’m okay, Xena" Gabrielle fought for control of her own voice.

"Shut up, you little whore!" Mercurio pushed the blade roughly against her neck making the cut sting even more. He smiled at Xena. "I’ve waited a long time for this Xena. Who say’s revenge doesn’t pay? You see all I have to do is apply a bit more pressure and I’ve slit your precious little bard’s throat." He laughed amused by the fact he had the great Xena exactly where he wanted.

"You son of a bitch I’ll send you to Hades’ doorstep before this is all through." Xena’s voice shook in controlled rage. "You always were a wannabe warlord. Never had enough courage to fight me evenly. I should have killed you when I had the chance, but I let you run out of that tavern; a coward just like a dog with its tail between its legs."

Mercurio’s quick temper took over. How dare she insult him in front of his men. "We’ll see who the coward is!" He pulled his blade from Gabrielle’s neck thrusting it above her chest instead. "Say goodbye to your precious before I thrust this blade through her heart!" His hand began to descend in a quick motion.

Gabrielle looked up at the knife but she couldn’t even scream. Inwardly, she said goodbye to her love.

"No!" Xena saw the blade, her fear apparent, she reached out but knew she was too far. "Gabrielle I’m..." She stopped in mid-sentence.

Right before the knife broke the bard’s skin, it dissolved, vanishing from the angry warlord’s grasp. He stared wide-eyed at his now empty hand.

"Now Mercurio, that wasn’t our deal," a wicked drawl sounded in the nearby trees. A dark haired man bounded out as if on cue.

"Ares" Xena spat in disgust. "I should have known you were behind this. Mercurio doesn’t have the brains for something this elaborate.” Mercurio, hearing the remark, grabbed the bards hair jerking it back painfully. Causing Gabrielle to gasp in pain.

"I’d be careful if I were you." Mercurio stated.

Xena winced knowing her temper was causing her love more pain. She looked into Gabrielle’s eyes seeking reassurance. It was there but fading fast.

Ares walked over to Mercurio and Gabrielle making sure he was a safe distance from Xena. Even gods have been know to get a good whack from the Warrior Princess every know and then. "Mercurio there is no reason to be so rough with our little friend here." He touched Gabrielle’s face before flashing a wry grin towards Xena. Still looking at Xena, he pointed a finger at Mercurio letting a flash of white light hurtle towards the unsuspecting warlord. The impact of the light sent the weighty warlord tumbling from behind the bard. Ares looked down at the man sprawled out in the dust. "That was for disobeying me."

Gabrielle let out a sigh thankful that the warlord was not standing behind her. Ares saw this and directed his next comment toward her. "Oh, just wait, Xena’s annoying little friend. Your ordeal is far from over. Oh no. Your fate now lies in the hands of your beloved." Again, he flashed a wicked grin. "Tie her up". The two men holding Gabrielle’s arms quickly pulled them together and bound them tightly.

"Ares what do you want?" Xena said cooly. She barely had control of her raging emotions. Her mind was racing to come up with a plan.

"Ah Xena...what do I always want?" He paused waiting for a reply. Xena merely lifted her eyebrow. Realizing she would not take the bait he continued. "Why I want you of course."

The acid dripped from Xena’s voice. "Well you’re accomplishing quite the opposite."

"Umm, I don’t think so." Ares took seat on a nearby log. "It’s perfect really. You let yourself get too close to someone, caring for them and even, excuse me while I hold back my lunch, fall in love with her." He shook his head feigning disappointment. "How quickly you forget all my lessons. Now you have a weakness and target. Poor Gabrielle. She’s just an innocent you know. Annoying as she may be, she really doesn’t deserve what you bring her, pain and suffering." Ares let out an exaggerated sigh. " Oh well, you live and learn." He allowed himself an even bigger smile as he motioned the men to stand Gabrielle up and move her closer to Xena.

"Wait that’s enough. Not too close. I just want Xena to be able to smell Gabrielle... to hear the fear in her breathing."

Xena fought the urge to run to Gabrielle now standing a few feet in front of her. She locked eyes with her instead trying to reassure the obviously frightened bard. Ares was right; Gabrielle didn’t deserve this. Mercurio started to stir behind them.

Ares noticed. "Mercurio. Good you’re awake. Come over here and enjoy the fun. I was just going to explain to Xena why she’s going to come back to me. Come on." He ushered the warlord over with a gesticulating hand. Mercurio wearily came to stand by him. "You look a little pale..you should listen more carefully next time. Now, I want you to go and reposition yourself behind Xena’s little wench."

Xena’s eyes widened and she began to move forward but a warning hand from Ares stopped her. "Xena don’t worry. Mercurio isn’t going to hurt your little friend..." The lightness in his voice took on a menacing tone "..unless I tell him to."

Xena shot the dark god an icy glare. "God or not you’ll pay for this."

Ares rolled his eyes. "Maybe, but I don’t think so. Now let me tell you how this thing’s gonna play out. I have been trying to show you how silly this path of atonement is and well you’ve been very stubborn about it. It’s become very clear to me that I can’t just kill the whiny bard because she already gotten to you. Telling you all sorts of crap of how you can fight your dark side blah, blah, blah. And then there’s that pesky Artemis. She told me that if I shed what’s her names blood she’ll...well it won’t be pleasant. This is where Mercurio comes in. She said if I shed the blood, not some insignificant mortal. You see I have tried everything and I’m just about at my wits end-"

"Could you speed up the story I’m getting bored," Xena drawled with steel in her voice.

"Very well. If your not coming back to me I’d rather see you suffer. Thus, to make that happen I have to take away your happiness. Since I can’t kill her Mercurio will."

"What the..what about Artemis?! She’s her chosen and Queen of the Amazons!" Xena spoke desperate to make an argument.

"Well what Artemis doesn’t know....besides it would be worth the torment. I’m a bit twisted that way. Anyway, Mercurio is gonna kill her not me."

"Just because your hand doesn’t touch the blade doesn’t absolve you from the crime," Xena growled. Her fist clenching at her sides willing herself to remain calm and try to find a way out of this. She now knew her options were few if any.

"Touché...But don’t look so sad we haven’t come to that yet. There is a way out for sweet Gabrielle."

"What is it?" Xena spoke her heart already sinking. She knew now that Ares wasn’t bluffing. He had gone over the edge willing disfavor with Artemis.

"You have to give yourself back over to me. Become the warlord you were meant to be. No resistance...completely, fully, sacrifice yourself."

Xena stood looking at Ares. Her face betrayed nothing of her inner turmoil. Silently, she stood searching for a solution. The God of War had finally got her. Gabrielle was her greatest weakness. Xena knew it and so did Ares. Evenly, she began to speak. "How do I know you won’t kill her?" She saw no way out. They were surrounded and there was no way to get to Gabrielle before the knife cut into her throat.

Gabrielle watched the interaction but what had just transpired sent her into a panic. "Xena you can’t be seriously thinking about this...don’t." She felt a sting as Mercurio slapped her ear.

"Gabrielle please," Xena pleaded with her while trying to remain in place instead of running her sword through Mercurio. Instead, she looked directly at him letting her rage become fully exposed. She was satisfied when she saw him flinch.

The sky began to cloud and darken as she shifted her attention back Ares. "Like I said, what guarantees?"

Ares smiled sensing victory. "Gabrielle will not be killed unless she *purposefully* seeks you out. For some reason she is favored by Gods other than Artemis and it would be a very ugly situation for me if I killed her anyway."

"What about Mercurio?" Xena asked secretly wishing she would be able to kill him for this later.

"Mercurio will not remember a thing. In fact, when you give yourself back over to your evil, neither will you. In your mind, you have been leading an army with no recollection of the past two years. In your mind, and in everybody else’s, you will have spent the last two seasons being a very diligent warlord."

"I won’t remember anything?" Xena spoke in a whisper.

"Sorry, your bard won’t even be a memory."

"You bastard!"

"Her pull on you is much too strong, Xena. I can’t have you going around thinking that you can be someone different." He laughed clasping his hands. "Delicious isn’t it? It will be what...your third death? Only this time you will be reborn into what you really are."

Gabrielle had silently began to cry. Her world was falling apart and she was utterly helpless to stop it. Xena had indeed been dead to her before. She couldn’t believe it could happen again. "This can’t be happening."

Ares walked over to the crying bard bending down to look into the tearing eyes. "Oh don’t worry little bard. You’ll still have your memories but you will be the only one. To everyone, the Amazons, your family, you’ve been traveling with some nameless, faceless friend that nobody will remember. Your memories, however, will be clear and oh so painful. Oh, and one more thing... mentioning the name Xena will not help you. People will think you’re crazy. Remember she has been warring and pillaging at the same time you were gone. No time to carry on with a lonely peasant girl."

Gabrielle looked up into the black eyes of the vengeful god and spit. "You will not win!"

Ares wiped the spit of his face then reached out to tenderly touch the bards face. "I already have."

Xena’s body now shook with raw emotion. "How can you be so cruel? Let me die to her!"

Ares stood up and walked over to Xena. "Let’s just say I’m a little irritated by how hard I had to work to get you back. Somebody’s got to suffer." A sick smile before he continued. " Do we have a deal or do I let Mercurio finish the annoying brat?"

"Xena please don’t...please..you promised." Gabrielle was now sobbing wildly and thrashing at her bindings. She was about to lose her one true love. Her heart was breaking as she tried to reach Xena. "We can win..don’t go back!"

Gabrielle’s words pounded against the armor of Xena’s chest. In all her life she had never surrendered but now it was inevitable. Perhaps it was better this way. How much longer could her lover survive Xena’s dark past? Regretfully, she would always be a target. Tears came to Xena’s eyes. Inwardly, she cursed herself for letting Ares and Mercurio see this emotion. She looked at Ares her chin pointed up never ceding defeat. "Yes, it’s a deal. Don’t kill Gabrielle let her live in peace." The words came out of her mouth but she didn’t hear them because she was about to lose everything that ever mattered to her. She looked down at her lover who was now gaping at her in shock. "Let me say goodbye at least." Ares nodded for he knew better than to push it.

"Alright, but leave the sword and chakram here and I’m going to have to bind your hands."

"You what?" Xena asked her eyes narrowing.

"Look, I can’t trust you completely. I’ve seen you escape from situations worse than this. Don’t try anything... for the Queens sake."

"You piece of horse-"

"Uh uh, be nice or I take you away now."

"Fine." Xena put her hands in front of her while two men quickly bound them. She walked over to her love kneeling in front of the weeping woman. "My heart" she said quietly.

Gabrielle held her breath wanting this to be some part of a plan Xena had for their escape. Upon looking at her lover’s face the tears she saw said otherwise. "Xena." Sobs began to wrack the bard’s body forcing her to stop. She looked down at the ground unable to see the defeat in Xena’s blue eyes.

"Gabrielle please look at me...I need to talk to you." With bound hands she lifted Gabrielle’s chin forcing her to meet her gaze.

‘Please don’t,’ the bard silently pleaded to herself ‘don’t do this’ but she knew it was too late. Slowly, she met Xena’s eyes.

Xena smiled but the pain was clearly written on her face. She was about to give up the one thing that has ever brought her happiness or true redemption. She could feel her heart already going cold. "My love....we have to say good bye."

"No!" Gabrielle yelled out in a sob. "I can’t do it...please don’t do this Xena, please." Still on her knees with her hands tied in front of her, she inched her way forward resting her head on Xena’s shoulder. "Don’t give up. We can get out of this."

Xena buried her head into her lovers neck. She let the emotions assault her body more painful than any physical blow. "No we can’t Gabrielle. I’ve already thought it through, gone through every scenario." She braced herself for the bards reaction. "This is the only way. I’m sorry."

"Then they might as well kill me! I’m dead already without you." Gabrielle struggled to stand but Xena held her back gripping her arm tightly.

"Gabrielle no! I will not live with your blood on my hands!" Her voice, an octave louder, warned the bard to stay down. "Can’t you see that I’m doing this for you? Of all the things I’ve done in my life the only thing I’m proud of is keeping you safe." A slight smile came to her face. "Well, relatively safe."

"Please....don’t joke Xena"

"I know I’m sorry...I just can’t bear the pain." She moved her mouth closer to her bard’s ear whispering so only she could hear. "My love please forgive me for what I’m about to do but there’s just no other way. If I watch you die knowing that it’s because of me I...I don’t think that I could survive. Ares would win regardless. That’s not what you want right?" She felt Gabrielle nod against her shoulder. "I have to give you this chance to live, you’re so young and full of love I can’t see that stripped from this world. Live in peace as your life should have been before me." Xena paused. The words that she was about to speak hurt her to the very core. "You’ll find somebody else..."

Gabrielle’s grief now turned to rage. Jerking her head up to glare at the suffering warrior her green eyes were wide with fury. Through clenched teeth she began. "If you think that I will ever be able to love another then you are sorely mistaken. For two years I followed you around and felt my love grow for you each day. I can’t imagine anyone making me feel more complete than you. How can I move on when my soul is being ripped out of me? You think I’ll find peace? Xena you saved me as I saved you. For me there will be no other...joy and peace will become words that have no meaning for me. So don’t tell me that I’ll find somebody else or to enjoy my life, it’s not going to happen." Her green eyes dimmed as the truth of her words stung Xena. "You have no right to make this choice for me!" Gabrielle could no longer hold back the violent rush of emotions and her body began to shake bitterly.

Xena closed her eyes to the bards desperate words, shutting down her own needs in the process. "Maybe not Gabrielle, but you have to hear me. Please listen to me before Ares takes me away." The warrior steeled herself against her own words; the words that never did come easy to the hardened woman she had become. "Do you know that you’re my light? You have been keeping my darkness at bay vanquishing an angry ex-warlord with kindness and love. If you die so does my hope. Do you understand?"

Gabrielle struggled to understand but the hurt was now so immense. Numbly she nodded "yes" without knowing why.

Xena reached up to stroke her love’s face with bound hands. Gabrielle relished the feel of the warriors calloused fingertips only increasing the depths of her sorrow. "My sweet bard, please don’t let the warmth in your heart die. You must move forward...it is your destiny." Xena could almost laugh at the irony. Just months before Gabrielle had pleaded with Xena to realize her destiny. ‘The fates are truly cruel.’

"Xena-" The bard started put was quickly quieted by fingers pressing against her lips. Xena understood the question in Gabrielle’s voice. Softly she spoke. "No, you won’t know me again after this. Don’t try to find me." She took Gabrielle’s hands and squeezed them gently. "Promise me...I don’t want you dead." She looked down unable to control the tears. "Especially by my hand."

"Xena you could never hurt me. I know in my heart."

"You don’t know what I was. I’ll be giving myself over completely. Ares will accept nothing less. The battle for my soul is over Gabrielle. The Xena that saved you from the slavers won’t exist anymore. When we met, I understood the evil and the need for redemption. You helped me find my way. But the warlord I had become after Caesar only understood one thing: death. Gabrielle, I have killed merely for the pleasure and power." Her voice shook at this admission. She had to make Gabrielle understand. "I would run through villages like Potidaea ravaging everything. Taking and killing what ever got in my way. I didn’t care I had no remorse. I captured girls like you taking them to my tent and-" A slap stung her face.

"Enough!" Gabrielle could endure no more. Ares smirked at the violent display.

"Promise me." Xena’s voice was low but demanding and her face burned from the bard’s desperation. Gabrielle shook her head not wanting to believe the blackness that lie in her love. Xena felt her anger rise. "PROMISE ME!!"

"Yes! I promise." She collapsed fully to the ground. Her stomach tightening in seizures of pain. Her promise lay heavy on her soul.

"Xena, I think it’s about time to-"

"Shut up!" She turned to glare at Ares who had dared to speak, coldness vocalized as she requested more time. "At least give me this." He nodded in affirmation but he would not wait much longer.

Tenderly, Xena lifted Gabrielle into a cradling embrace. Rocking her lover, she pulled her closer protecting her from the eyes of men. The two lover’s sat exposed by the side of a road surrounded by what remained of Mercurio’s fifty soldiers. The sky darkened and heralding thunder announced the torrent. Xena moved her lips down beside the bard’s ear. Taking a moment to relish the scent of her hair. "Know that I will always love you. The Xena you helped to create will love you forever." With these final words she lifted Gabrielle’s face placing a delicate kiss on trembling lips.

A white hot light shot through both of them. The pain in Gabrielle’s head was unbearable. Desperately she brought her hands up to her temples. Teeth gritting she called out to Xena. The rain had started to fall and Gabrielle could feel the drops like tiny needle pricks. Although, her eyes were closed from the agony she could still feel Xena’s embrace tightening around her like a vice. The rain was now a deluge beating on them with extreme gravitational force. The pain was intensifying. Through closed eyelids, Gabrielle could only see a flashing of white and black dots. Through the sheer strength of her will she cried out in despair. "No!! Don’t let this happen!" She felt Xena’s grip loosen then was gone. She heard the warrior’s voice as if she was traveling down a tunnel. It cried out to her. Gabrielle collapsed, only seeing black.

A Third Death: Part 2

Chapter 5: Potidaea

Hours had passed as the spent bard lay unconscious in the field. It was raining lightly as the day’s sun began it descent into the night. The tall grass and dimming light hid the strawberry-blonde from view of all living creatures. The bard’s lips started to move as if she were to tell a story. She began to gingerly move her head side to side with the silent mutterings now finding a voice. With her eyes still shut her brow creased displaying fervent concentration. Instantly her upper body shot up into a sitting position and her mouth gasped for air. Her eyes flew open wide in terror. "Xena" the word left her lips as a moan. Hoping that it had all been a terrible nightmare she scanned her surroundings. It was getting dark. She fumbled to her feet searching for a sign of Xena. There was none. ‘This can’t be.’ Gabrielle searched for an explanation. She felt a stinging sensation at her neck. Absent of mind she reached up to feel what was causing the discomfort. Her fingers felt a wet residue. She traced it with one finger and felt it form a thin line directly under her chin. ‘Blood?’ With that thought Gabrielle knew the hurtful truth. Ares had taken her beloved. She had to go find Xena. "Promise me!" The words echoed in the bard’s ears. She stumbled from the ricocheting sound. Her promise was the last sentence to the warrior. A heaviness pushed her back down to her knees and she wept with abandon.

***

Lila had just finished preparing dinner. Her mother, Hecuba, was setting the table for them to eat. She could hear the rain still beating on the tiled roof. "When will this rain cease?" She asked to nobody in particular. She thought it was strange that it would be raining like this at this time of the season. Earlier at the market others had also expressed the same thoughts.

Herodotus burst through the door. "What in Hades name is this weather doing?" He started to shake his body flinging moisture in all directions.

"Herodotus you’re as bad as a common dog, quit that." Hecuba moved quickly to his side trying to rid her husband of his wet belongings. After thoroughly scolding him, she sent him to their room to get ready for dinner. Lila laughed at the whole scene.

Eventually, the three of them sat at the table. Food was passed from hand to hand while they each told of their day. Lila, of course, had monopolized much of the conversation. "And then I told him that there was no way that I’d spend that kind of dinar.." Her hands in a flurry as she conveyed her story to a half-listening Herodotus and Hecuba. "He, of course, was adamant about the price but - what was that?" All three of them looked at the door.

"Are you expecting anybody Herodotus?" The matriarch asked her husband.

"No, it’s probably just Frankifus needing help with his flock. He never did know when to bring them in. Hold on I’ll get the door." He stood irritated at the thought of being disturbed at dinner.

"What is it -" He started as he flung the door open to speak with his annoying neighbor. "For gods’ sake. Hecuba come quickly." He reached down to pick up the crumpled form that had collapsed in his doorway. It was a woman, he could tell that, but by the way she was lying he could tell little more. Gingerly, he rolled the woman over to get a look at her face. His sharp intake of breath frightened his approaching wife. "For the love of - it’s Gabrielle!"

Hecuba almost stumbled as she knelt down by her unconscious daughter. Her hands quickly felt the bard’s skin. It was cold as ice. She turned to call out to her other daughter but found out that Lila was standing directly above her trying to get a look at her sister. "Go quickly get the healer." Lila was out the door moving faster than Hecuba or Herodotus had ever seen before. "Move her to her bed husband. We need to get her warm."

Herodotus picked up his daughter’s limp body moving her to her own bed. Her room had not been changed since she left. "What has happened to you Gabrielle?" He muttered as he laid her amongst the blankets. Silently, with much worry, the couple stood there looking over their daughter. They both knew that something or someone was missing but they couldn’t place it. Their concern soon overtook their curiosity.

The healer worked quickly. The frail women steeped herbs in hot water and force fed the semi-unconscious Amazon queen. It appeared that the girl had been traveling for days by the way she looked. She had also been in some fight by the scratch across her throat. She had seen enough wounds to know that it had been made by a knife. She neglected to tell that to her family. It was up to the girl to tell them her story. The healer was there only to treat wounds and sickness. After stitching the girl and placing more blankets upon her, she went to talk to the worried threesome. She knew the girl would be all right but would sleep for a very long time thanks to her herbal tea.

"How is she?" Hecuba raced to the healer as she stepped out of Gabrielle’s room. The healer took Hecuba’s hands before she spoke. "She is going to be fine. She looks exhausted and getting caught in this nasty rainstorm didn’t help much. She just needs her rest and after that she should be as good as new." Her words allowed Hecuba a sigh of relief. "Strange though..." The healer continued. "I thought your daughter left with someone all those moons ago."

Herodotus nodded. "She did but she has been gone so long I don’t remember much about this person. I do know that they better have a good explanation for leaving my daughter like that."

"Perhaps they parted a while ago father." Lila was also trying to remember her sisters traveling companion. " Gabrielle was obviously on her way home. She must have misjudged the severity of the storm."

"Hmmp," The stern father tilted his head in reply. "Gabrielle was never much good about getting out of the rain."

After the healer left they went back to their cold dinners. This time there was no evening banter. Each was lost in thought wondering about their wayward daughter and sister. Slowly, they finished their meals and went to bed.

Chapter 6: Differences

Two days had past since Gabrielle returned home. She had awoken only a few times. Just long enough to relieve herself and to be fed by her sister. Each time she had barely spoken a word. It was if she was just going through the motions not really aware of where she was. Lila had begun to worry. ‘Surely the healer could not be wrong,’ she thought to herself as she fed her sister some broth. "Gabrielle," she again tried to reach her despondent sister. The bard didn’t bother making eye contact. She stared across the room at the far wall opening her mouth only to receive the bland soup. "What has happened to you sister? Can you not even spare a smile for your family?" She put the bowl down and positioned herself in Gabrielle’s line of sight but Gabrielle didn’t even blink. "Gabrielle, what is it? Can you see me?" She waved a hand to test the bard’s eyesight.

"I can see you sister." Gabrielle replied in a scratchy voice but did not change her eye position. "I just need some time Lila. Please give me more time." She rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes. Lila nodded silently to Gabrielle’s back. She pulled the sheet up over her sister, picked up the bowl and retreated out the door.

"How is she?" Hecuba questioned as Lila returned with the unused broth.

Lila shook her head not really sure what to say. "Still no change."

"That girl better snap out of it right quick, "Herodotus spat angrily.

"Herodotus, you leave her alone. You hear me?" Hecuba reprimanded her impatient husband. "Gabrielle will be better soon and back to her old self. Perhaps then we will find out what happened to her."

"I hope so." Lila nodded absently in agreement. "I don’t know though. She seems so...sad. It’s almost infinite. I can feel it when I’m around her. I’ve never seen her like this she’s so different."

Gabrielle lay in the darkness of her bedroom. She could hear the muffled voices of her family down the hall. She knew that they were speaking of her. She just wanted to stay here, wrapped up in blankets with her eyes closed. She could see Xena then. Her head resting on her lap looking up at her with sapphire eyes and smiling. Gabrielle felt the familiar pain around her heart. She cried out in vain into the air. "Xena," Her cry was nothing more than a whisper. Slowly, she let sleep mercifully take her into unconsciousness. Her pain dulled.

Four more days had passed and the family from Potidaea had just risen to do their daily chores. Hecuba was in the kitchen preparing the morning meal. Herodotus had already left for the fields. He would be back later to eat. Lila was at the well fetching water. A few days ago the weather had returned to normal and the first rays of light were beginning to show on the trees outside. Hecuba was lost in thought slicing fruit when she heard a voice behind her.

"Mother." It was faint but Hecuba heard it. She whirled around to see Gabrielle standing in the doorway. Her daughter looked horrible. The bard was dressed in a beige shift and her eyes were bloodshot. She was squinting due to the lack of any real light for several days. Her hair was a mess and her skin was a pasty white. Hecuba had never been more relieved in all her life. She rushed over wrapping her daughter in a motherly embrace.

"Ugh, mother it’s nice to see you too." Gabrielle returned her mother’s hug in earnest. "I hope I didn’t worry you too much."

"Yes, Gabrielle you worried us very much but I’m so happy to see you up and out of bed." She let her daughter disentangle herself from her mother’s now suffocating clinch. "You look a fright. We need to get you cleaned up."

Gabrielle artfully dodged her mother’s advance. " I know mother. I was just so...tired. I’m still feeling rather weak. I think I need some solid food before a bath." She reached out to grasp her mother’s hand forcing herself to give a reassuring smile.

"Of course, here eat this fruit. I’ll make you some eggs." With that, Hecuba set the kitchen ablaze with a flurry of activity. It was enough to make the bard feel somewhat nauseous. Cautiously she brought the fruit up to her mouth. She had not eaten in days so she knew she should eat slowly. She was relieved, however, that her infamous appetite finally made a comeback.

"Gabrielle!" A shrill shriek came from the doorway. Lila dropped the two buckets of water she was carrying onto the stone floor inadvertently spilling most of its contents. "You’re up."

The bard smiled at her shocked sister. "Yes Lila, I’m up. Now I suggest you clean up that water before father comes back from the field."

Lila looked down at her sopping feet. "Geez." She reached for a cloth ignoring her chuckling mother. She bent down to wipe the floor her eyes fixed on Gabrielle. "I was just surprised. I’m glad you’re finally feeling better, but you still look horrible."

Gabrielle smiled showing her obvious amusement. "Thank you sister. Mother also pointed that out to me. I need some food before I bathe."

"Here eat this, it’ll bring back some of your strength." Hecuba placed a large plate of fried eggs in front of her daughter. "I want you to eat all of it."

The smell of the eggs sent Gabrielle’s stomach into a low rumble. Her resolve to eat slowly vanished as she plunged her utensil into the eggs. "Yes mother." She replied with a mouthful of food.

Hecuba and Lila sat silently watching Gabrielle devour her eggs and fruit. Satiated the bard leaned back in her chair letting her food finally digest. "That was delicious." A smile came to her face as it often did upon finishing a meal.

Hecuba smiled. "Good, now let’s get you cleaned up." She stood lifting Gabrielle with her. "Lila fetch some more water for your sister’s bath." Quickly, she turned dragging her daughter down to the bathing room.

***

Gabrielle, now clean and looking remarkably better, once again joined her mother and sister in the kitchen. She had dressed in a simple blue skirt and a white tunic. Her honey hair was down loosely around her shoulders. She was beautiful but had nobody around to truly appreciate it. Her mother and sister also noticed how differently Gabrielle looked when she re-entered the kitchen. Not only was she clean and her hair neatly combed, her physical appearance looked different. She had muscle where once there was only baby fat. Her face was thinner and she stood straighter with more confidence. She seemed so much older than when she left. In fact, so much older than she really was. They both looked at her as she sat in a chair by the wall.

"What?" Gabrielle responded to the questioning gazes.

Lila began. "It just that you look so different Gabby."

"I know, you already said I look horrible."

"No, it’s not that." Hecuba jumped in at Lila’s defense and perhaps her own. "You looked horrible because you had been ill. But now that you’re cleaned and fed you still look different. You’re not the girl that left us more than two summers ago." Gabrielle looked down at the floor unable to meet the inquiring looks in fear that she would burst out into tears. "What has happened my daughter? Why are you so sad?"

Gabrielle took in a deep breath. She knew that she would have to explain why she had appeared on their doorstep in the worst condition of her life. Her explanation, however, would not reveal the true reason for her sorrow or its depths. Slowly, she began and in true bard fashion she picked her words carefully. "When I left here, I left to travel with someone. Someone who I thought could bring me adventure, to teach me things I had only read about before. Do you remember?"

They both nodded then Lila spoke. "Yes, vaguely but I can’t remember much else other than it was a woman."

Gabrielle smiled at her sister as well as at her own memories. "Yes, it was a woman. The strongest woman I had ever seen. She saved us from slavers that day. Fearless in her fury she dispatched those men as easily as swatting at a fly. After that I begged her to let me follow her. She refused at first. Who would want an innocent peasant girl and bard wannabe trailing along. I was, much to her chagrin, very persistent and finally won her over with my cooking skills." Another smile but Hecuba and Lila saw it quickly vanish in a mask of pain. "We had many adventures over the seasons. We would travel from village to village helping people who needed help. She saved my life so many times I had lost count before our fourth moon together. I had many things to learn and she had many skills to share. That was one of her favorite sayings." Gabrielle lowered her voice emulating Xena’s. "‘I have many skills.’ She could be very funny when she wanted to be." Her voice softened but her eyes became vacant.

Gabrielle begun her story again trying to understand it herself. "Anyway I followed, documenting our adventures on my scrolls thankful that she hadn’t left me in some village along the way. By the end of our first summer we were close. Good friends and that friendship would only deepen. There wasn’t a thing that I wouldn’t do for her." Gabrielle looked down at the cold stone floor. A tear escaped and dropped. The bard watched its descent pausing before returning to her story.

"What happened Gabrielle?" Lila urged the bard on.

"Before we met, Xe...she had made some enemies. They were always looking for a way to get her. Eventually they did. Several days ago my friend was killed but I was spared. I made my way back here...to grieve. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you." Gabrielle broke down in tears before her last sentence was finished. She wasn’t just grieving the loss of her friend, it was the loss of her very soul. The hardest part was that she was to be alone in her anguish. The bard couldn’t even seek comfort from her family. They probably wouldn’t understand anyway.

Lila spoke in a soothing tone. "I’m so sorry Gabrielle." A brief pause before she asked. "What happened to your scrolls? I would like to read about her."

Gabrielle looked at her sister. "They were destroyed when we were attacked." She knew that she could never share her scrolls.

***

Hundreds of miles away night had fallen in a small village off the Eastern coast of Greece. Two armies had clashed battling for control of this village as well as another one farther south. It was a short but bloody contest. The defeated army losing many soldiers to the swift, organized operation that descended upon them. A message was sent that day. The victorious army was a force to be reckoned with. The warlord Xena would not be denied the territory that she sought. Word traveled quickly and the whole Eastern Coast braced themselves for things to come.

With the village firmly under Xena’s control she set off for the tavern. The villagers, who knew that they were just pawns in a game between two warlords, parted for her as she walked down the street. Each was careful to bow their heads slightly as to not make eye contact. The way she looked right now would cause children and people of peace nightmares for nights to come. Her black hair was windswept and hung wildly around her face. Her body was covered in dirt and blood. Her black leather had several gashes and her armor was discolored and her backplate bent from a sword strike. On her right arm was a gash caused by a dagger. That dagger was now embedded in a young man’s head. It was not this physical appearance which was so frightful it was the look in her eyes. The pale blue stood out against the bronze of her face, still wide with battle lust. Killing would be instinctual; people had reason to fear.

Xena entered the tavern with several of her men behind her. She scanned the room for a table and found the one she wanted. In the back by the wall. It was occupied. Her eyes narrowed as she made her way over to it and its patrons. Quickly, without a word it was deserted. A chair, still warm, was pulled out for the bloodied warrior. "Get me a port," she said to one of her men who had followed her in. "The rest of you leave me alone. Enjoy the night. We’ll stay here for a couple of days." The soldier she had dispatched quickly returned with a full mug of port. The warlord took it without emotion. "Go back to camp. Tell Mercurio that his squad will be on first watch. Nothing gets past the perimeter of this village. Do you understand?" She looked at the soldier, her eyes narrowed.

"Yes my lord."

"Go then." Xena flicked her wrist shooing the soldier away.

She leaned back up against the wall swallowing the port hard. It wasn’t the best she had tasted but it would do to take the edge off. She felt the slight stinging in her arm. She looked down to see what was causing her discomfort. Oh yes, the dagger, she sullenly thought to herself. She would have her healer look at it when she returned to camp.

She looked around the tavern. She noticed that most the villagers had quietly exited leaving only herself and her men behind. She smiled. She enjoyed the fear that she was instilling in these sleepy villages. Her campaign was well known. ‘Destroyer of Nations’ how fitting’. She smiled at the thought. Just then, another large group of her men came into the tavern. They were not part of the squads that were to have watch that night. Each one looked around then all eyes came to rest on the warlord in the back. Each bowed in supplication. She bent her head slightly forward in recognition never taking her eyes off of them. She then gestured with her hand, allowing them to partake in what the tavern had to offer.

Xena understood the needs of her men as they were her own. Surviving battle heightened your senses making you edgy. The adrenaline coursed through your body for hours afterward. If you weren’t injured seriously, you were euphoric. Most of her soldiers didn’t want to let go of this euphoria. Most wanted to enhance it. It was battlelust and Xena knew it well. Unless they were near a brothel, however, her men had to find other ways to take care of their lust. Xena’s code would not allow her men to take women unwillingly. If they did, their punishment was swift and cruel. This warlord had no mercy for rapists.

Seduction, on the other hand, is something Xena understood very well. She knew how to make a previously unwilling participant quiver in anticipation. It was one of her many skills. She had learned a long time ago that her body could be a powerful weapon, men or women it didn’t matter. Although lately, she had more of a taste for women then men. The softness of their bodies, the sweetness of their skin only served to heighten her lust.

"Would you like some more port?" A feminine voice brought Xena out of her contemplation. Cold blue eyes looked up to see a small barmaid holding a jug. She was attractive with delicate features and honey-blonde hair. Xena noticed that she was also seemingly more attracted to blondes lately. Her eyes were brown and the warlord found herself wishing they were green. This woman would do nicely, however.

"Yes, thank you." Xena pushed her mug away from her and smiled seductively at the barmaid. The barmaid’s stomach seized. She didn’t understand her fascination for this woman who had blood and dirt smeared all over her. Xena was the most feared warlord in all of Greece. Her power was awesome and terrifying. It repulsed the barmaid but also kept her at the table longer than she should have been. The barmaid smiled back and with a trembling hand she tilted the jug toward the mug.

"Is it cold in here?" The warrior’s voice had lowered slightly, her inflection becoming richer and deeper.

"What?" The barmaid over filled the mug and some port dribbled down the side.

"Your hands are shaking. I was just wondering if you’re cold." She reached out to grab the woman’s wrist. Her thumb circling behind to find the pulse point. She smiled as she felt it quicken.

The barmaid flinched and tried to pull away but Xena’s tight grip held her in place. "Yeah, I guess I am a bit cold, but I’ll warm up if I get back to work." Xena recognized the plea. She chose to ignore it. Instead she pulled the frightened woman closer. "Are you the only barmaid working?"

"Uh, yes." The blonde’s breath was now raspy. She struggled to remain calm. The warlord was still gripping her wrist but her thumb was making tiny circles on its underside. Her knees were trembling. The touch was tender and entrancing the barmaid with each movement. She had to get away but could not make herself to struggle against the hold. "Please...I need to get back to work."

"Of course." Xena released her grip. She raised an eyebrow as the barmaid almost stumbled back. "Are you all right?" A seductive smirk displayed on her beautiful but grungy face.

"Yes, I just lost my balance." Quickly she turned back to the bar. Xena knew that this game was far from over.

The scene did not go unnoticed by two of Xena’s men on the far side of the tavern. "I don’t understand it Terris. What does she have that I don’t?" The young soldier took a large swig of his mead still watching his commander by the wall.

"Which one?" His companion looked up from his meal.

"Which one? What do you think? Xena of course, you moron."He shook his head in frustration. "Look at her. She almost had that barmaid begging to squirm around on her lap. Why can’t I do that?"

His companion laughed. "Look at her you fool. I’d give my right eye to bed her."

The other looked at the now leering Terris. His hand shot up to his friends shoulder. "Easy, I bet she *would* take your right eye if she caught you looking at her like that. Without much pleasure for you I might add." A shudder ran down Terris’ spine. He quickly looked down at his meal. They both finished in dejected silence.

Xena continued to watch the barmaid as she finished her port. ‘Time for refill,’ she stood up and made her way to the bar. The blondes back was to Xena and she did not see her approaching. Suddenly, cool metal was pressed up to the bare portion of her back. A lean arm snaked around her right side holding a mug in strong hands. She could feel warm breath on the back of her neck. Unconsciously she leaned into the woman behind her.

"I need a refill." Xena said directly into her ear.

The barmaid started to turn around but was stopped by a firm hand on her waist. "No need to turn around my mug is here in front of you."

The bartender surveyed the situation and for some unknown reason felt the urge to protect his young barmaid. "Antonia could you come over here I need some..." Xena turned and shot the meddlesome bartender a warning glare. "Never mind, I can manage." He moved to the opposite end of the bar.

The warlord turned her attention back to the seemingly confused blonde. "Go ahead Antonia, pour the liquid into my mug." She moved closer letting her knee touch Antonia’s leg through her woven tunic. There was a perceptible shudder from the nervous barmaid. It took all her concentration to fill the vessel for the now demanding but gorgeous warrior. ‘Ahh, how easy they succumb’ Xena smiled and brought her free hand up to lightly trace Antonia’s shoulder blades. She moved her head in closer to smell the blonde shoulder length hair. "Mmmm, you bathe in jasmine. Very nice." She reached up underneath the barmaid’s hair to run five fingers up her neck and to the base of her scalp. Antonia’s knees weakened. "Would you like to show me where I can find some of that jasmine? I do need a bath." Xena had now taken Antonia’s earlobe into her teeth gently biting the sensitive zone.

Antonia couldn’t believe what was happening and right here in front of everybody. She was mortified but her body wouldn’t let her turn away. She was ashamed of the growing wetness between her legs and groaned as Xena continued her ministrations with mouth and hand. "Please I can’t. I’m to be married."

Xena spun the barmaid around quickly. Her cold gaze holding the brown eyes of the barmaid easily. "Perhaps you should rethink that decision Antonia." She forcefully pulled Antonia’s hair so that the barmaid head was tilted slightly back. She heard a gasp then saw parted lips. An invitation. "Your body tells me that you aren’t ready to settle down." She descended ready to crush Antonia’s lips with her own.

"Xena!" Her name traveled from the door.

Irritated with the interruption, Xena let go of the barmaid pushing her back in the process. She turned to glare at the person who dared to bother the lusting warlord. A heavily armored soldier made his way to the bar. He noted Xena’s glare and quickly rushed to an apology. "I’m sorry, I could see you were occupied but I have some scouting reports that need your immediate attention." He bowed slightly upon reaching Xena.

Xena looked down at her second in command. He was her most trusted and valuable soldier. She would forgive his intrusion. "Dimitrius, let’s discuss this back at my tent. Send someone to round up the men. I want them back at camp." He nodded and she walked out the door without even a backward glance at the barmaid.

[graceomeallain]

The Lady in the Lighthouse (prompt 6a)

Alice jolted as she came to, choking and spluttering up the icy seawater threatening to invade her lungs. She dragged herself up the beach, away from the harsh wave that had just crashed over her head, and collapsed against the freezing sand, too sapped of energy to go further. She coughed again, drops of seawater and flecks of sand escaping as she did. The roar of the raging sea behind her was deafening, and the rain lashed her back. Her jacket was lost to the depths of the sea, along with her hat and one of her boots, and she was shivering violently.

Somewhere in her exhausted mind, she realised that if she allowed herself to lie here much longer, she would pass out again against the sand already leeching the last dregs of warmth from her bones, and almost certainly die. If she could just drag herself off this beach, perhaps she could find shelter, if only under a bush, until this furious tempest exhausted itself, and she could see if any of her crewmates had survived the ordeal.

She very much doubted they had. She alone could swim, and when it had become clear that the sea had more then defeated them, while every man on board clung to the rig or the rail, she had surrendered to it, diving over the side and praying she would make it to land, rather than going down with the ship. Though the storm clouds had blotted out the sun and darkened the sky so it seemed like night, that had only been early evening. Now it was truly the middle of the night, and alone and frozen with no way to warm herself, Alice didn't know if she would see the sunrise.

Feeling her eyes beginning to slip shut, she forced herself to her knees. A blast of wind nearly sent her sprawling back into the waves she had barely pulled herself clear of, but she kept her balance, and with a Herculean effort, made it to her feet. Her fingers were stiff and stinging with cold, and she stuffed them under her arms as she stumbled up the beach, blown from side to side by wrenching gusts of wind. About halfway up the beach, her bare foot descended on a razor sharp shard of glass, concealed in the sand, and she yelled out in pain, her cry drowned by the thunder. Her foot gave, and she dropped to her knees, tears of pain and desperation mingling with the rainwater pouring down her face.

Every fibre of her ached to give in, to lie down and sleep in the soft sand beneath her knees, and leave herself to the mercy of the tempest, but she knew that if she did, she would never wake up again. She had sacrificed too much and travelled too far to let herself die now, when she was finally on the same soil as the one she had come all this way to find. She reached for the ring on her left hand, that had remained steadfast on her finger when most of her belongings and attire had failed her, and twisted it a few times, reminding herself why she had done all this. She had to keep her promise.

As she knelt in the sand, steeling herself to get up again and carry on, a jagged, forked bolt of lightning cut across the sky, and for a fraction of a second, the world was bathed in eerie light. Before everything was plunged into darkness again, Alice caught sight of a lighthouse on the headland at the end of the beach. Ordinarily, it would have been no more than a couple of minutes running, but in her current state, it might as well have been a hundred miles. Still, it was the only shelter she could see; there was no guarantee she'd find anywhere warm on the other side of the sand dunes further up the beach.

On legs so heavy she wondered that she could even drag her feet along, Alice forced herself to limp onward across the beach, trailing blood in the sand behind her. When she reached the headland, she allowed herself a pause. The lighthouse stood on a low cliff, separated from the churning ocean by a swathe of rough black rock. From the beach, a lightly worn dirt track led up through drenched grass to the lighthouse. It would normally have been a stroll, no more than a five minute walk, but just like the walk down the beach, it seemed insurmountable.

In the end, she managed most of the hill on her hands and knees, barely even noticing anymore as the gritty track tore at her breeches and grazed the heels of her palms. When the lighthouse finally loomed over her, she lurched to her feet, collapsing against the door and hammering on it with her fist. She waited, huddled against the door in an attempt to retain what little was left of her body heat, and when no answer came, she knocked again. Then a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth, with increasingly shorter pauses as she began to realise nobody was coming.

When the fifth knock went unanswered, she slid down the door to sit with her back against it, and curled into a ball. She was utterly spent, with no energy left to go elsewhere. Her best chance would be to huddle in this doorframe until morning and hope she survived that long. It was a slim chance, but at least the doorway was marginally better than the beach. She began to twist the ring on her finger again, praying that Ben would forgive her if she didn't find her way back.

Just as she was starting to drift into a sleep she was almost certain would be her last, she fell backwards onto hard stone. She opened her stinging, red rimmed eyes, and found herself staring up into another pair, strikingly green and illuminated by wobbling lamplight that cast shadows into the deep crevices around them. Alice scrambled to her feet as the door was shut behind her, and took in the wizened woman in front of her.

She was certain she'd never seen anyone so old in her life. The woman was hunched and gnarled, with wrinkles like valleys in her face, motley grey and white hair that looked like it hadn't seen the right end of a blade in years, and claw-like fingers that clutched the lantern in an unsteady grip. Unusually, she, like Alice, was wearing breeches and a shirt, and both looked like they'd seen more years on this earth than Alice had. Yet for all the marks time had etched into her, those green eyes were bright with intelligence, a young woman's eyes shining out of an ancient vessel, and Alice knew that this was not a senile old woman.

"My dear girl, what in God's name are you doing out on a night like this?" asked the woman.

Her voice was raspy, like blades screeching across each other, and its low pitch betrayed years, if not decades, of smoking the pipe that poked from her breast pocket, right next to a hip flask filled with a brown liquid. Her accent held faint traces of an Irish burr, but it was the accent of someone who had been away from their home country for many years.

"I was shipwrecked," Alice croaked out, bracing one hand on the wall to steady herself.

"Well, you must come in," said the woman, "come, come."

She held out her spare hand, and Alice hesitantly took it. It was rough and calloused, and the woman's fingers were bony but strong. She led Alice into the stairwell, and up an echoing stone spiral that seemed to go on forever until the lamp finally illuminated a heavy wooden door. The staircase continued upwards, but they didn't follow it. The old woman finally released Alice's hand to open the door, revealing a round room.

A large hearth was set into the wall, a pot hanging in it, and a threadbare armchair in front of it that looked like it might once have been red. The shrieking of the wind was still audible outside, and the rain assaulted the small windows, but no draughts crept in. This room was clearly the old woman's entire living space; a table was near the door, a single chair beside it, and across the room was a shelf of kitchen utensils, with a cupboard underneath it. Near the largest of the windows was a narrow bed, and a closet was pressed against the wall at the foot of it. On the opposite side of the room to the door, a curtain of worn and patched canvas, that wouldn't have looked out of place as a sail, obscured a small part of the room.

The old woman took a splint of wood from the table, and lit it from the lantern, then set the lantern down on the table and crossed to the hearth. She dropped the splint onto the logs stacked there, and pulled the flask from her pocket, uncorking it and tossing a dash of whatever was inside onto the hearth. A bright flame flared and caught, and the wood began to crackle. Alice was by the hearth in the time it took the woman to lift the flask to her lips and take a swig. She knelt next to it, holding her numb fingers as close as she dared to the sparking logs.

The feeling came back into her extremities painfully, like the pricking of a hundred needles against her skin, then like she'd stuck her hand directly into the fire, but anything was better than the deadly cold of the storm. The pain was just starting to abate when the woman returned and handed her a bundle of clothes, gesturing to the curtain.

"You'll catch your death in those clothes," she said, "I'll fix us something to eat, you get changed."

"Thank you."

Alice was loathe to leave her warm spot by the fire, but she knew the woman was right. She got to her feet, and her eyes went wide with horror as she saw a bloodstain on the rug beneath her, left by her foot.

"I'm so sorry," she said, looking down at it, "I didn't realise it was bleeding so heavily."

"Oh, don't worry, dear," said the woman, "you just get changed, I'll fix that up in no time. You can leave those wet things in the tub."

Alice nodded, and slipped behind the curtain. It felt like sailcloth, as well as looking like it, and it smelled like salt. Behind it was a tub that was currently drained, and Alice slowly changed out of her sodden clothes and into the mercifully dry breeches, socks and shirt the woman had given her, leaving a sock off her bleeding foot. The woman's hunch made her look smaller than she was - the clothes weren't a bad fit. She dropped her own clothes into the tub, and wrung out her straggly black hair over it, so it wasn't dripping.

When she emerged, the woman was poking at something in the pot over the fire, and she had pulled the wooden chair over to sit by the armchair. A knife sat on the chair, along with a bandage and a rag.

"Much better," said the woman as she looked at Alice's dry clothes, "come sit, let me take a look at your foot."

The woman took the chair with the bandage, and when Alice sat in the armchair, held out a hand for Alice's foot. Sh lifted it, and the woman inspected it closely, bony fingers pressing hard against Alice's ankle.

"Hmm, painful that," she said, "you'll be alright, though, there's nothing lodged inside. This'll sting."

She opened her flask again, and tipped a little of the contents onto the rag. When she held it to Alice's foot, it burned against the wound, and Alice sucked in a sharp breath. After a few seconds, the woman removed it, and cut a length of the bandage. As she began expertly wrapping Alice's foot, a smell floated over from the pot above the fire that was nothing short of heavenly. When the woman finished, the tucked the bandage under itself to secure it, and stood up.

"There now," she said, "get a sock over that, I'll get us some stew."

She fetched two bowls and two spoons from the cupboard under the rack of kitchen utensils, and dished up a nondescript, dark coloured stew, handing one bowl to Alice. In reality, it was nothing particularly special, much akin to the things Alice had eaten every day on the long voyage from Port Royal, but she gulped it down faster than she'd ever eaten before, not realising until she took the first bite how starved she was.

Once she had eaten, warmer and fuller than she had been before, she began to think a little more coherently, and she realised she had yet to hear the name of the ancient woman currently packing away the bowls.

"What's your name?" she asked.

The woman looked over her shoulder with a curious expression on her face, as if she was surprised to be asked.

"Annie," she said, "yourself?"

"Alice."

"And how'd you come to be shipwrecked, Alice?" asked Annie, "your captain must have been soft in the head to sail through these waters. The storm clouds have been gathering since dawn, and it's a ship killer out there."

"He isn't," said Alice, then corrected herself, "he wasn't. We were set upon by pirates, and the only way to outrun them was into the storm."

Annie gave a rattling, mirthless laugh.

"Pirates? There hasn't been a real pirate from here to Boston in a lifetime."

Alice felt her temper flare a little at that; her entire crew had been driven to their deaths by pirates, and this old woman in her lighthouse was claiming they didn't exist.

"There are, they were flying the black flag!"

"Piracy was stamped out before you were a twinkle in your mam's eye," said Annie.

Already irritated, Alice felt a sudden wave of anger break over her.

"Why is there no light on upstairs? This is a lighthouse. We might have made a safe landing if we'd had a guide, why didn't you have the light on?"

"With the force of the wind? This bay's dangerous, dear. No helmsman alive could navigate his way into it with his sails furled and only the lighthouse for a guide, and with the wind as it is, no ship could have its sails out without having the masts ripped clean from the hull. It's precarious out there, but at least it's open water. There's always more of a chance than there would have been here - you would have run aground, sure as the sun'll rise tomorrow."

Alice blinked a few times. Annie was right, now she considered it, but how the old woman knew so much about seafaring was another thing to add to the list of mysteries.

"In any case, how was it you ended up on board a ship in the first place?" asked Annie, "you don't look like a sailor. Certainly don't sound like one."

"I was running away," said Alice, beginning to twist the ring on her finger unconsciously.

Annie gave her a knowing nod, and looked at her hand.

"From your husband?"

Alice shook her head immediately.

"No, nothing like that. I'm not married."

Annie sat down, raising an eyebrow. She'd rolled up her sleeves in the time she was away from the hearth, and her forearms were littered with old scars, remnants of slashes and burns. Alice couldn't fathom how this women had come to be here, or where she had come from.

"What's the ring for?"

"I'm engaged."

"Running to something, then."

Alice allowed herself a smile as she thought about how close she was to Ben. Within the week, she would be back in his arms, and it was a reassuring thought, even as she sat in this dark lighthouse with a woman who was becoming ever more of an enigma.

"Ben," she said, "when we lived in England, I fell in love with him, but my father disapproved, because he was poor. We moved to Charlestown, and I promised him I would come back. So I dressed as a man, and came on board a merchant ship."

It had been months since she'd last seen him, since she'd waved tearfully from the back of her father's carriage as he stood in the fields, doubled over and breathless and unable to keep pace any further. She didn't doubt for a second that he would still be there, with the money they had stashed to start a life away from her father and the trappings of the lifestyle he insisted on. The thought made her want to run out into the storm and all the way to him in one night.

"You love this Ben, then?"

"Very much," Alice said honestly.

Annie's eyes turned wistful, and she gave a slight smile, reaching up to finger a ring on a chain around her neck that Alice hadn't noticed before. The chain it hung on was weathered and tarnished, like everything else in the room, but the ring was clearly gold, and it still shone in the firelight.

"I loved a man, once," she said, "before even your father was born, probably."

"What was his name?"

"Jack. When I was young, I was married, but I wasn't in love. But as soon as we met, I knew we were cut from the same cloth, Jack and I. He swept me off my feet, and I ran away with him. We went places and did things you couldn't begin to imagine."

"What happened to him?"

"He died young."

Her tone was wistful, and Alice's heart broke for her. The story reminded her of Ben, and her breath caught in her throat at the very thought of what it would be like to lose him young.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I imagine I'll find him again soon, on the other side."

There was a faraway look in her eyes as she looked out of the rain spattered window to the roiling, black sea, and Alice was even more curious than she'd been before.

"How did you come to own this lighthouse?"

"Well, not many people are drawn to the life of a lighthouse keeper, dear. The old man was getting married, he gave it over for free."

"But you're drawn to it?"

Another rasping, almost bitter laugh.

"Not at all."

She didn't elaborate, and Alice sensed she wouldn't even if asked. There was a long pause filled by the crackling of the fire and the storm outside, then Annie got to her feet.

"You must be exhausted, dear," she said, "there's a chest behind the curtain, on the other side of the tub, there should be a blanket in there for you. Tomorrow morning, I'll see you're on your way to your Ben."

She had lit a candle while Alice was eating, and she handed it to her now.

"Thank you."

Alice got up and ducked past the sailcloth again, moving around the tub. Two chests sat in the corner there. One was a plain wooden box, like a shipping crate, but the other was more intricate, iron bound with a keyhole. The thick layer of dust coating it made it impossible to tell what colour it actually was, and told Alice beyond any doubt that Annie had meant the other crate, but the sailcloth fully obscured her actions, and curiosity got the better of her. Wedging her fingernails into the crack where the chest shut so as not to disturb the dust, she lifted the lid just enough for the light of the candle sitting next to her to catch the trigger of a pistol inside.

Alice's chest tightened, and her mind began to race. She was young and strong where Annie was old and wizened, but there was clearly more to Annie than met the eye, and they had only just met. She was an old woman living alone. Perhaps the pistol was for her own protection, but Alice was uneasy all the same. Perhaps she shouldn't trust her. A bellow of thunder from beyond the walls reminded her that she had little choice.

Quick footsteps warned her of Annie's approach, and she hurriedly shut the chest, just in time for Annie's head to appear around the sailcloth.

"The one on the right, dear," she said.

"Thanks," said Alice, "I was about to ask."

Annie left again, and Alice waited for her racing heart to return to normal, then opened the crate and pulled out a blanket, shaking it to reveal any insects. Nothing undesirable fell from it, so she shut the crate again, and came back out to find Annie getting into bed, boots abandoned.

"Sorry there's only the armchair, dear," she said, "there was a time I'd have offered, but I'm afraid I'm too old to sleep anywhere but a bed these days."

"That's okay," said Alice, "thank you again for letting me stay."

"No trouble at all," said Annie, "goodnight, dear."

Annie settled down in the armchair and pulled the blanket up to her chin, watching the flames in the hearth flicker and die to embers. She was bone tired, but she couldn't fall asleep. Every time her eyes began to drift shut, on the edge of falling into the sleep of the dead, something pulled her back from the precipice, and she was jolted into full wakefulness again, no less exhausted than she had been before.

Eventually, she realised it was Annie. The armchair faced away from the bed. She had no way of turning it without looking suspicious, and no way of falling asleep until she knew exactly who she would be sleeping with her back to. She had to know what was in that chest. Once the resolution had been made, she found it easier to stay fully alert. She waited for several minutes, the steady pattern of Annie's breathing slow and constant. After minutes of that, she was certain the old woman was asleep.

She shifted the blanket back and tentatively set her feet down on the floor. She crept across the room, treading gingerly so her socks didn't hiss across the stone, and slipped behind the sailcloth curtain. She knelt down beside the chest again, and glanced up at the small window above it. The moon was still hidden behind the walls of clouds, but the odd flash of lightning illuminated the world outside, so she lifted the chest onto the stone window ledge, and eased it open.

Even in the low light, the items on top were easy to make out. Three knives - not kitchen knives, but the sort sailors wore at their belts for working in the rig and fighting - and a pistol. She checked, and found it unloaded. Every rational part of her told her that that ought to be the end of it. Annie was no threat, and she should go to bed, but her curiosity overwhelmed her instinct towards self preservation all of a sudden.

She removed the weapons painstakingly carefully to look underneath. A large, leather pouch sat on one side of the chest, shut with a drawstring, and reaching inside, Alice's fingers traced over scores of coins she knew by shape to be gold. What was someone with this much gold doing in a lighthouse with furniture as old as she was?

Alice pushed it aside, not daring to lift it for fear of the clink of coins being moved, and reached for what remained - a compass, a necklace of shells and two folded sheets of paper so fragile that Alice thought they might break when she picked them up. She set the shells and compass down by the pistol, and unfolded the first sheet of paper. Holding it close to the icy glass of the window, she could see the imposing word stamped at the top of it. WANTED.

Underneath the word was a picture drawn by a sketch artist of two people from the shoulders up. On the left, a man with sharp features, a jagged scar across his face and a necklace of shells around his neck, and on the right, a woman with long hair, harsh faced but beautiful, and implacably familiar.

Alice held it closer to the window still, and brought her face nearer, squinting at the writing underneath to see it in the dim light. Wanted for the crimes of high seas piracy, robbery, murder and treason against the crown, Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny. Alice looked at the woman again, and saw a face she recognised, as it had been before time had worked its evils.

Everything came together at once, and it was all Alice could do not to recoil from the poster. That unravelled Annie's mystery all at once. Alice was under the roof of a cutthroat pirate masquerading as a sweet old lady, and the urge to run out into the night was as strong as a riptide. But it wasn't quite strong enough to overcome her desperation to know the whole story. She replaced the poster, and unfolded the last sheet of paper.

It was a letter, written in the large, scrawling hand of someone clearly unused to writing. Trying to put the killer in the next room out of her mind, Alice held it to the window and began to decipher the messy scrawl.

Annie, it read, I'm writing this as I sit in the hold. Even though you're one of the fiercest fighters I've ever been lucky enough to know, I know you can't match up to England's whole navy, so I don't know if we'll ever get the chance to talk again. I tried to wait for you to come below when the soldiers arrived, but the crew barricaded us down here anyway. I pray they let you live to stand trial, and that I can slip you this note somewhere between here and Charlestown. I'll try and slip my necklace, too, as a memento - I don't think it'll go well with the rope round my neck, do you? Love, I'm for the noose, but you don't have to be. Plead your belly at your trial, and they'll have to wait to kill you. I know you, and I know you'll be brilliant enough to find a way to escape in that time, just like you were brilliant enough to find a way to run away with me, once. You have years left to live, and so many places to go and things to do. I will see you again, one day, I don't doubt it for a second. When I do, I expect to hear stories of a life fully lived. In the meantime, know that I love you, and I'm so sorry it had to end like this. Yours, always, Jack.

Alice folded the letter again, horrified by the tears that sprung to her eyes. The woman separated from her by only a sailcloth was a pirate, the most depraved of monsters, the villain in the stories Alice had been told as a child. Her husband was cut from the same cloth, she had said it herself. And yet here in this letter was not a monster, but a man, heart and soul spilled over the page for the woman who had kept it for decades, and who still wore her wedding ring around her neck. The sincerity in the scratchy letter in front of her was almost enough to move Alice to tears, and a wave of shame washed over her for the revulsion she'd felt when she realised Annie was a pirate, for assuming the woman who had taken her in from the storm to be a monster.

She tucked the papers away again, and replaced the necklace and weapons, careful to arrange them as they had been before. Once everything was as it had been, she set the chest back in its original spot on the floor. She padded back out from behind the sailcloth and into the room beyond. As soon as she was out, a heavy dread spread across her shoulders, and she froze. Unable to place anything wrong, she let out a long breath, and shook herself. It was just guilt. Nerves assuaged, she collapsed into the armchair, and all but passed out.

She woke stiff but refreshed, a shaft of pale sunlight falling across her face, and uncurled out of the armchair. Through the window, she could sea a calm sea, exhausted by the rage of the previous night. The roaring of the wind was gone, and the world was silent. She was halfway to the window when her heart stopped, and she realised what had put such a feeling of dread in her the previous night, when her instincts had known more than her. The rhythm of Annie's breathing that she had listened so carefully to had stopped.

Alice whirled and ran to the old woman's bed, needing to be sure she was alright. Annie was lying on her back, eyes closed and wrinkled face peaceful. For all the world, she could have been asleep, but she was preternaturally still. Alice held a finger under her nose and felt nothing.

"Annie." No response. "Annie." She shook the old woman's shoulder, but Annie was a deadweight. "Annie, wake up."

She shook her again, felt for breath, and felt for a pulse, but after a few desperate minutes, it was clear that there was no life left in the woman in on the bed in front of her. Her heart must have given out. Alice sat down heavily on the side of the bed, stunned. She had seemed in the best of health the previous evening, but then again, she was almost unbelievably old.

Alice sat there for several minutes, floundering in her mind. She couldn't just leave Annie there, but she also couldn't stay long enough to arrange any kind of funeral; her father would have sent people to stop her as soon as he realised she was gone. He had to know where she'd be headed, and they would be only days behind. She had to reach Ben before they did. There had to be a town nearby, she realised eventually. They had been shipwrecked off the coast of Cornwall, and the surrounding area was littered with little villages. She would stop in the nearest town on her way north, and let the local priest know. She could pay him out of Annie's stash of gold coins to ensure she was given a proper funeral.

Resolved on a plan, she decided she had to be on her way. She cast about the room, and her eyes fell on her lone boot. She certainly couldn't travel all the way to Ben in one boot, and though it made her uneasy to wear a dead woman's shoes, she was forced to don Annie's. She returned to the room behind the sailcloth and opened the chest, taking the pouch of gold coins. The lid was half shut when she stopped and reached back inside, retrieving the necklace of shells and the compass.

She stopped by Annie's bed once more before she left, pushing back a long curtain of salt and pepper hair so she could reach behind her neck, trying not to grimace at the cold skin under her fingers. She fastened the shells around Annie's neck, then tucked the compass into her deep breast pocket, beside the pipe and flask.

"To help you find him," she said quietly, "on the other side."

With that, she turned and left behind the room, and the lighthouse, and the strangest acquaintance she'd ever met, or ever would again.

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[iamvegorott]

Undercover Love Ch. 1

Here it is! The hitman au story!

Summary: The Ipliers and Septiceyes are both groups of hitmen for hire, the do more than killing for money but hey find it easier to call themselves that. The Ipliers are strict, very organized and their leader is seen as stiff and professional while the Septieyes are more fun-loving and their leader is seen more as a parent. The two groups end up needing to work together for a job and after an incident in the Iplier headquarters, they end up in the same building and soon they have to learn how to accept and adapt to the other's style of work. 

Meet The Septics

Dark and Wilford stepped up to the silver building, the camera above the door told them that they were being watched. Dark just raised a brow before holding a piece of paper up to the camera. There was a pause and then a loud buzzer went off, the door popping open as soon as it was done.

“Fancy.” Wilford sang with a little shimmy. Dark only rolled his eyes before stepping into the building first, Wilford right behind him and then moving to his side the moment he was able to.

“We’re here to get the information we need and then we’re going home. That’s it.” Dark stated as they walked, both of them stopped when they found a purple haired man sitting on the floor, folding some brightly colored paper. The man was highly focused on his craft to notice Dark and Wilford. Dark tried to get his attention by clearing his throat but got nothing. “Hello?”

“Hi!” The man greeted with a large smile when he looked up at them and then went back to his folding. Dark made a face and stiffened but Wilford stepped forward before Dark could speak again.

“I’m Wilford, and this is my friend Dark, we’re here from the Ipliers.” The man perked up when Wilford said the last word.

“Oh!” The man scrambled to his feet and bounced a little. “I’m Robbie! Follow me!” He said cheerfully and walked off.

“He sounds like a child,” Dark said in a whisper to Wilford as they followed Robbie.

“I think it’s-oh my God, it smells like chocolate!” Wilford shouted when a large, iron door was opened, the strong scent hitting them both.

“Welcome to the Septiceyes!” Robbie giggled and ran deeper into the large room. Robbie went up to a wall that was covered with monitors and control panels that stuck out by several feet.

“Hey, Robbo, are they here?” A man with light green hair and a hat asked. Robbie nodded his head and took one of the cookies that were on a plate. The man turned his head and saw Dark and Wilford. “Hello!” The man greeted and went over to the two.

“Cookies?” Dark asked, raising a brow.

“You can help yourself if you wish.” The man offered.

“No thank-”

“Sweet!” Wilford chuckled and went to the control panel.

“I’m Chase, head of the Septiceyes.”

“Dark. Head of the Ipliers.” Dark took the hand Chase had held out and shook it. “And that’s our weapon’s expert, Wilford. Sometimes I hesitate to call him second in command.” Dark said the last part as a mumble.

“Marvin!” Chase called over his shoulder. “He’s my second in command.”

“What do you need?” A man with dark green hair and a cat mask asked. “Is this the head of the Ipliers?”

“Yes. I’m here for the information about our newest target. We were told to speak with you since it seems the target has had past relations with the target.” Dark stated.

“Anti.” Marvin and Chase said together.

“Who?” Dark asked.

“You’ll meet him later, he’s...resting.” Chase chuckled.

“You spooked me a little.” Wilford chuckled as Dark continued his conversation with Marvin and Chase.

“Sorry.” The man who had snuck up on him signed.

“Maybe you can make it up to me later? Mr…”

“J-A-M-E-S-O-N or J-J.”

“Well, Jamesy, I gotta say I do love your bowtie.” Wilford winked, pinching the end of JJ’s bowtie with his thumb and index finger. “I’m a fan of them myself.” JJ just went a little red and silently giggled. “If you’re not busy tonight, would you mind-”

“Wilford, we’re leaving.” Dark’s call cut Wilford short.

“Perhaps I could give you my-” Wilford stopped again when JJ took a marker from his vest’s pocket and wrote his phone number on Wilford’s arm.

“Text. Me.” JJ signed and winked. Wilford just chuckled deeply and awkwardly pointed as Dark called his name again.

“Bye,” Wilford said and followed Dark out of the room.

“Someone’s crushing~” Chase sang when the two Ipliers left. JJ’s face was a little redder and he placed a hand to his cheek. “I’m sure I can find some reason to get them to come back.”

“I’m sure the pink one would not complain.” A man wearing a red outfit and blue eyes mask giggled, bouncing over to hug the still blushing JJ.

“Pink one? Who are you talking about, Jackie?” A man with a long, thick scar across his neck asked as he entered the room. “Did I miss something?”

“The Ipliers were here just a moment ago and JJ here has a crush on one of them,” Chase explained.

“Oh~” The man looped his arm through JJ’s. “Does someone want some Iplier booty? And by the sounds of it, there were two and that sounds twice as fun.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Anti.” A man with a thick German accent called from a couch on the other side of the room.

“I would never imply anything, Henrik,” Anti said with fake offense, placing a hand to his chest.

“Your life is nothing but innuendos and then acting out on those innuendos,” Henrik stated.

“At least I have some fun, Mr. Stiff. Although I doubt you’re able to-”

“Don’t make me put you in time out,” Chase warned.

“But-”

“How about we change the subject?” Marvin suggested, handing Anti a piece of paper. “It looks like an ex of yours has gotten into some trouble.”

“Sweet.” Anti chuckled. “Let’s give her hell.”

Back at the Iplier’s headquarters, Dark was trying to read the information he had been given by the Septiceyes while Wilford told the others about what had happened.

“Dude! You got his number already!? It took Googs weeks to even speak to me.”

“It did not take me that long, Bing.” Googs, also known as Google, protested.

“It took a month for you to kiss him.” Wilford teased.

“I’m sorry that I don’t like rushing into things like everyone else.” Google huffed while Bing hugged his arm.

“It was worth the wait.” Bing giggled.

“You two are gross.” The man sitting next to the two stuck out his tongue.

“Bim’s just jealous that he’s too embarrassed to ask out-”

“Hush!” Bim cut Wilford off when a young woman with bright red hair joined the group. “Hi, Yandere.” Bim greeted with a nervous chuckle.

“Host would like to say that Dark’s annoyance is clear as he tries to read the report.” Host, a man with a bloodied cloth over his eyes, stated.

“I can’t read half of what is here.” Dark huffed, tossing the papers down. “Her handwriting is nothing but swirls and his looks like he took his pen and drew lines and dots all over it.”

“Shall Bing and I take a look?” Google offered.

“Be my guest. Wilford and I will most likely go back over tomorrow to get a clarification and no, Wil, you can’t spend the whole time flirting with that Septiceye.” Dark said as Google got up and gathered the report.

“You have to admit that he’s cute.” Wilford chuckled. “Although, you, Mr. Grump, don’t really do ‘relationships’.” He added with an eye roll.

“They’re a waste of time,” Dark said.

“Are you saying Bing and Google are wasting their time?” Wilford asked.

“Everyone else is free to do as they pleased as long as we get the job done. I just don’t think it’s worth my time.” Dark got out of his chair and started to walk off.

“You know you have a heart, Dark,” Wilford called after him, not seeing the downwards glance Dark made at the ground when he paused at the exit. “You do.” He added before Dark left completely.

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[mimik-u]

Flower Child (Chapter 2)

Summary:

Garnet, Pearl, Amethyst, Greg, Yellow, and Blue—they've all lost someone. Lovers and daughters and friends and family, and that's not a wound you easily come back from.

If at all.

But this isn't an 'if at all' kind of story.

It's a story about a sickly, little kid named Steven and his ever-growing surrogate family. Human AU.

A/N:

Happy Stevenbomb Week, guys! Here's to hoping we all survive it because, oh, my God, it looks intense.

P.S. Thank you for the love you've shown to this fic so far! It's meant a lot to me. c:

P.S.P.S. At the bottom of this chapter, I've included a quick sketch of human Blue. She's... frazzled 'n sad. Someone give her a hug.

AO3 Link

Trying to keep his dying son from bothering a crying, old lady in a bathrobe had absolutely not been on Greg Universe’s to-do list today… but here he was anyway, a torn witness to his kid extending his nearly deadened arm towards a woman who sure looked like she needed it. The little flower from Rose’s bouquet passed between their hands, and a tentative smile drew itself across the woman’s wrinkled mouth, and there was something stiff and sad in that very smile that suggested it was not a regular habit for her.

That Steven, in all of three minutes, had drawn it out of her.

Because of course he had.

He was Steven, and every person he met was a friend he just hadn’t gotten to know quite yet.

All of Greg’s protestations died in his throat, and he could not help but lean back and consider—not for the first time and certainly not for the last—how lucky he was to be this beautiful boy’s dad.

His fourteen-year-old was dying, and he didn’t hold that against the world in the way any other sane person probably would have. Heck, if Greg was dying (and he didn’t have the responsibility of raising a child), he’d be on the next plane to the Bahamas, ready to achieve Nirvana by listening to Nirvana as he danced topless in the moonlight with the locals.

Steven was dying, and all he thought to do was give.

Where was the logic in that?

The reason?

How could he be so wise, so patient and understanding and good to be so young?

It didn’t make sense to Greg, and because it didn’t make sense, he was all the more amazed to watch his kid at work, charming this older lady who told them—in a quiet voice that lilted lyrically in a soft Irish accent—that her name was Blue.

“Blue,” Steven mused, tilting his head thoughtfully. He was sitting with her on the steps now, an adjustment Greg noticed with no small relief. Neither he nor the others had been able to get him to rest all day long. It was a special occasion, by golly, and all he wanted to do was go. “I like that. It’s a very pretty name.”

She smiled again; it was a strange, little gesture caught between parentheses, and it almost looked young in a face that was otherwise very old. 

Two smiles in five minutes.

Stu-ball was on a roll.

“You said you were visiting your mother?” Blue prodded tentatively, and her expression sobered once more, like a stretched rubber band recoiling into its natural state. She had a tall face and big, half-moon eyes, and so the sadness in them was undisguised, as though her entire physiognomy was intent on communicating the uncommunicable inside of her. 

“Yeah, today was her birthday!” Steven started out strong, but at the end, his gaze flitted downwards and his voice relieved itself of its excitement. A drain unplugged. “Her grave is just a little ways down from here. That’s when I saw you.”

“And nearly scared us half to death when you ran away,” Greg muttered under his breath, leveling a playful eyebrow at his son, and his son, ever the good sport, parried back with an abashed grin.

“Ahhhh… yeah, sorry about that, Dad.”

Pearl had been monologuing about Rose—grand, sweeping gestures, occasional glares at Greg, and all—when they had noticed that Steven was slipping away, slipping towards a pink gazebo where a figure clothed in blue was collapsed at its entrance.

Greg had followed and the others had stayed because they all thought this was a Rose thing, or a kidney thing, or a I-just-can’t-listen-to-Pearl-any-longer thing, but they had underestimated him.

At the very least, they didn’t come close to estimating that extraordinary heart of his.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Blue murmured heavily. “You’re so young to be without a mother.”

“Thank you… and I’m sorry for your loss,” Steven replied, looking behind him into the gazebo. He moved his weak arm backwards to trace his fingers along the edges of the grave, drawing Blue’s steady, questioning gaze. Greg intuited that she was curious about the bruised limb but was ultimately too polite to ask, which was a nice change of pace from constantly being harangued by strangers who thought his child was being bullied.

“You’re older,” he continued, and his too-old-to-be-so-young gaze shifted, his dark eyes boring intently into hers, “but that shouldn’t make losing someone you love any less hard.”

The effect was immediate.

It was almost as though the air was sucked out of nature, as though time had stopped in the middle of life.

Blue froze, all but an ice statue if it weren’t for her half-moon eyes slowly widening as she comprehended the words Steven had just spoken to her with an easiness that could have only come from a child.

He was fourteen, and he didn’t know any better—knew that he’d say something nice but didn’t know the power of his own statement.

How it was a sentiment that every adult wanted to hear but rarely had the chance to, because adults were supposed to be infallible.

Adults had responsibilities.

Pick up what pieces you can, and then move on. You have better things to do.

He breached something with those words.

A longheld taboo.

A grieving heart.

He opened a floodgate.

And one tear and then another and another streamed down Blue’s long face.

Because it was exactly what she needed.

Greg turned away quickly so Steven wouldn’t see him wipe at his eyes, wouldn’t see the snot threatening to dribble down his nose.

Because even though it’d been fourteen years since Rose died, he needed the reminder, too.

“When’d you get so wise, champ?” Greg eventually got out, his voice a hundred emotions thick. He sniffed once, flashed a watery grin that wobbled at the edges, and threw pretense out of the window. He was crying; there wasn’t any shame in that.

“I guess I get it from you,” Steven shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “And Garnet and Amethyst and Pearl.”

But no—no he hadn’t.

Greg and his three surrogate moms could teach him a lot of things about this world and what it meant to live in it, but goodness? Innate and true?

That wasn’t something that could come prepackaged.

“Thank you, Steven,” Blue whispered, and she placed her tall hand atop of his. Her touch was light, gentle, careful—a mother’s touch if Greg knew any better. Steven’s bruised veins stood out next to her pale skin. “I’ve wanted to hear those words for a very long time now.”

“Your hand is cold,” Steven remarked in return, but when the older lady moved to withdraw it, he shook his head with a laugh, wriggling his thumb from under her palm and onto the edge of her hand to stay her touch. “But that’s okay. That just means you have a warm heart.”

Another smile, a wide one that lifted the corners of Blue’s melancholy eyes.

And somehow, it was this one that made Greg realize that their family was about to expand once more.

Which was hilarious because they had all agreed to stop after Peridot.

Well, Peridot had agreed that they should stop after Peridot.

After a few more minutes of talking and collecting themselves and finding a tentative kind of peace under the bright June sun, Greg told Steven that he should probably bring the Gems over. Pearl was nearly beside herself with curiosity; even from a distance, he could see that her hand was balanced over her eyes in an attempt to spy on them more efficiently. Amethyst was obviously making fun of Pearl, and Garnet was just unabashedly staring at them impassively from under the cool shade of her sunglasses. (Whether she would dropkick Blue or invite her dinner was to be determined.)

Steven walked off in their direction, his short arms swinging at his sides, and Greg watched long enough to see Pearl wrap him into a lanky hug.

But then he turned back to Blue because he knew what was waiting for him there—a question. It had been perched on her lips ever since Steven had first extended the little flower to her, and now, alone with Greg, it took wings and flew.

“His arm… what happened to it?” 

“That’d be…” he started immediately and then stopped just as quickly, because even though he’d been fielding this question for months upon months now, it never got any easier to swallow. He tilted his head skywards and tried to dissipate the searing pain seizing through his chest and his throat and his eyes, but these aches wouldn’t go away either. “That’d be all the IVs—oh, and the growth hormone injections.”

He tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled in his mouth.

“Can’t forget those.”

But he was stalling, and he didn’t have the time to be doing so. Steven would be back any minute, and even though he tried to hide it, tried to push down his emotions for the sake of everyone else in the room, his son hated this talk, hated being known for his disease or even as a disease. Some people grasped it better than others.

“He’s in the end stages of renal failure,” Greg said hoarsely. “Dialysis three to four times a week, and he’s been on the transplant waiting list for almost eight months now.”

His arm was just a byproduct of everything else that was screwed up with his little body, and it was one of the few things Steven couldn’t tuck away on the inside.

The older lady in the bathrobe bowed her head, her messy braid falling across her shoulder, and the beginnings of tears falling onto her lap. One hand gently cradled the pink blossom his son had given her, and the other reached backwards into the gazebo, trembling fingers feeling for something… maybe even someone… Greg could not see.

“Do you…” she faltered, and he had to strain to hear her voice. He drew closer without even realizing he was doing it, compelled into the atmosphere of grief she so consumptively embodied. His heart wrenched to look at her. It was stupid and absurd, but he felt as though he was looking into a mirror of his own despair—what it truly was and not what it appeared to be. “Do you feel as though he is being wrenched away from you? You were given this precious, little life to love and to cherish, and he’s being taken from you right before your very eyes?”

She was too specific in describing the feeling.

The aching hole in his chest.

The fear that was trying to fill it.

He knew without even knowing that the dead person in the gazebo was Blue’s own child.

“All the time,” he whispered. “And it’s so hard sometimes, you know, dealing with that feeling.”

But Blue shook her head and looked up at him; even though her eyes were still glazed with tears, they had acquired a steely edge to them that cut.

“It’s hard all the time.”

And he could do nothing but accept the truth of her statement.

He brought the bottom of his t-shirt to his face and tried to wipe away the carnage, but when most of it was on the inside, there wasn’t really anything he could do.

“I didn’t get your name,” Blue murmured after a long moment of silence. 

A sudden change of conversation, but he didn’t have to struggle too hard to figure out why. Steven and the Gems were approaching. He heard their footsteps crunching through the grass. 

“Greg Universe,” he offered with a semblance of a smile, and he moved a little to the right so he could block her body from view as she dried her own tears. “Nice to meet ya.”

“I’m Blue Dia—” But she was cut short by a voice that was louder than its speaker thought it to be.

“Why is homegirl wearing a bathrobe? It’s, like, the middle of the day.”

“Hush, Amethyst,” Pearl hissed, all exasperation and huff. “Don’t be so rude. You’re wearing jeans with holes in them.”

“It’s a fashion statement, P!”

“It’s a wasteful use of fabric!”

“Well, aren’t you a buzz—”

“We’re back!” Steven yelled, his voice thankfully triumphing over their bickering. Greg turned to greet them and found everything as it should be between the little quartet: Garnet holding Steven’s hand, and Pearl and Amethyst at each other’s throats. (They all loved each other.)

“Blue, these are old friends of Steven’s mom,” he quickly explained because the older lady seemed bewildered, and even a little overwhelmed, by this sudden influx of people. He had a sneaking suspicion that she didn’t, well, get out all too often if the bathrobe was anything to judge by. “They’ve helped me raise him.”

“Aw, to be fair,” Garnet said amiably, tipping her shades in greeting, “Steven has raised us just as much. I’m Garnet. Pleasure.” 

Amethyst took a long enough break from poking an increasingly annoyed Pearl to introduce herself.

“Yo, I’m Amethyst.”

“And I’m Pearl,” Pearl indicated with a sweet (if dramatic) curtsy. “Thank you for humoring our little Steven.”

“Oh… it wasn’t any trouble.” Blue looked up at Steven warmly. “Steven is a special boy.”

“Shucks,” Steven grinned. “You’ve only known me for what? Like, fifteen minutes?”

“Ah, but it’s been more than enough time for me to ascertain that I was very lucky to have been found by you.”

“Finders keepers!”

“I wouldn’t necessarily mind that,” she hummed playfully before deferring to Greg. “I live in Empire City, and if you live close by, I would love for Steven to visit sometime… if that’s okay with you. At any rate, I’d like to keep in touch.”

“Well, I’d like that,” Steven supplied cheerfully, and it was so darn cute; he looked like a little cherub with his cheeks puffed up in a smile.

“That’d be fine with me,” Greg chuckled. “You two should exchange numbers.”

Steven nodded in approval and pulled out his phone, fingers poised above the keyboard, mouth already open to ask for Blue’s number, but Greg cut in one last time, affecting a casual tone that wasn’t quite casual.

“Empire City’d be really good for us, too” he told her, but he was staring at Steven, wanting to gauge his reaction. “That’s where Steven has to do his treatments.”

And maybe it was a little underhanded, but Steven had to know that Blue knew.

That there was no point in hiding his condition.

Because he’d tried that a couple of times, and it always ended badly for him, always ended in him getting hurt by someone who couldn’t understand.

A slight frown tugged at Steven’s lips, and he could feel Pearl’s irritated glare drilling at him from his side.

She was a firm installation in Camp-Hide-All-Of-Your-Feelings-Away, too, but that hadn’t worked out well for her either.

“Name and number, Blue,” Steven said, a fraction less perky than he had been before, but he recovered quickly because of course he did. He was Steven. He put on a good show and a smile.

Pearl was gonna give him hell tonight, but Greg could give it right back.

It wasn’t healthy for Steven to keep everything locked away inside, and that was the call he made as a father.

Blue enunciated her number slowly and added her name as an afterthought.

“My last name is Diamond. Blue Diamond.”

 And it was name that sent shivers down his spine.

Oh, God, Greg thought.

In the periphery of his vision, he met the Gems’ equally stunned faces. Garnet’s hands were clenched into fists. Pearl’s were splayed indelicately o

[thesoftdumbass]

Winged Men and Demigods

Jim Kirk x reader

1 Year Anniversary Challenge: Ancient Greece Myth

Summary: You are a demigod, the daughter of Selene, goddess of the moon. You are sent on a quest to capture storm-spirits, monsters, and receive some help along the way in the form of a winged man with blond hair and striking blue eyes. 

Word Count: 6.6 K

Warnings: slight anxiety, weapons, fighting, storms, slight feelings of inadequacy, inferences of sexy times. Not beta’d. Barely edited. Lord help us.

Characters: Pythia, Nyota Uhura, Pavel Chekov, Hikaru Sulu, Spock, Christopher Pike, Montgomery “Scotty” Scott, Leonard McCoy, Jim Kirk

Tags: @yourtropegirl @starshiphufflebadger @annathewitch

Walking around the garden of your small home in Delphi, Greece, watering the anemone and pulling weeds, you sense a presence behind you. Bending over casually as if smelling one of your flowers, you reach into the slit in your dress and unsheathe the celestial bronze dagger from your thigh holder. With precise movements, you spin in your place and hold the knife to the throat of the person invading your home.

“Am I supposed to feel threatened, demigod?” The Oracle of Delphi stands in front of you in her robes of bronze and scarlet, her face blank. You immediately remove the weapon, re-sheathe it and step back, bowing and then standing, your back straight with respect.

“I apologize, Pythia. I did not know that it was you.”

“Apparently,” she says, looking you over skeptically. “I am surprised you did not use your mother’s weapon.”

You smile sheepishly, twirling the ring on your finger. “You could have been anybody. I don’t want a stranger knowing my secret. Only you and the other demigods at the Temple know that I am half human. Unleashing the weapon could expose me”

“That is wise, young demigod,” she nods in approval.

“I do have a name, Pythia. Besides, I am no younger than you,” you point out.

“I am much older than I look, YN,” she puts an accent on your name and gives a small smirk. “You must be wondering why I have come to you.”

“It has crossed my mind, yes. Is something wrong?”

The Oracle sits down on a nearby bench and gestures for you to join her. You do, and after a few minutes of silence, she starts speaking. “Do you know of the Hurricane Winds?” Remembering the scrolls that you read from during your training when you were young, you nod your head. “So you must remember that they are kept on an island far away from civilization, under the rule of Aeolus.”

“Of course, they are only released when the gods need them,” you recall.

“Two of the Anemoi Thuellai have escaped the island, as I saw last night. Nobody knows how, but they need to be taken back before they cause irreparable damage to the mortal world. You and two other demigods will seek out and capture the storm spirits to be taken back to Aeolus. Your partners for the journey will join you at the Temple of Apollo in two days. Make sure you are ready to leave then.”

And so you were. Two days later, you left your home in the morning and made the walk to the Temple, carrying a pack filled with anything you might need on your journey; clothes, weapons, money, food, and maps of Greece.

You walk into the Temple around noon, the sun brightly shining down on you. Making your way to where the Pythia is, you see her standing with two other people, and you observe them as you walk. The woman is beautiful, dark skin and long silky hair, her almond shaped eyes set off by perfect cheekbones. The man that is with them, though he is clearly younger than you, is handsome as well. Blond hair sits in curls on top of his head, and his bright eyes widen as he catches sight of you nearing the group, a smile gracing his face.

“You must be YN!” he exclaims as you reach them.

“I am. And you are…” you say with an unsure smile.

“Chekov, Pavel Andreievich,” he steps forward and offers his hand, which you shake.

“I am Nyota Uhura,” the woman introduces with a smile and nod of her head.

“It is nice to meet you both.”

The Pythia let you get introductions out but decided to get to business. “The three of you can get to know each other better while on the journey. Right now there are things to discuss.”

Nyota, Pavel, and yourself nod respectfully and let her speak.

“I received a vision from Apollo last night. He told me that you need to consult the Anemoi. They can help you find the venti and capture them, you only have to be respectful of them. There is a boat at the docks waiting to take you to Thrace.”

“Will the wind gods know where the venti are, or do we have to search all of Greece?” Pavel asks, concerned.

“They will be able to tell you where to go,” she answers assuringly.

After this the Pythia walks you out of the Temple, leading you down the mountain and to the dock. The white sails of the ship flap in the breeze, the promise of smooth sailing ahead. Right before you walk up the ramp to board, the Oracle stops you.

“I wish you luck on your quest, may the gods be with you and protect you.”

“Thank you, Pythia. We will do what we have been chosen for,” you say.

You hear Pavel and Nyota also say farewells but you don’t want to eavesdrop, so you walk onto the ship and look around. You notice the captain walk across the deck, and your companions join you as he reaches where you are standing.

“My name is Captain Hikaru Sulu, welcome aboard. It’s an honor to have half-bloods with us,” he says warmly, his face adorned with a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Captain,” Uhura says respectfully.

“We are ready to set sail, it should just be a few minutes now.”

“Can we pray before we go? I would like to ask for safe passage from my father,” Pavel asks modestly.

“Of course.”

The four of you gather into a circle on the deck of the ship, your hands joined and heads bowed, and Chekov starts to speak in his thick accent.

“Poseidon, we ask for safe travel over the sea, and for luck with our quest. Please protect my new friends and I as we journey to Thrace, and then wherever else the gods send us.”

With a few words of thanks and a promise to send burnt offerings at the next opportunity, you set off. Captain Sulu shows you to your quarters, three separate bedrooms on the same deck, and you settle in for the long journey, putting away the few things you brought with you and pacing around the room.

You have no idea what you’re up against, and even though you are a trained demigod with strength surpassing that of the average mortal, you are scared of what awaits you.

You head to dinner after failing to rest, your mind far too worked up for that, and are given a plate. You sit down at a nearby table and find yourself accompanied by Nyota and Pavel. You sit with them while they make small talk, content to just listen, but Pavel brings you into the conversation.

“I think we should all get to know each other better. YN, do you want to start? You haven’t talked much.”

“I guess so,” you clear your throat, “I wasn’t raised by my parents. I grew up at the Temple of Apollo, training for the day when I could help people, but this is my first quest. I moved into town when I came of age and have stayed there since.” You shrug, not knowing what else they would want to know about you.”

“What about your godly parent? Do you know who they are?” Nyota asks kindly.

“My mother is Selene,” you tell them. You understand why she asks that second question. Many demigods go their whole lives without being claimed by their parent, though luckily you had been claimed at a rather young age.

“Goddess of the moon! That is very exciting. Poseidon is my father, which you may have heard earlier.” Chekov’s eyes sparkle with silent pride and you nod, chuckling.

“What about you, Nyota? Do you know your parent?” you ask, becoming more invested in the conversation.

“Hermes,” she says with a humble voice. “My father is actually the reason that I study dialect, it comes to me naturally because he is the god of language.”

“That is fantastic! The only thing I can do is swim well,” Pav admits.

They both turn to you, asking silently for your input. “I didn’t get any special abilities, I can’t lead the moon’s chariot or anything like that. I do have a weapon that my mother gave me, I only like to use it when necessary, but it is nice to have.”

You continue speaking to your new friends all throughout dinner, learning more about each other and becoming closer. That night you go to bed with positive thoughts running through your head, your anxiety about the quest held at bay as you fall asleep.

The rest of the trip to Thrace passes quickly. You spend your time learning how to fight in harmony with Nyota and Pavel, listening to the Captain tell stories about his young daughter Demora, and watching the sea pass by from the bow of the boat. Sooner than you realize, you are leaving the ship.

“Be safe, my friends. If you need anything, my crew and I will be in Thrace for another two days, we could take you where you need to go,” Captain Sulu tells the three of you as you step off the ship, clasping a hand on each of your shoulders in a sign of friendship.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Hikaru,” Uhura says sincerely, and you leave, making your way to the cavern of the Anemoi.

When you arrive at the base of Mount Haemus, you look up at it in wonder. The mountain is covered with lush green plant life and clouds encircle the snowy caps, giving the mountain a majestic beauty. You love the view, there’s just one problem.

“We don’t have to go to the top of the mountain, do we?” you question.

“If so, then I am wearing the wrong sandals to hike in,” Pavel chimes in.

“Wait, look!” Nyota points, frowning in consideration at what is happening to the mountain. Slowly lines form and shift in the stone, revealing a grand doorway of gold and midnight blue just a few feet in front of you.

You brave a step toward the door that seems to be opening by itself, but take a step back when you find that someone has appeared in the doorway. The man before you stands tall with a stiff spine and his hands behind his back, his black hair laying over his forehead uniformly.

“Welcome to Mount Haemus, half-bloods. We were sent word of your journey to reach us. Please, come in.” You give a nervous glance to your friends but follow the man as he steps back through the opening. He stands back as the three of you enter and the gilded door closes behind you. “My name is Spock. If you will come with me, please.” Spock turns around and walks down the corridor that you are currently in, causing you to follow him. You only notice after a step or two that there is a pair of wings situated on his back. The torches illuminating the corridor cast off of the black feathers, silhouetting his bird-like appendages every few steps.

To prevent yourself from staring, you turn your gaze to the floor and the shadows playing against the marble tile as you walk. Finally entering a brightly lit cavernous space and looking around, you stand in awe at the marvelous paintings and sculptures, only to notice that Spock had continued walking without you.

You catch up with the group just as they reach the back of the room where there is a platform set above the ground, and on it stands four beautiful thrones, each adorned with different fabrics and precious metals. Only the third seat is taken, and the occupant stands as you near the platform. His hair is wavy and graying. His face is impassive and his eyes watch as you approach, soft gray wings extended out to his sides and radiating authority, even as he stands with a cane.

“Sir, these are the demigods whose journey we were told of,” Spock bows to the man in front of you out of respect and you follow suit.

“Please, stand up. There’s no need to bow.” You follow his request and stand straight. “My name is Eurus, but I go by Christopher Pike around here. Call me whatever you wish, my friends. What can I call you?”

Ny is first to speak up, “My name is Nyota Uhura, daughter of Hermes. It is an honor to be here, sir.” You and Pavel follow her lead and soon introductions are made, the five of you sitting down to dinner at a lengthy table, you and your friends have not eaten since breakfast on the boat. You are joined by two other men, one of them with floppy brown hair and kind hazel eyes disguised by what seems to be a permanent scowl, the other with thinning red hair and a friendly smile. They were introduced as Leonard McCoy and Montgomery Scott, respectively.

You’re waiting for the meal to start, sitting across from Leonard and listening to him talk about the work that Hippocrates is doing in the field of modern medicine, his brown wings rippling as he speaks happily. Another person enters the dining hall, his steps echoing loudly as he rushes to a seat, finding one to your right. He lets out a profanity as he sits on his wings, one only you can hear.

You chance a look as he adjusts in his seat and your breath catches, this is possibly the most beautiful man you have ever seen. His tan skin and golden hair remind you of Apollo, but the striking blue eyes that cast over you hold depths greater even than the sea. You shake yourself out of your daze though when Chris starts speaking.

“Ahh, Jim. I was wondering if you were going to join us for supper, we’ve been waiting for you. YN, Pavel, Nyota, this is James Kirk. He’s the last of my attendants, now you’ve met everybody but my brothers.”

“Sorry I’m late, Pike, I lost track of time while reading through my scrolls. It’s a pleasure to meet everybody.”

“It’s fine, Jim. Let us eat!”

With that, dishes start moving to the table, appearing as if from thin air. The Anemoi act as though it is an everyday occurrence and maybe it is, but you are not used to it and it seems that you’re not the only one.

“How do you get the food to float through the air like that?!” Pavel’s face shows awe and wonder.

“The dishes aren’t floating, the Aurai move them. They’re breeze nymphs, most people can’t see them unless one reveals herself to you. They work here with us,” Leonard tells Pavel, who smiles like he’s just learned a secret.

Food is passed around and wine flows until your stomachs are full and your thirsts are quenched, and then Chris decides to get to business.

“So what is the reason that you’ve graced us with your presence?” he asks cordially.

“It is the Anemoi Thuellai, sir. Two of them have escaped Aeolus’ Isle, and the three of us have been sent on a quest to capture them so they can be taken back. Apollo sent us in your direction, knowing that you would be able to help us locate the storm winds,” you say in a polite voice.

Pike listens as you speak, nodding decisively when you’re finished. “I’ll send some Harpies to scout, they will be back in the morning with the information you need. You are all welcome to stay the night, of course. I will make sure your rooms are ready soon, and the four of you can head out first thing in the morning.”

“Four of us?”

“But there are only three on the quest, sir.”

Pav and Nyota speak at the same time, and Chris just smiles at the confusion.

“I’m sending one of my attendants with you. While I am sure you are very capable demigods, the venti are extremely powerful beings and you may need some help. And I would go myself, but,” he gestures to his cane and his bad leg, “I can’t go on adventures anymore.”

“So which of us is joining the quest?” Montgomery, or Scotty as you had been informed to call him, asks the group.

“I can go,” Jim volunteers without hesitation. He hasn’t left the mountain in a long time and wants to stretch his wings, but that isn’t the only reason that he wants to join. From the moment that Jim Kirk entered the dining room, he has been mesmerized by the ethereal beauty currently sitting beside him, has listened to her speak throughout the meal, and now that he has an opportunity to spend more time with her, he won’t let it pass.

“Are you sure about that, son? It will not be easy,” Pike double checks.

“I’m happy to help, Chris.” Jim gives a bright smile and you’re surprised you don’t melt at the sight.

“Alright then,” Chris claps his hands and stands up, drawing everyone’s attention. “Len, Spock, the two of you gather a party of Harpies and send them to search for the two ventus and get back to me by the morning. We need to know where they are and what they’ve been up to. Scotty, can you help me make our guests’ rooms up?” When he receives affirmations, Pike sends everyone to do their tasks.

“Do I need to do anything, sir?” Jim asks, making to stand from his chair.

“You have a lot to do in the next few days, you should rest for now.” Pike turns and addresses your friends, “I’ll tell you when your sleeping arrangements are ready,” and with that, he walks out of the room.

It’s relatively quiet as you try to come up with something to say. You are already close with Ny and Pav, but you are hesitant to say anything, lest you embarrass yourself in front of Jim. You’re saved from having to fill the silence, though, as Leonard comes to rejoin the group.

“Harpies are on their way out, we should know something by dawn,” he says, sitting back down and reaching for a drink.

“That’s good, the venti have already been gone for so long. The sooner we can get them back to the island, the better,” Ny states.

The conversation picks up after that, just small talk to pass the time, and pretty soon Eurus comes back into the room and informs you that your beds are ready, sending you off so you can rest.

The next morning you peek your eyes open slowly, letting yourself wake fully before getting up and getting dressed. Just as you are securing your weapons in place, you hear a knock on the door to your bedchamber. You are greeted by the sight of Jim standing on the other side of the door, bright eyes shining as he notices you in front of him.

“Good morning,” you greet softly.

“Good morning YN, Chris asked me to bring you to the dining room for breakfast,” Jim says, sending a smile your way.

You nod with a smile, looping your arm through Jim’s, which he offered you. When you reach your destination Jim pulls out your chair for you, making your heart skip a beat at the gesture. You murmur your thanks and earn a nod in return as Jim sits down beside you. Breakfast passes by quietly, bread and honey filling you and giving you the energy you need for the day. Soon after, Pike shares with you what he has learned.

“The Harpies that were sent to scout returned this morning with some news. The two Anemoi Thuellai that have escaped are nearby Chios, an island in the Aegean sea and off the coast of Asia Minor. We do not know why this place has drawn them, but we must stop the storm-winds. They have already caused severe disturbances in the atmosphere and need to be stopped.”

“And how do we stop them? I know we take them back to Aeolus, but how can we capture them?” Pavel asks.

“I will provide you with a bag made of ox-hide to carry the venti in. You must keep both of them busy until they are within close range of each other and then open the bag, they will be drawn in. As soon as they are inside, secure the bag and they will not be able to escape.” Chris allows you to absorb that information for a few moments before speaking again. “Now, do you have transportation to Chios island or shall I arrange for some?”

“We have a friend at the port of Thrace, he said that he would help us, he will still be at the dock,” you tell them of Hikaru and how helpful he has been.

“Wonderful. While I’m getting everything ready to go, you can spar to stay ready for the venti.”

You are led into a large training room in the cavern, covered in mats, a wall to one side loaded down with weapons. You survey the rack of swords, longing to hold the weight of your own again. You feel somebody step up beside you as your finger brushes along the edge of a shined blade, the handle glowing gold.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you hear Kirk speak reverently by your ear, one of his large hands reaching out to grasp the handle and lifting the sword from its perch.

“It is… it makes me miss using my own.”

“So why don’t you?”

You touch the adamantine ring on your right hand, wishing to unleash the weapon inside. As long as it doesn’t hurt anybody, you think, why not? “I suppose I will.”

You take a few steps and end up in the middle of the floor, looking around to make sure that no one is nearby before closing your eyes and taking a steadying breath. Channeling your energy in a short burst as you exhale, you feel the familiar weight of your blade in your grip and move your hand in a small wave, allowing the sword to swing around in a showy move. You hold it up in front of your face, the crescent-shape of the crossguard glittering in the lights of the room.

Applause breaks out around you, giving you a burst of confidence, and you rotate your sword a few times in the air around you. “Zat is incredible,” you hear Pavel’s unmistakable accent and smile.

“YN, how did you do that,” Nyota asks, impressed.

You shrug, giving a reserved smile. “I told you that I got this from my mother, well… I harness a little bit of energy from the moon and turn the ring into what it was truly made for, protection… I don’t really know how to explain it,” you say, shrugging your shoulders once more.

You look around at your friends grinning back at you, but a breath catches in your throat at the look of absolute awe on Jim’s face. He catches you looking at him though, causing your face to heat up and you to avert your eyes. Clearing his throat he steps forward, reaching a hand out to you.

“May I?”

“Of course,” you answer, thinking that he is going to compare both of your weapons, but before you can pass it over, your instincts kick in and you block the hit that he sends toward you. You bring your arm up to counter-attack, which Jim sees coming and defends. It goes like this for a few minutes before you’re bent over, hands on knees and breathing heavily. Calling it a truce, you reach out a hand to Jim, which he accepts.

Allowing your heart rate to slow back to normal, you look around you. During your sparring match, everybody had dispersed into their own fights and you watch as Nyota gains the upper hand on Spock, but before she can strike, Spock leaps to avoid her weapon, spinning mid-air with his wings folded around him in a protective cocoon before coming down several steps from her. You can’t help it, you clap your hands in admiration for the swift movements and Spock bows stiffly to show his appreciation.

You go over basic fighting maneuvers until Scotty and Chris come into the training room, the former carrying a large satchel in his hands. Chris waves his hands for everyone to gather in the middle of the room and you do, Scotty’s wings fluttering as he merrily explains how to use the special ox-skin to capture the venti.

Once the four of you have memorized the new information, you are sent to gather your belongings from your rooms and prepare to leave the cavern and Mount Haemus behind. Gathering your pack and ensuring that your sword is safely back on your finger, you make your way to the throne room to say goodbye to your host and depart.

Jim leads your group through the corridors, walking to town and back to the docks where you meet Hikaru and his crew once again. “My friends,” he greets with a smile and open arms before his eyes land on Jim standing at the back of the group. If he finds Kirk’s wings to be out of the ordinary he doesn’t let on, just introducing himself in a friendly manner.

Pavel tells Captain Sulu about the information you have received and he plots a course for Chios, setting sail not long after. This trip on the boat passes much like the first, nothing remarkable happening for the entire journey. That is until you are approaching your destination. The closer you get to the island of Chios, the rougher the seas are, sending the ship lurching in the rising waves.

High winds cause the sails to thrash uncontrollably and dark clouds become even more ominous. Sulu steers the ship into an alcove of the island to avoid rocky shores, narrowly being missed by a flash of lightning.

“Where is that storm coming from? The weather was clear only this morning,” Hikaru is confused.

“That would be the venti,” Kirk says darkly, the feathers on his wings bristling.

“I’ve read about the Anemoi Thuellai, but there is not much information about them, only that they wreak havoc over the seas,” Nyota offers.

“I’m guessing that we are about to learn a lot more about them,” Pavel swallows as the ship pitches, and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth.

“So, do we have a plan?” you ask, looking around at your group hopefully.

“Eurus told us to distract the storm-winds and get them close. I think that one of us should control the container while two others lead them to the south side of the island, away from the village. We can meet at the center of the island, opening the bag and drawing them inside. Scotty said that the ties you close it with are magic and will hold for as long as they need to, allowing us to take them to Thrace.”

“Good luck, demigods. I will be here when you get back,” Captain Sulu assures you.

Nyota’s plan is simple, but it’s a good one. Walking off the bridge and out the door onto the deck of the ship along with your friends, you are stopped by a hesitant touch to your arm. Looking back, Jim is behind you, facing you with a look that you can’t decipher. He quickly moves his hand away. A look of determination fills his face then, though his eyes display a softness.

“Be careful, YN,” he says, softer than you had heard him speak before.

“You too, Jim,” you smile, reaching for his hand and giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. Amber wings unfurl and stretch before your eyes, beating against the tempest and taking Jim into the air. You watch as he moves toward the small town on the edge of the island, ensuring that the citizens of Chios are safe and have taken shelter.

You climb over the rail on the port side of the vessel and descend the ladder into the shallow water beneath you, wind pushing waves up over your knees and making it difficult to get to your destination quickly, but you manage. You reach the shore where Ny and Chekov are waiting for you and tie your hair back, preventing the wind from whipping it around.

Nyota double checks that the ox-hide is secured to the belt around her waist and looks at you steadily, her brown eyes unwavering. “You two know what you have to do?” You and Pavel give affirmations and Uhura nods. “Bring the venti my way. Stay safe, and we’ll get these monsters back to where they belong.”

You split ways with Ny, moving alongside Pav to where the typhoon appears to be strongest. You fidget as you walk, twisting your mother’s ring around your finger. Pavel notices and asks if you are alright.

“I’m okay, Pav, thanks. I’m just anxious. I’ve never fought a storm before, and I don’t even know how effective I will be in a brawl,” you lift your arms in exasperation.

“I have no idea what I’m doing either. None of us have had to do this before, not even Jim. The best we can do is to stay level headed and put our minds to work. We will succeed.” Chekov’s assurances help clear your head, giving you confidence for the first time since you left Delphi and you tell him how much it means to you.

As you approach the Anemoi Thuellai, you hear a flapping noise even above the wind and Jim touches down beside you, hair sticking to his face from the rain that you are currently being subjected to.

“Everybody in the village is safe, I told them to stay indoors,” he says before you can ask.

“That’s good, we don’t want anybody hurt that doesn’t have to be,” Pav speaks up.

“These guys are bad news, I got a good look as I was flying overhead,” Jim warns as he removes his sword from its scabbard.

“Let’s do this, then,” you summon a bit of energy and your sword is once again held firmly in your grip. Pavel raises his spear high, letting out a loud yell and gaining the nearest storm’s attention.

That may have been a mistake.

The ventus turns toward your trio and you can barely see it from behind the wind and rain. Their entire form is made up of the storm; dark clouds swirling in a vaguely humanoid shape. Bright balls of light distinguish the beast from the storm it is creating, lightning extending out every few seconds. You look up in horror, guessing your opponent’s height to be around ten feet… far above your height.

The daimone lets out a powerful roar that sounds distinctly like thunder, causing its friend to face you also. Immediately you raise the sword in your hand, swinging at the monster nearest you. You puncture its leg and a bright light erupts from the wound, diminishing the storm clouds, but it only serves to anger it more. Lightning crackles around you and it’s as if you can taste the electricity in the air. You inflict several more wounds, dark gray slowly being replaced by a soft glow, but it’s still not enough.

You turn away quickly, preparing to run, but you’re surrounded before you can move a step. You are shielded from the wind and rain and you open your eyes only to be met by the sight of Jim. His wings wrapped around the both of you protectively and you have to stop yourself from thinking about how /soft/ they are.

You’d lost track of your friends as you fought, but Jim had been circling in the air, hitting the ventus’ defense and came to help when your adversary got too close. You still heard Pavel fighting the other monster a few hundred feet away. You look back at Jim, his face holding concern for you and you answer his unasked question.

“I’m alright.”

“Okay YN, now we need to run, we have to get over to Nyota. She’s waiting with the satchel, and I think the venti are mad enough now to chase after us. When I let you go I need you to run to the rendezvous point. I will be behind you and Chekov the whole time if you need my help.”

“Thank you,” you say breathily and lean forward to place a chaste kiss on Jim’s lips, not even noticing as his jaw goes slack in shock and happiness.

He unfurls his wings from around you after you return your sword to its original form, and you do as you were told, making a break for it. “Pav!” you yell, indicating for the younger man to follow after you. It takes a few moments but you feel his steps sync up with yours and hear him panting in exertion. You look behind you to confirm that the venti are following you and they are, their energies sparking off one another.

Facing forward again, you empty your mind of thoughts and worries and just let yourself breathe, losing yourself in the action of placing one foot in front of the other and find yourself looking at Nyota in the distance.

The world around you becomes a blur as you close in on Ny and the venti advance on the three of you. The next thing you know you’re looking up at the suddenly clear sky from between Jim’s arms, the ox-skin glowing as the storm-winds try to escape the magic containing them.

“We did it,” Pavel mutters to himself almost disbelieving, and then shouting. “We did it!”

You giggle at his excitement and allow yourself to catch your breath, tucking your head into Jim’s shoulder and reveling in the victory.

“We thank you for the help you have provided us on this quest, we will be forever grateful for your hospitality, sir,” Uhura addresses Eurus as the four of you stand in front of the platform in the throne room of Mount Haemus.

“It was my pleasure, Nyota. Thank you for bringing the venti back, now Spock has been able to return them to their isle. You are all welcome to stay as long as you wish, we need some excitement around here.” Pike addresses all three of you, but his gray eyes sparkle as they linger on you and Jim standing so close to each other. Your cheeks warm and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, averting your eyes.

You and Jim had become extremely close on the trip back to Thrace, staying up late talking, sharing your love for the stars, and getting to know each other better, so much that you began to let yourself imagine spending more time with him.

“We appreciate it, Chris. If it is acceptable, we would like to stay for a few days before making our way back to Delphi. We have been traveling for so long, and Captain Sulu and his crew need time to rest before setting sail again.”

“Any time. Your rooms are still ready from when you were last here. I will see you all at dinner,” Pike dismisses you all. You grab your bag and head for your quarters, but a voice stops you before you are halfway there.

“YN, can we talk for a few minutes?”

Jim’s voice is timid and you stop walking, curious. “Of course.”

He leads you to a library, large shelves displaying different texts and tables covered in scrolls. You take a seat at one of these tables and wait for him to speak. You can see him thinking through how to phrase his words, opening his mouth and closing it a couple times. After a few minutes, you decide to try and get him to spit it out.

“Jim,” you say softly, approaching his pacing form, and his wings flutter as he turns to face you and you smile. “Are you okay?”

This seems to do the trick, as he finally speaks what is on his mind.

“Would it be ludicrous if I asked you to stay with me? Here at the cavern, I mean. I know you have a home in Delphi and I wouldn’t want to tear you away from that, but,” he can’t seem to find the words for a moment, “I think I love you. It may seem laughable, but I have been enamored since I laid eyes on you, and fallen more and more each time we talk. I don’t want you to feel pressured into staying here, but if you want… you have a place at Mount Haemus.”

As Jim finishes his monologue, you turn your gaze to him. You had been trying to process his words, and looking into his sincere eyes, you believe him. Jim isn’t someone who would lie about something so serious, but you’re still shocked. You had never thought of yourself as anything special, your mother’s blood and protection the only thing that set you apart, but the way Jim is looking at you tells you differently. Thinking back on it, he had only ever looked at you in adoration and respect.

As you are evaluating your own feelings, Jim is silently freaking out. Did he read you wrong, and you weren’t really interested in him? Was that too much to dump on you all at once? The mute environment is too much and after a few minutes, Jim really has to say something.

“YN?” You look up into his vulnerable face, watching as he tries to deduce your thoughts. After a moment, though, he gives up. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for, Jim?”

“I… shouldn’t have rushed all of that out. I can give you time to think-”

“I love you too,” you interrupt him before he can take his invitation back, “what more is there to think about? I would love to stay here with you, if you’re still offering.”

“I am still offering,” he speaks hurriedly, reaching his arms around you in an embrace. After a minute he pulls away, brow furrowed. “What about your life in Delphi though, your friends and family?”

“I don’t have any family back there. And my friends, they are here with me. If I stay, they will surely come visit. And if I haven’t imagined it, Spock and Nyota seem to be getting familiar. I doubt it will be long before something happens between those two,” you chuckle.

“Are you sure you want to be with me,” he asks, his eyes gleaming with hope.

“I am sure. I love you, Jim,” you murmur.

The moment between the two of you changes and you feel yourself leaning towards him, your lips touching briefly. You open your eyes when you feel Jim pull back, but soon enough his lips are back on yours and your senses are engulfed by all of him.

“Let’s go tell everyone the good news, shall we,” he says, his voice husky with desire, “or better yet, maybe I can show you to your room first…”

You shudder at the unspoken proposition and lean into him further, placing a kiss to his jaw “I really like that second option…” and giggle as you take the lead down the hallway to your bed, ready for a long life ahead of you spent with Jim.

Post-A/N: So what did you guys think? I hope you enjoyed reading this! It took me so long to write, and I know it’s pretty long, but I am so glad you stuck with me ‘til the end. I know that it’s not perfect, I probably got a lot of details wrong and also left some characters in the background, but I tried. Really hard. I need sleep...

I wrote this in the present tense, as you can see. If you have a preference about which tense I use (past/present/both) then I can try to do that next time., this one just turned out this way. I hope you all have a lovely Valentine’s Day!

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 is up! Thanks so much, as usual, to all my fantastic beta readers who are just the best people in the world ever and I love them, @minky-for-short @childofdustandashes @purearcticfire

Also thank you so much to @blow-us-owl-away who did some absolutely amazing fan art for chapter one!

Eliza found, over the next few days, that it was actually a little alarming how easy it was to hide a stowaway right under her parents’ noses. They apparently just didn’t question it when she suddenly disappeared to her room for hours at a time, claiming she had some scraps of homework still left to do when really, she was helping Alex build himself a little nest out of blankets and sheets; he seemed to find it impossible to sleep unless he was in a tight, enclosed space. They just shrugged and believed her when Eliza hummed casually that oh, she must have been mistaken, maybe they didn’t buy ice cream after all. When in actuality, Alex had eaten pretty much two cartons by himself in the space of an hour, his eyes wide and more awed by the taste of double chocolate cookie dough than they had been by anything else in the human world. It was quickly becoming clear that junk food was his weakness, what had started off with Eliza sneaking him some Doritos to cheer him up because he was looking a little morose had blossomed into a full obsession that left her wondering how she was going to throw out all of those wrappers and empty packages without arousing suspicion.

Junk food may have been top of Alex’s list but books came a very close second. She’d offered him full use of the little library that sat in the corner of her room here at the beach house, looking a little weak in comparison to her vast rows and rows of shelves at home but it may as well have been the library of Alexandria to her new friend. Within the first day, Eliza’s jaw had dropped when Alex proudly told her he’d read every one and did she have any more, those were so good, especially maybe some more ones about all the different animals, that one was amazing, was she sure that there were really these things with super long necks and spots because that just seemed crazy…

Her parents also apparently didn’t pick up on how tired she was getting, how she was nearly falling asleep at the breakfast table or nodding off as they watched TV on an evening, almost as if she wasn’t getting any sleep at all.

Which, of course, was the truth though her parents never seemed to put two and two together. They never even suspected that, as soon as they went to bed, Eliza was pulling on the warmest clothes she could find and sneaking out onto the beach with Alex (who never seemed to need anything more than a t shirt and shorts, despite the chill of the night). With a flashlight, they combed every inch of the beach for Alex’s pelt, searching amongst the sharp grasses to see if it had snagged there, in the rock pools to see if it had collected in one of the puddles, becoming a temporary home for the tiny crabs and delicate starfish. They even strayed further off the beach than Eliza had ever been, right the way over to where the familiar stretch of sand became a cliff face with its defences of jagged rocks and caves that seemed to be full of nothing but thick darkness, where they had to time every movement carefully and make desperate runs between pockets of sand before the waves came crashing in to snag their ankles and pull their feet out from under them. Eliza could feel her heart pick up to a worrying pace every time they found themselves over this way.

Alex had no fear at all, ploughing on with a fierce kind of determination and focus that he never had at any other time. He dove into tight caves that Eliza stepped back from, shaking her head, and risked very near misses with the waves that held god only knew how many riptides and currents and scrambled up the cliff faces, not even flinching as footholds crumbled away underneath him and he nearly went pitching onto the rocks. Eliza tried to call him back, fear bubbling in the pot of her stomach, but either the wind whipped her voice away or Alex just didn’t care. More than once Eliza had been left shivering and wide eyed with worry on the sand, counting out the seconds in a shaking voice, praying frantically in her head until she saw him reappear and she could breathe again.  Every time he came back with disappointment writ across his features, the look of a person who was aware of time running out, places left to look becoming fewer and hopes growing thin.

Four dawns had chased them back to the house for a quick, hurried breakfast (usually of chicken soup; Alex didn’t understand the conventions of human mealtimes, he only knew what tasted good) and as much sleep as could be stolen before Eliza’s parents came knocking on her door to tell her to get a move on or was she planning on sleeping the whole day away? And still they had no pelt to show for their searching.

On the fifth unsuccessful return, when Eliza offered to make him some food, Alex just shook his head and mumbled that he was tired. His shoulders slumped and everything about him seemed wilted and mournful. He didnt even change out of the clothes he was wearing, apparently not caring that they were soaked and stiff with salt, he just crawled into his makeshift blanket fort and curled up, hiding his face.

Eliza sat on her own bed, her heart aching for him. The fact that they’d known each other for less than a week seemed like the most insignificant thing in the world; she felt closer to him, this strange, animated, curious boy, then she had to anyone else in her life. It was like the spark that had travelled between them the first time they’d touched had locked them together somehow. Like when he hurt, Eliza hurt too.

She could hear him then, the quiet, mournful little sniffling sound that brought tears prickling to her own eyes and that made up her mind. She came to the entrance of his tent and whispered softly, “Alex?”

She got only a damp sounding grunt in reply.

“Can I come in?” she whispered, “It’s okay if you don’t want me to but…I’m here?”

There was a long moment and then Alex’s voice, sounding very far away and ever so slightly confused, “You can come in.”

It was a bit of a squash with the two of them in such a small space, they found themselves in a bit of an awkward tangle, noses almost bumping together, Eliza’s legs across Alex’s, his head pillowed on her arm by necessity, so close that all she could smell was the slight tang of salt and fresh air that she was starting to realise was just Alex, it was part of him. Something about it felt like home to her.

“Why did you ask if you could come in?” Alex murmured, his voice much flatter than usual, with a bitter edge that sounded a lot more cutting in his accent, “I’m in your house. I’m your stowaway. Your…charity case.”

Eliza winced, seeing the shame and disappointment on his face as he used a phrase that was clearly unfamiliar to him but he felt its truth. Something drove her and she took his hand in her own, winding and locking their fingers together.

“Because it’s your space,” she told him gently but sincerely, managing to meet that searchlight gaze of his unflinchingly, “And you’re welcome here, Alex, you know that. I want to help you.”

It was Alex who looked away first this time, for the first time. A slight blush flared up across the angular valleys of his face, “Why?”

There was desperation in that one word, like it was something he’d been wanting to ask for a while now but had been too afraid of the answer that would come at its heels.

Eliza squeezed his hand, making him start ever so slightly, “Because…you need help and you’re my friend. I want you to get back home, I’d hate it if anything took me away from where…where I belonged.”

It was a lie.

Eliza knew that, she could taste it, she could feel it as the words stuttered and started in the small space between them, the soft warm glow of her bedside lamp through the bedsheets around them that made it feel like they were bathed in some ethereal light. The lie felt jarring in such warmth. It felt wrong.

The truth was right there behind her words, jostling at the back of her teeth like it was irritated at being shoved aside. No, she’d love it if someone took her away from this, this life that. she was only starting to realise since that morning on the beach, she despised. This life that made her feel so unsettled and so wrong, like a cartoon character spliced by some animation fuck up into a period drama. This was where she belonged according to all the facts and realities she’d ever known but it was killing her.

But this paled in comparison to the other seething lie; the idea that she wanted him to get back home. Of course, she didn’t. She’d only known this strange young…not even a man, this creature…except that felt too inhuman, too raw. Alex wasn’t like that, he was warmth and laughter and bright smiles and curiosity and saying her name with a kind of reverence that made her blush. Alex was life, he was everything she’d been missing. He was where she belonged. And saying goodbye to him now, watching him swim off back into the waves, back to a whole other world she’d never know, pulling them apart and reopening the divide between them that one freak storm had allowed them to accidentally cross. Eliza didn’t know if she could do that, it was going to break her heart.

She was going to have to, of course. What else was she going to do, keep him in her room for the rest of their lives? Smuggle him back to Albany in her suitcase? Build him a blanket fort in the corner of whatever high rise or brownstone in which she ended up avoiding her future husband who looked like he’d been factory assembled? As much as it hurt her, Alex needed to go where she couldn’t follow. She could see it in his eyes as he gazed at the sea from her bedroom window, in the way he’d pace at the shoreline during their nightly search parties like some magnetic force was pulling him back out there.

Eliza sighed softly as she looked into his dark eyes and saw waves crashing there. She knew she couldn’t ask him to fight against that, no matter how many lies she told herself.

“Thanks, Eliza,” Alex whispered, a small smile flickering across his face as he freed one arm to wipe at his eyes.

Despite all of the complicated emotions inside her, Eliza smiled back at him and she meant it. All she’d really wanted was to see him happy again. She could ignore the clouds gathering in her own mind; she’d always been good at that.

“We’re really friends?” Alex narrowed his eyes, his smile turning playful, “Do most people make friends by kicking them in the ribs?”

“You are never going to let that go!” Eliza hissed, giggles bubbling up as she swatted at his head making him retaliate by swinging a leg over her and going for the ribs, ticking furiously with deadly accuracy.

A fierce and quiet battle raged for a few minutes which ended with them dissolving into laughter, even more knotted together than they were before, tangled impossibly in the blankets.

“Of course we’re friends, idiot,” Eliza sighed fondly, catching her breath, “Don’t doubt that.”

His smile was so wide it made the corners of his eyes crinkle up a little and that held such a fascination for Eliza it scared her more than a little.

“Hey, um, seeing as this is my space…” he repeated her phrase carefully, “Can I ask you to stay? Sleep in here with me instead?”

Eliza realised just how close they were in that moment. In more ways than one, it felt like.

“Sure thing, I can stay in here with you. Scooch over,” she slid down beside him, making them a little more comfortable. It was actually very nice, having each other’s warmth and the safe closeness of the sheets overhead and the gentle light. It felt like an oasis for just the two of them, like everything that had been worrying them had to stay outside. In here, they were safe and they’d built it together.

Though it wasn’t like Alex had ever felt the awkwardness growing in Eliza’s chest like a weed. He seemed impervious to such things, shameless in an endearing and sort of reckless way. It came from having been alone so long, she guessed. So, he wound his arms around her and pillowed his head on her chest, wrapping his legs through hers, cuddling into her like it was the most natural thing in the world. And after a few heartbeats of pause, Eliza cuddled right back because maybe here, in this moment, it could be.

Eliza was straddling the line between asleep and awake, her brain foggy, but she distinctly heard Alex’s low, gravelly murmur, “It’s been so long since I didn’t have to sleep alone.”

He sounded so…grateful. So much that the melancholic weight it carried hurt a little. Eliza had no answer for him but to hug him even tighter, trying to put the promise she couldn’t make, the promise she couldn’t even let herself think, into that contact.

If she’d tried to say it out loud, if she’d tried to find the words, who knew what would have come spilling out. That she felt it too, the vulnerability of sleep in the arms of someone you trusted and truly understood. That she’d never felt so safe as she did in his arms. That she didn’t want him to leave, she didn’t ever want to leave this tent.

That, despite the almost impossible distance between them, despite the fact that they’d only known each other a few days, she was falling in love with him.

Eliza wasn’t sure what she’d thought Alex’s sealskin would look like.

She’d been picturing something more than a little grim, something tatty like rotting seaweed, something she’d been scared to touch. She’d never actually seen a seal up close? What exactly were you supposed to expect for an ethereal item that allowed shapeshifting between species?

She definitely hadn’t been expecting it to be so beautiful.

Eliza was the one who found it, she was always the one that searched further up the beach on the grasses and stone fields; Alex seemed anxious to stick to the shoreline. It was caught on the taller ammophila, hidden from the sea’s view in the valleys and slopes and rolls of the dunes. The storm must have thrown it back there like it was a trailing scarf on a light breeze. It certainly looked light enough to carry that way, it was almost translucent in the glare of her flashlight, like something spun and weaved. But at the same time, it looked oddly alive, animated, like the way the wind lifted it was actually its breathing, an unsettling trick of the eye.

It did look like seal skin. It was grey and dappled, holding depths of deeper blacks and blues, an impossible number of shades held within its surface. The fact that it was covered in fur was almost imperceptible, the hairs were so fine and translucent. Clearly it was built for speed and power Eliza couldn’t even imagine, the fact that it wasn’t of this world was obvious. Eliza was simultaneously afraid to go anywhere near it and compelled to run it through her fingers, wanting it and fearing it in equal measures.

It was a little like how she felt about Alex.

Eliza was entranced for a moment but the shivering in her own limbs brought her back. It was a particularly cold and wet night, rain hanging in the air like it was trapped on cobwebs. And she’d finally found what they’d been looking for. All she had to do was call for Alex, he’d be so happy, he’d be able to go home…

Eliza felt a chill grip her chest that had nothing to do with the weather. A thought grew in the back of her mind, something insidious and cold and bitter that she couldn’t ignore. As much as she was ashamed by it.

She didn’t have to tell Alex. He never came back here in the sand dunes, he was so far away. They’d yet to search the same space twice. He’d probably never come across it. Or she could take it herself, hide it away, he’d never find it. She’d never have to face that sickening moment where she watched him go, held him for the last time, watched those dark, intense eyes leave her life forever.

Eliza shook herself, wincing away from the thought, pushing it away with all her strength. She couldn’t do that to him. If leaving was what was best for him, then that was what she was going to do. That was what she wanted. It had to be.

“Alex!” she raised her voice over the wind, scrambling up the dune until she could see him, getting the legs of her favourite pair of sweatpants soaked in the spray, “Alex, over here!”

The roar of the wind was fearsome that night but Alex’s ears seemed oddly attuned to her voice, he turned and waved at her excitedly. She motioned him over, trying to set her face in a smile, trying to look happy.

Alex’s joy and relief to have his skin back helped, Eliza had no choice but to smile as he gasped and ran to take it in his hands with all the emotion of someone being handed back their left arm.

He stroked it against his cheek, feeling whole again as the constant anxiety in his stomach settled a little, “You found it! You found it, you got it back for me!”

Eliza wrapped her arms around herself, her expression soft, “Just like I said. Told you I’d make up for tripping over you. And for making you wear my pyjamas.”

Alex laughed, looking almost painfully happy, like it was constricting his chest, “You actually did it. I can…I can go back…”

The triumph and celebration suddenly flickered out and died. Alex stopped his excited bouncing, freezing as his hand closed around hers to pull her into his dance, spin her around. But instead they both stalled, eyes catching on each other, no sound but the wind and the waves.

“Um…” Alex looked shyer than she’d ever seen him, sudden coyness flooding over him like he didn’t want to face whatever was coming next but it couldn’t be stopped, “I guess I can…um, thank you for everything you did for me. That doesn’t even come close to covering it but…”

Eliza understood, she could see him struggling with words to describe this. She couldn’t blame him, it wasn’t like they made greeting cards for this kind of situation.

“You’re welcome, Alex,” she replied faintly, “I…meeting you was…”

She was suddenly blinking very hard and fast, an uncomfortable prickling building behind her eyes. She prayed he’d think it was just the wind. By the way he suddenly dropped her hand limply, she didn’t think so.

Another moment stretched between them, like currents were pulling them further and further apart, if they didn’t act soon it would be too late.

“Do you really want me to go, Eliza?” Alex murmured, his eyes wide. He clutched the skin to his chest like a child’s safety blanket. He had the look of someone who’d asked a question they knew might get them in trouble, it had just slipped out when they weren’t watching carefully enough.

Eliza swallowed hard, hugging herself tightly, “Well…”

Another lie made itself known, climbing intrusively up her throat. It would be so easy to open her mouth and let it tumble out but…Alex was being honest with her. Why couldn’t she do the same with him? Didn’t she owe them both that?

“I’m going to miss you,” she admitted in a small voice, “I’m really, really going to miss you, Alex. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Well no, you haven’t,” Alex snorted, teasing.

Eliza rolled her eyes though his joke did ease her tension a little, it made her think that she could say anything to him and not be afraid. “I mean I’ve never met anyone- human or otherwise- like you. You just understand me. No one else has ever managed that.” She gave a dry laugh that sounds unnatural and forced even to her.

Alex blinked, “Well, yes? Of course?”

Eliza narrowed her eyes, he was looking at her like she was missing a vital part of some puzzle she hadn’t even realised she was trying to do, “What do you mean?”

“We’re mates,” Alex explained slowly, tilting his head in that odd but sweet way he did, “I’m your mate. You’re my mate.”

She got the sense that he didn’t mean that in the way she knew. The way he said it, it had a different weight in his hands.

“Mates?” she murmured, feeling the power of it herself, confused by it.

Alex nods, his face saddening, his shoulders hunching a little, “Bonded. Soulmates. Selkies mate for life, you know as soon as you meet them.”

Warmth flooded Eliza’s chest as she tried to process this, as this unfamiliar concept that somehow described exactly what she’d been feeling fell into her lap. It felt like she’d known it for a long time but had simply forgotten. Alex was just helping her remember.

And still doubts tangled around her ankles and tripped her.

“But I’m not…I’m not like you, how can I be your…” she stammered.

“It’s happened before, it’s in the songs and stories,” Alex wilted even further, “But if you don’t want to...I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sorry, I should have kept my mouth shut. Stupid, it’s just stupid. I’m probably wrong, I mean, when our hands touched and…and that happened I was sure but-”

The pace and pitch of his voice was rising, his hands in his skin tightening and twisting. Panic was overtaking him; his skin was turning a grey colour and he looked ready to bolt. She couldn’t let that happen.

Eliza reached over, taking his hands. In doing so, she brushed his skin for the first time almost unthinkingly. Yet again she felt that charge between the two of them that she now had a name for, that pull. The sensation of the rest of the world slowing down around them even as their own heartbeats began to race and every sight, sound and smell became so much more real and almost uncomfortably close. Alex’s eyes widened, his lips parted a little.

“Eliza?” he breathed.

“I feel it too, Alex,” she gripped his hands tightly, “I promise I feel this too, I understand!”

As strange as it seemed, as many problems as this realisation threw up, they began to laugh. Mates. Mated for life. This idea ran through Eliza’s mind restlessly as Alex’s chill, calloused hands came up to cradle her face in the sweetest and gentlest gesture. It felt only natural as their lips came together, as her hands answered his own by resting on his shoulders, standing on tiptoe so she could press against him even more intently. No fear or hesitance, it was just the two of them. Eliza could almost swear they were surrounded by the warm glow of their safe space, back in her bedroom.

They had to pull apart for air but the light stayed, the feeling of everything somehow being okay in spite of all available evidence. They grinned at each other in bewilderment and joy, moving apart no further than they absolutely had to. Eliza ran her fingers across his skin, it was so incredibly soft and light, like nothing she’d ever felt before.

All of this was unlike anything she’d felt. It was all so new, dizzyingly so but she found she actually liked being a little out of her comfort zone. If Alex was the one waiting for her at the other side of it.

Eliza bit her bottom lip, “But I can’t go into the sea with you. If I could…”

She knew she would. She honestly would. But that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t have a skin like his, she was grounded in a way he wasn’t.

Alex shook his head, a frantic kind of hope in his eyes, “I don’t care. Eliza, I’ll stay here. There’s nothing for me out there without you.”

Eliza opened her mouth, relief and horror warring on her face, “Alex, you can’t. You…this isn’t…I can’t ask you to give up everything, your home…”

Alex gave a derisive snort, “Eliza, listen. All I have out there is loneliness. Fighting for every inch, having to constantly keep on the move so all the shit I’ve done doesn’t catch up to me. I’m so tired, Eliza, I was so close to giving up until I met you. You are my home.”

There were still so many questions and hurdles to cross. Her parents. Her planned future. She was in the midst of stepping off the path she’d been on for years, drifting away into god knew what, there were going to be consequences for that choice.

But right now, she didn’t care. Alex didn’t care.

They would just have to let the storm carry them.

[happycakestories]

old mx fic dump pt. 7

some particularly notable aus --  they stand out for the imagery/themes or how much i personally invested in the story

rusalka au - still love the idea of a drowning kind of love, myths of alluring water creatures, and the wet, decaying rot of old eastern european mansions - the kind that still seem to grow, wholly alive, within the marshes

cowritten w a friend who made a cool graphic :)

honey’s mom is a rusalka and his father is a korean ambassador or whatever, she was supposed to lure the dad in and kill him but she falls in love with him and gets married to this mortal, he builds a house for them near the lake she came from, she hears the voices of her brothers and sisters calling her and telling her to go back, slowly driving her insane the longer she keeps away from the water

This undead rusalka is not invariably malevolent, and would be allowed to die in peace if her death is avenged. Her main purpose is, however, to lure young men, seduced by either her looks or her voice, into the depths of said waterways where she would entangle their feet with her long red hair and submerge them.

when honey is born she gets remorseful bc he’s half a fae and she condemned him to be shunned and also his nature is supposed to be inherently dangerous so she tries to keep him away from bodies of water of any kind

but rusalki need water to live so she has to stay in the tub for a loong time very often

lots of childhood memories of him grabbing a stool and scooching to the edge of the tub as she blew pink bubbles at him

honey wonders why he’s not allowed to go near water bc he’s a child and children are nosy and during a family outing when his mom is distracted he explores and gets lured into the water bc the other rusalki kinda want to kill him to get revenge on his mother but he’s half fae and he manages to escape

when he comes back he’s changed, he has blue eyes and her fears are confirmed

so that night after saying goodbye to her husband and son she goes back to the lake and makes a deal with her brothers and sisters, she goes back with them but they must promise they’ll leave her son alone

everybody tells honey his mother drowned, but he’s suspicious bc she never went near any body of water, so he investigate and approaches the lake and sees young, beautiful rusalki floating under the water, his mother is there too but she looks so different and totally not human, he runs away in fear  and after this he develops a terrible phobia  of water bodies

every night he hears his mother sing and call him, trying to lure him in, so his father for fear of his mental health decides to move, but everywhere they go in russia, honey’s mother finds them and haunts him, so his dad decides to go back to korea, where he marries hyolyn who is the daughter of some fancy ass noble family and honey comes to love her like a good stepson but he cant forget about his mom, who is like a ghost to him, and he cant help but wonder if the memories he had of her before she drowned are even real

then he’s introduced at a fancy ass party, and honey is super shy bc he doesnt know anybody and his korean isnt that good, but at the party there’s ck too, the son of a general, and he’s a little nerd and also doesnt have many friends and he sees this super pretty boy with the most unusual eyes

and he notices this super pretty boy with the most unusual eyes

and he's shy bc his korean isnt too good also living in russia he doesnt have any friends here

who is looking around nervously since he doesn't know anyone or the language well enough

and ck falls in love at first sight bc he's shy too and a bit nerdy and doesnt have many friends

for the first time he's the one that approaches someone else

he goes over coughing out an awkward "hi" as he leans against the wall next to the other boy

blue eyes perk brightly at his prescence and the other boy also lets out a soft hi in return

it's thick and clumsy and ck immediately recognizes the slavic accent

he takes a chance and switches to russian, re-introducing himself again in the other language

he's immediatly bombarded by rapid fire russian, the blue eyed boy jabbering away with relief in his eyes AND LIKE IM IMAGINING THIS 1910's SALON YKNOW, and the two boys huddled in a corner speaking in russian

and i was thinking that they become friends and ck notices his friend is weird, he doesnt want to go swimming in the pond in summer and sometimes he looks at water with authentic terror in his eyes

but he doesnt know he's afraid to see a face under the surface

i'm figuring they're around 12-13 at this point?

jooheon's still fully draped in a high colored blouse and pants

manyeo0

YES and at first he didnt want to let ck go into the water because he was afraid his mother would snatch him

happycakeycake

won't even take off his shoes near the water

OOH GROWING UP TOGETHR

but Ck is also so genuinely enthusiastic about going to swim

so he decides to follow him to at least watch over him

but he is NOT GOING IN

"i don't understand, i mean its just pool water..." changkyun mutters even as instant regret fills his chest at the other's shaking form

happycakeycake

there has to be a scene where jooheon totally looks feral and ck is actually scared

i want dangerous jooheon sorry woops

manyeo0

that we can get man, maybe the one time honey (as an adult tho) gets into the water

and ck is scared and turned on at the same time

happycakeycake

omg DUDE what if he almost gives into his instinct

and drowns ck

manyeo0

also my dude i want this fic to be FILTH Y

happycakeycake

but he snaps back in time

manyeo0

and then cue underwater sex like in movie

happycakeycake

to push ck back to the surface and onto the bank

manyeo0

s

happycakeycake

HOHA

manyeo0

yes man

i want the filth

manyeo0

romantic, pretty filth

happycakeycake

AND HE LOOKS UP INTO BRIGHT EYES, PUPILS SLITTING INTO THIN LINES OF BLACK

LIKE AN IDLE BOAT DROWNED INTO TWO ENDLESS POOLS

HE CAN'T LOOK AWAY

manyeo0

YES

happycakeycake

BUT HE GREW UP SO MUCH

manyeo0

WAHAHAH AND THATS THE ONE TIME JOOHEON ISNT THE SUB

happycakeycake

OH POWERBOTTOM JOOHEON COUGH

manyeo0

OOOH MAN

manyeo0

YES

happycakeycake

OMG OF COURSE

manyeo0

fucking on the riverbank

happycakeycake

like reeds and fallen petals from the water clinging to his body as he pulls onto the bank

pushing ck down onto the mossy ground

he can feel the wetness sinking in through his clothes but he can't bring himself to move

not with jooheon sat naked and wet as the day he was born, staring down at him

manyeo0

joklkllflfklfkfdlkd

happycakeycake

and then he gets ridden an inch withinhis life woops yep i can't write porn anymore

manyeo0

AND HE'S LIKE "I SHOULD BRING U TO THE RIVER MORE OFTEN WHOOPS"

happycakeycake

and all he gets in a response is sharp teeth against his neck, biting harshly before pressing a soft kiss against it

he shivers but makes no move to shrink away

manyeo0

my aesthetic for this fic is lots of water and lots of filth

happycakeycake

i love that please

and dark green moss

dark woods with decaying trees sticking out of rivers

manyeo0

maybe ck gets sent to one of those military schools

happycakeycake

nooOOOOOO

omg but when he comes back

manyeo0

and honey keeps studying at home and they only see each other when ck is back home but they write letters

happycakeycake

both of them would 've changed so much

YES

and ck gets progressively worried as the letters become rambled and messy

manyeo0

MGMGD

happycakeycake

jooheon's thoughts jumbling into conflicting opinions about the rivers and lakes

JOOHEON KINKILY DROWNS GUNHEE

happycakeycake

there's something so satisfying in the way the other man's eyes dull and his heartbeat lulls to a stop against jooheon's own chest

manyeo0

IOFOFJSMSMDN

he'd be horrified if he knew man

also i posted the thing

happycakeycake

he can't hold himself back from stealing the man's last breath of air with a searing kiss

swallowing his last gasp and sealing their mouths together until he grows completely limp in jooheon's hold

happycakeycake

oh my god but like what if changkyun totally saw that poor man walk into the lake

manyeo0

OJJDJDDDKKS

happycakeycake

and jooheon rises out of the surface, only able to whisper out a "hi" as changkyun's eyes widen in horror

and then the whole sex scene happens

manyeo0

OGHH HIT

YES

happycakeycake

except he totally forces him during it to promise to forget about it

i just want a scene of jooheon reveling in the extent of his full powers, breathing in the scent of the waters as the moon drapes across his skin

and changkyun can only watch to the side, terror and awe all mixed into one

-----------

The dry gravel gives way under Changkyun’s boots into the ever-familiar softness of wet moss, as he makes his way back home.

Hoseok always jokes that he’s going to become a forest hermit one day, but what with the continually mounting stress at work, the younger sergeant is starting to seriously consider it as a viable option.

Even the annoying scratch and tug of wild branches against his uniform seems almost playful and comforting this evening. His uniform coat, brocaded with a once-flourishing embroidery of a yellow bird, is slung casually over his shoulder as the forest gives him its usual clinging welcome.

It wouldn’t be quite an exaggeration to say that he was forest-dweller, since he had literally settled down inside a patch of quiet, secluded woods, easily buying up an acre or two of unused land to live on.

The dense underbrush finally opens to a quiet grass bank. It’s perpetually secluded - the forest hunching inwards like a mother, leafy arms spreading wide to block out almost all traces of sunlight. Everything flourishes in the dark, moss and mud squishing wetly underfoot as they appear in larger and larger pieces towards the pond.

Well, it’s more of a lake than anything: deep and dark enough to hide any man’s secret. Dilapidated trees, raised half mast in the water, reach with stiff branches for any kind of light, even as they inevitably rot deeper into the water with each passing day.  

And all of this is Changkyun’s home.

He plops down at the edge of the bank with a content sigh, relaxing fully even as freezing wetness seeps through his trousers. His reflection is clear and unbroken when he leans over the water, a perfect mirror image of serious brows and slim cheeks.

He leans closer, enough so that his nose could kiss against his mirror self’s, his hair could dip against the dark surface, and his lips could press a cold greeting to his home.

His face is only a millimeter away from touching the lake when he’s grabbed and pulled face-first into the water, pale wrists and outstretched palms flashing across his vision to latch onto his collar.

The initial panic and breathlessness soothes over when a familiar softness fastens itself wetly over his frozen scream. His vision shadows over, and Changkyun can’t tell if his eyes or closed or if it’s the unreachable darkness of the water.

Either way he pushes back, hands coming up to grope for full cheeks and bare shoulders as he bites against a plush mouth. A gasp comes out, muffled into tiny air bubbles, rising and popping towards the lake surface.  

In a few seconds he follows, gasping and collapsing onto the bank, mouth raw as it’s assaulted by the chilling air. He sits up as quickly as possible, lungs protesting and limbs groaning when he raises himself up to glance toward the water.

Vectored ripples streamline across the surface, flowing into a direct stop in front of his dangled legs. The bottomless reflection breaks into a pale face and lake-slick hair -  slitted pools of blue that sit atop of round cheeks which bunch into dimpled glee.

“Darling!” pierces through the air as a happy shout from pink lips, cupid’s bow arching in obvious delight. The cooed syllables roll off in thick Russian, curling gutturally through a taut throat.

“How was your day?” Changkyun replies simply, switching abruptly to Korean and exaggerating each word teasingly as he watches his lover frown in immediate discontent.

“I- miss - missed you,” Jooheon slowly replies, choosing each word with careful consideration as he forces away the Slavic sounds fighting to escape through his throat.

It all started many, many years ago, in Russia, Vladimir district, in a villa next to a lake.

---

The thing Jooheon liked the most about his mother was her hair.

Most of the time she wore it pinned on top of her head, or coiled in elegant braids that framed her face. When she let it down it fell in heavy, wavy tresses, red and shiny as polished copper. She let him run his little hands through the silky locks, and sometimes he helped her untangle the most stubborn knots with her favourite silver brush. It was difficult to choose the thing he loved the most about her, because in his mind Mother was absolute perfection: she was beautiful and wise, she had strong and nimble hands and the softest voice he had ever heard.

Jooheon had inherited her pale hair and pale skin and her heart shaped lips, but the cut and shape of his eyes, their colour, those were like his father’s, Mr. Lee. He was an ambassador from Korea, which was very far away from Russia, and didn’t look like his wife at all. He even spoke a different language, and hired a teacher who taught Jooheon how to write and speak it correctly. It sounded strange to Jooheon’s ears, and so different from the lazy drawl of Russian, but he did his best because it made Father proud and Mother happy.

Not that his father was home much: he spent most of the year in Moscow to tend to his business, which made Jooheon’s mother sad, though she tried not to let it show. She wasn’t very happy in that big wooden villa all by herself, with only her little son, his teachers and a couple of maids to keep her company. Jooheon was very young at the time but he understood that his mother felt lonely and he always tried to do his best to cheer her up.

She especially got a wistful, far-away look in her eyes when she glanced at the lake next to the house, which was strange, since she never even walked close to it.

In fact, she seemed to have a deathly, unbreakable fear of all bodies of water, not just the lake, but rivers and small streams too. Jooheon was forbidden to go near water, not even on hot summer days when he would’ve loved to take a swim in the mossy lake to refresh himself. His doctor had suggested it once and Mother had been so upset she had almost thrown the poor man out of the door.

One day, Jooheon had asked her about it. He was sitting on the cold tiled floor of her bathroom, his fingers idly tracing the shape of one of the bath’s clawed brass feet, while his mother blew rose-perfumed bubbles at him. “Mother, why are you afraid of water?” His mother had let out a very unlady-like snort “Why do you ask that, pchelka? I’m taking a bath in water right now, am I not?” Little Jooheon had scoffed, knowing she didn’t intend on answering his question seriously. “I don’t mean that! I mean, why are you scared of the lake, or the streams and rivers? Why don’t you ever want to go swimming in the lake?”

This time, his mother had glanced at him through narrowed, impossibly blue eyes, so different from his own, and he had felt a sort of chill go through him. It felt like looking down a well full of icy cold water, knowing it could suck you in at any moment.

“I’m not scared of anything, pchelka. I just don’t like moving water too much. You never know what’s hiding beneath the surface. Something might grab your pretty little foot while you’re swimming and you’d never see the light of day again!” She had started tickling him then, his laughter bouncing through the tiled walls, and every thought about water and its mysterious depths was momentarily forgotten.

-

It all came back to him one day, a couple of years later.

At seven, Jooheon was still a small, pudgy boy with round dimpled cheeks and curly blonde hair. His mother and all the maids doted on him, they called him pchelka, solnyshko, angel. His father - those rare times he saw him, for he still spent the best part of his time in Moscow - wasn’t as affectionate, but he seemed satisfied with his progresses and always brought him presents from the city, such as intricate egg puzzles, imported sweets and books.

Mother received silver combs shaped like dragonflies, silk dresses that floated around her figure like gentle waves, and more diamond necklaces and earrings than she could possibly wear in that secluded house in the forest, where nobody could see them. Her only chance to show her off where the fancy parties Ambassador Lee attended in Moscow. On some occasions, he brought his family along, his wife (“my lovely Dar'ja” as he would introduce her) as radiant as ever, his little son adorably awkward, nervous from all the attention he would get as a mixed child born of an Asian man and a Russian woman.

Jooheon didn’t like those parties much, they felt so fake and stifling, and he was always immensely glad to be back to his quiet villa by the lake, with its creaky wooden floors and the fading paintwork on the walls.

There was something about the perpetual wetness of the wood - the way it creaked and gave way underfoot, as if the water in it had made it alive, shift, and grow with every slap of his chubby feet.

The city maids always shook their heads at the mess, stomping their heels in disgust at clumps of rich moss creeping up in damp corners and whispering about how it’s not good for the mistress nor the young master, for that matter, to be in these kinds of conditions. For all their hard efforts though, one rainy day later and the lake would be back to its original state: creaky, wet, rich, and alive.

As much as his mother guarded against lakes or any form of wild contact with water, Jooheon can see the unfiltered want behind the frenzied fear in her pale eyes. He understands the feeling - the same pull rising up within him every time his bare toes gripped dewed grass, every time the splatter of rain on his windows sent him into a panic, nerves driving him into a state of suspended alertness.

It’s these moments where he and his mother sought each other out, simultaneously as if on instinct. She would cradle his pulsing head to her chest, wrapping her own thinly clad, nightgowned body around his own, their hearts pounding to the same erratic rhythm. It’s the only thing that can calm him down enough to sleep: the fiery curtain of his mother’s loose, long hair soothing him safely back into the land of dreams.

"pet” / mafia au

GENERAL AESTHETICS:  “it got her on her knees like religion” “every saturday night i get dressed up to get ready to ride for you baby” “movie stars and liquor stores and soft decay” “so imma care for you, you, you, you, yeah” “if i cannot move heaven, i will raise all of hell for you”

PET AU: jooheon’s a quiet pet but he watches everything his master does with wide, brown eyes. They say he’s too docile, too vapid, too silent, but well - he just wants to be good for the man he loves.  https://ton.twitter.com/1.1/ton/data/dm/920057578448670730/920057561562451969/D8Lvlc_K.jpg:large

https://ton.twitter.com/i/ton/data/dm/920750240050933765/920750232492822536/3Wm36U-f.jpg:large

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Playlist: “le noir” by bap, “ribbon in the sky” by bap → only for action scenes maybe, “Galaxy” by Ladies Code, “All about You” by Taemin → beginning 1st part of video  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEURku1dTfU), “move” by taemin, “in the night” by the weeknd, “Wires” by the neighborhood-Minhyuk?, “White Noise (Chinese Version)” by EXO - in Jooheon’s absence, MAYBE TAEMIN STUFF IN GENERAL (Press It album - song → sexuality→ Until Today (it's perfect!!!) → Ace → Experience), “Burning Desire” by Lana Del Rey, “Gangsta” by Kehlani, BANKS MUSIC,

Scenes:

Confrontation: “We only wanted to rough him up a little for show,” Minhyuk sighs, nudging a hard toe against the soft, pale flesh of Jooheon’s thigh. The pet whimpers, warbling and desperate, and tries to shuffle away on bound, bloody knees. The same shiny black dress shoe comes stomping down over bare skin a second later, dragging out a raw cry of pain from between Jooheon’s torn lips. Jackson digs stinging half-moon crescents into his palm with the bloody tips of his blunt nails. Still, he stays silent.

“But, well-” the slender man kneels down on one leg, all coiled grace and deadly power as he takes Jooheon’s stained cheek in hand with feigned tenderness. “He made it a little too hard for us in the process,” a thumb digs into the exact spot where Jackson knows a dimple would sit during a deep smile, and Minhyuk smiles benevolently, “didn’t you pet?”

Minhyuk + jooheon interactions:

The bargain: Jackson reaches for the man, the leader’s outstretched hand, making sure to keep his fingers strong. Judging from the other’s pointed grimace, it’s a little too much. He bares his teeth in a smile anyway.

“Welcome, Wang Jia Er.” He keeps his expression open. “Please, call me Jackson.” Whispers arise immediately, like the chirping of crickets on a late summer’s night, and a laugh bubbles in the back of his throat. Jackson finally relaxes his grip, smile poised even as Howon’s hand comes to wipe casually against his fitted trousers. It’s bargain day, he reminds himself.

Howon nods, the cutting edge of his jawline turning to jerk towards the second room, bordered by the casual exoticness of an imperial era styled door, intricate lace-like designs carved out of fine mahogany and painted a fading red. Red for luck, his mother’s voice twines like threads of yarn knit with slender fingers through his hair. Red for marriage, his father’s crumbling visage breathes from behind his shoulder, the choking smoke of cigarettes winding a loose remnant around Jackson’s throat.

Red for power, he tells himself, a quiet echo within the blank space of his own mind.

He’s led into the intricately designed room, two rows of men flanking him loosely from both sides in a uniformed wall of black lapels and sharp white button-downs as they go. Inside, his nose is invaded by the curling scent of smoke, sweeping him into a momentary lapse of forgetfulness as images of decadent 19th century opium dens rip off from his wrinkled textbook pages and balloon inside his mind. Jackson huffs out a heavy breath at the decaying pictures, tasting the filmy sensation of marijuana clinging like a summer’s cup of sugary lemonade against his tongue.

The sunken-eyed, emaciated stare of poppy-drugged prostitutes have been replaced by the straight backs of bare-legged pets, kneeled so obediently in front of their masters Jackson’s arrival barely turns any of their steady gazes. He can’t say the same for his own impulsive curiosity.

Howon strides forward with calculated, casual steps, weaving past stained upholstery and scattered silk cushions until Jackson finds himself presented before a simple rectangular table, bare, save for a spotless china ashtray, surrounded by wood-backed recliners that all boast the same exotic design carved into the doorway border. They’re grouped into seats for two at the short sides of the table, then a seat for four lined up against the top edge, and finally a single chair placed directly on the opposite side to finish up the quadruplet seating. The hard tip of Howon’s shiny dress shoes stop right at the edge of the rigid circle, the rest of his men flocking behind him like a pack of well-dressed deadly penguins.

Jackson carefully seats himself in the single chair, spreading his legs and leaning forward with his elbows against his knees, shoulders relaxed and open. The wood of the chair shakes and creaks loudly on its spindly legs.

A pause. Howon’s dress shoes click in deliberate movement.

Howon’s penguin men begin shuffling in, taking up their invisible spots around the table with waddling gaits as their boss stalks among them, a panther among their midst. They all settle into the same position, legs bared, smiles plastered, all leaned in towards Jackson as Howon places himself directly opposite of him, hooking his legs together with a quiet shift of slightly too-tight fabric. Jackson notes the way the other man’s slacks pull and wrinkle like a fan’s folded edges around his crotch. He twitches testily within his own seat, looking up to catch Howon’s glowering expression with his cheery own.

Finally, the fine china of the untouched ashtray seems to come into use as the other man lights a simmering cigarette, roiling smoke unfurling from the slit of his mouth as he takes in a choppy inhale, releasing it in the same brisk manner. Smoking was always absolutely prohibited when training with weapons, but Jackson admits he quite likes how hazy it makes Howon appear in the seedy lighting of the underground den. Now, on his father’s harsh breath, that’s a completely different story. He keeps his smile pleasant, eyebrows rising just a fraction in surprise when a waft of cancerous fog brushes his way. He waits, and the cigarette is stubbed out against white china with a sizzling hiss, the red of its embers fading into black tar that spreads itself out along the pristine bottom of the previously untouched tray like a malignant tumor.

“So,” Howon puffs out one last trace of wispy smoke, “What’s your deal?”

Jackson can’t stop his smile from twitching, widening just a fraction across his face. He leans forward even more, back curved, fingers interlaced loosely at the knuckles as he rattles off every detail from the tip of his tongue: “167 shipments of illegal firearms to your district the minute our supply arrives from overseas on the first of each month - that’s roughly around 2000 per year entirely for your group alone. Free access through our subway tunnels for anything you need, and of course - solidarity for any-” Jackson flicks a hand at some invisible dust mite in the air, “-power struggles.”

Howon sits there, eyes grey, legs poised in his too-tight pants as he works down the last bit of smoke in his system. Despite everything, Jackson can see the purring glimmer of satisfaction in the other’s stone-cold gaze. “

And?” The other man prompts, shifting forward, hands clasped in front of his thin lips as he finally faces Jackson. “What do you want from me?”

Jackson’s words rattle off his tongue, smooth and rehearsed: “Complete and free movement through your district, all the way past the Gyeonggi-do station.” Howon’s single arched eyebrow reads something akin to that’s it? and Jackson’s mouth immediately gets the better of him as he finds himself blurting out, “Maybe one your pretty little pets as well,” motioning towards the boys and girls, lounging, supple and silent, outside of their tense bargaining ring.

Howon’s straight mouth finally twists, the man unable to keep the amusement off his face at the younger man’s brazen request. “Why not?” he chuckles dryly, bending deep at the waist before pushing himself upright on strong thighs. “A symbol of our union: your guns in exchange for a warm body to keep you company on cold, lonely nights.” He smiles openly for the first time since their meeting, teeth straight and canines sharp. Jackson has the distinct feeling he’s being made fun, but well, Howon isn’t exactly wrong.

This time, it’s Howon stepping out first through the ring of carved chairs, all his men rising to follow, leaving Jackson to exit last. He’s led through another rigid set of dusted hallways, only made worse by the rotting tapestries draped over the walls with fading beauties clad in kimonos, hanfus, and the like. Jackson has to admit, the other man’s sense of appropriation is quite elegant, even though it lacks something to be desired in the cleaning department. He keeps his pace even, lagging towards the bottom end of the group as he watches Howon pull a man forward, conversing with him in hushed tones and subtle motions. There’s nothing left for Jackson to be worried about, but he finds himself anticipatory for the first time in the long months since his assumption.

The room they come to must be the heart of the den, Jackson considers, stepping inside, practically pushed towards the middle of the circle by an imperceptible pressure. It’s covered entirely in silk drapery, tapestries and knotted curtains slipping down the walls onto the floors, floors that are a pool of various cushions and round beds, barely a hint of grey cement able to peek through the garish colors of the silk. Jackson wrinkles his nose for the barest of seconds; the musk of sweat and perfume permeates like a fog throughout the room.

“Namjoon,” Howon’s voice echoes throughout the room, nodding slightly at the man Jackson watched him converse with before. “Bring them in.”

The other man-Namjoon, bends almost imperceptibly at the waist before striding out the room, slipping out through an easy chink in the circle’s armor. Jackson blinks once in vague surprise, and the circle is formed once again, no weaknesses to be found. Howon turns toward him with a patient grin, and Jackson shoots back his own tight smile.

The mind-numbing incense of the pressure in the room grows, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, steadying his fingers against sweaty palms. He waits.

-

The familiar tap of dress shoes sound, muffled over the scattered layer of cushions on the cement floor. Jackson looks up, hands tensed within his pockets to see the penguin ring rearranging itself into lumped bunches as Namjoon re-enters the room, the hard pound of his boots followed by an unfamiliar string of soft brushing footsteps, the imprint of their sound pressed like dandelion dust into silk by light, bare feet.

Bare feet, long legs, all pale flesh on show as Jackson watches, breath caught, as a line of collared boys and girls kneel onto the floor of cushions, turning to him the open edge of their cheek with wide eyes and ramrod straight backs. The last one files in, presenting himself in the same fashion, but, huh - the entire curve of his porcelain collarbones to his arched throat is noticeably bare of any thick bands of leather. He lingers, just for a moment, on the pet’s bowed head and turns back to face Namjoon with a relaxed smile plastered over his face again. It’s time to negotiate.

“This is it?” he prompts, leaning back a little, rolling his shoulders ever so slightly in the tight confines of his suit jacket. The other man responds to his jibe with a quick flash of short canines, light dimples dipping into an angled jaw as he casually pushes the starched sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Tattoos, Jackson notes, with a jaunty raise of an eyebrow. The Virgin Mary winds her way up the man’s veined forearm in a picturesque coloring of black and grey, save for the sickly green tears rolling down her 2D cheeks. Religious? No can’t be it, Jackson decides, dampening a snort as he notes the two stark lines that form the upside down cross adorning the knuckle of Namjoon’s middle finger.

“I’ll have you know,” Namjoon comments, calm and frank, stepping beside the first pet and lightly running the crook of his finger over her cheek, “our pets are trained thoroughly in all aspects of behavior.” A response comes almost immediately as she dips her head back against his touch, the perfect picture of pretty obedience. Jackson’s stomach jumps at her unreadable glance. Satisfied, the other man lifts away his tattooed hand, straightening himself with a smug, dimpled smile.

“Of course, that’s not to say they don’t have any personality - isn’t that right Youngjae?” He moves onto the next pet, a boy with pink, perked lips who shoots Jackson a puffy, dark glare as Namjoon’s inked fingers come to rest under his sharp chin. Instead of following the tilt of the man’s hand, the kneeled pet bites, jerking a tan digit into his glossy pout, catching it in a hard flash of white teeth. Still, Namjoon only chuckles, wrenching back his thumb and wiping it casually up Youngjae’s flushed cheek in a long, possessive motion. There’s barely a hint of the bite against the skin of the other man’s finger, and Jackson watches the pet settle back down against the cushion, lidded gaze once again fixed upon the silk in front of him without a sound of protest. What a show, he considers carefully as Namjoon moves on to the next kneeled pet.

Of course, he’s thoroughly interested, perhaps even fascinated by these pets, almost inhuman creatures that bare themselves so transparently before an entire room of black-eyed men, before his own stare without a moment of hesitation in their absolute submission. Even for the ones like Youngjae, feigning at spitefulness, the automatic reaction of their bodies when Namjoon approaches, quickly gives them away in their convincing play. Still, to give credit where credit’s due, Jackson can’t help but wonder, just exactly how the other man has got all these wispy, pretty things turning towards him like he could somehow hand them the moon on the string with just a simple brush of a blasphemous finger at their jaws, under their throats, through fluffed hair, and against pouted cheeks. He can’t say his own pocketed hands haven’t begin to itch, urged, just slightly to touch, with the careless affection Namjoon gives and inexorably receives with every passing pet.

It’s been too long on his own, too cold without at least the casual embrace of another human body. Jackson had thought himself stronger without it, but, scanning over the blatant display of soft, bared flesh before him, he considers the possibility of self-sabotage.

The end of the chain of murmured introductions finally reaches the last kneeled pet, and Jackson looks down, a short spark of remembrance tripping in his mind. He was the only one without a collar, Jackson notes, eyes traveling over the open skin along a pale neck all the way down to exposed collarbones. The pet wears the same half-unbuttoned dress shirt, spread across wide shoulders to show off an expanse of unmarked flesh, paired with black silk shorts, barely a hint of its hem peeking out beneath draped linen, and the rest of it practically swallowed by the thick muscle of bared thighs. He looks up at Jackson now, gaze a hazy mix of brewed coffee, hazelnuts, and a clear night’s sky, and Jackson swallows around the sudden lump in his mouth. He does his best to stare back, steady but not demanding, and all he receives is a dreamy blink from sleepy fox eyes.

There it is again - the twitch in his fingers, the hot irritation against his palms. Peach round cheeks call for the lightest of pinches, the glossy curve of a sharp cupid’s bow tempt an errant finger. Jackson has never met a cherub with such inky black hair, swirling in wisps of silk across gently fluttering eyelashes. The pet tilts his head, baring the translucent vein of his collarless neck in the dusty yellow lighting of the drug den, and Jackson is compelled to cover the spotless skin there with his own calloused, scarred palms.  

What is something so vulnerable, so soft doing here, trapped, in a place like this?

The compulsion grows stronger, to do more than watch - rather to touch, to cover, to protect, and Jackson realizes it’s too late when Namjoon’s gone silent, when the whole room has fallen into a smoky hush because somehow, suddenly, there’s a warm cheek pillowing itself into the curve his palms, black silk nuzzling over his jumping pulse, and the innocent brown light of two upturned orbs drawing him in like a silent siren’s song. He can’t breath for an eternity of uncountable seconds.

“I see Jooheon has already introduced himself to you.” Namjoon’s deep baritone rings through Jackson’s jumbled thoughts, and his hand inadvertently flinches against the lenient curve of the pet’s - Jooheon’s - proffered flesh. A soft chirrup echoes over his palm, and his attention is drawn down to a pair of full lips, pulled into an expression Jackson would call a strangely petulant pout.

“Feeling forward today, hmm?” the other man hums, so sweet it’s like a mother cooing to her baby, and Jackson watches the same tattooed hand that had caressed so many others, thread itself into gleaming locks, pressing and kneading until Jooheon’s porcelain neck is arching backwards in plain submission. His own hand falls empty to the side, only a heated imprint left along its flattened palm.

Jackson forces himself to speak, to keep up an unfazed pretense, even as Namjoon’s ink-stained finger begins winding its way down the stretch of Jooheon’s bared neck, the upside down cross of his middle knuckle pressing against the hollow indent at the base of the pet’s collarbones. “So,” he prompts, voice raw and rough, “why no collar?”

It’s like he hasn’t been heard at all as Namjoon’s reverent touches continue for a few moments, arched gaze completely focused on the slight part of the pet’s supple mouth. He’s about to dislodge the awkward cough in back of his throat, when finally, the other man straightens with an age-old sigh, hand slipping, reluctant, from Jooheon’s unmarred throat. He slips the same hand into his pocket, shoulders flat, a perfect mirror of Jackson’s posture as his voice hardens into the same deep register from before.

“Simply put, he doesn’t talk.” He glances back down, meeting Jooheon’s diaphanous gaze, eyes softening for the barest of moments before looking up again. “We know he can understand us, but ever since we found him three years ago, he hasn’t uttered a single word. The clients are, to say the least, a little put off by his muteness.” Namjoon sighs again, body depressing with the strong exhale as if from some sense of personal disappointment, and Jackson’s heart picks up pace again as he picks through the hidden implications behind the other man’s statement.

Broken, not good enough, a simple piece of decoration, abandoned, pushed off to the side - and perhaps his for the taking.

“I want this one.”

Jackson is brazen, unflinching as he steps forward, the remnant of heat on his clenched hand drawn, magnetized, to Jooheon’s tilted stare, and he boldly declares his newfound intent with his gaze directly on Namjoon’s and his grip at the side of the pet’s sluggish pulse. A vibration sounds against his palm, and he finds himself stroking his thumb absentmindedly over the edge of a rounded jaw, soothing away what suspiciously sounds like whines under the rough pad of his finger.

Namjoon’s sharp gaze shifts minutely towards his boss, who’s lit up another acrid cigarette between his stern lips, some kind of invisible assent passing between the smoke curling through the room before he’s turning back to Jackson, eyes narrowed with an unpleasant twist to his mouth. “Don’t be brash. I mean, I’ve just told you what’s wrong with him - are you absolutely sure?”

An ugly twitch convulses through Jooheon’s previously smooth pulse, and Jackson tightens his grip around the back of the pet’s neck until the minute shaking finally subsides into his touch. “Of course.” He smiles, baring his teeth in what Kihyun calls his absolutely shit-eating grin.

Namjoon frowns, a dark shadow flitting over the hard edges of his expression, and Jackson tenses in preparation for another growled protest, but then Howon’s cold-steel voice is ringing through the thick air between them, dispelling the argument with the sharp incense of his smoking cigarette.

“Let him have what he wants. After all-” he takes another drag of the burning cancer stick, its flaring embers illuminated in his dead gaze, “what more could you want than a pet that would never talk back to its master? Perhaps,” he blows out another trail of gray smoke, pinched eyes turning on Jooheon for a second, “maybe even more should learn from his example.”

Jackson smiles, the lines of his face tight, and he nods his silent thanks. Howon returns it with a minute twitch of his own lips, and motions with a careless sweep of his hand for everyone to file out of the room. His men blend into an amorphous grouping of plain back as they sweep out the door, and the pets rise to their bare feet, following after them in a line of pure white. Jackson strains his neck, catching Jooheon’s hazy coffee and stardust eyes with an attempt at a genuine grin. He receives a slight perk of lips, complete with a hint of dimples, before Jooheon (pet, his mind whispers) is gone, the curled crown of his jet black head melting back into a sea of black and white.

Namjoon stares as he stalks past Jackson, the last one out of the room save for Jackson himself and Howon. His stringent gaze is unreadable, and the young boss watches the hunched lines of his back disappear out through the carved doorway before deciding to wipe away the worry in his mind for other much more pressing thoughts. Namely, thoughts about his newly acquired pet with the face of a cherub, the stare of an oracle, and the voice of a trapped songbird. Jackson is determined to hear him sing somehow.

Howon flicks the cigarette to the floor, grinding it into ash with the heel of his shoe as he regards Jackson with something akin to acceptance as he finally strides towards the empty doorway. “He’ll be sent your way shortly. Please feel free to wait outside.”

He gestures with an upturned palm towards Jackson’s direction, and they shake hands again, meeting each other’s gazes with unfiltered intentions. Howon smiles, broad lines indenting themselves into each cheek, the top row of his teeth glinting like a full moon on a dark night.

“It was good doing business with you.”

Sleep with me: (it’s after the first afternoon of the bargain)

Jackson's brought Jooheon home, got him all soft and settled in his room with a big fancy upholstered bed as he sits behind his desk to finish up some work, quietly observing the pet occasionally the entire time. Jooheon is technically allowed to roam free, but he only sits at the foot of Jackson's bed dozing with his head and arms propped against a corner, looking up ever so often out through the open windows and over at Jackson. Jackson gets up every 30 minutes or so, just to squat down next to the pet, looking him in the eyes only to receive a sleepy blink and he can't help but run his hands through fluffed locks as Jooheon coos contentedly into his hand. He always wonders if Jooheon needs anything, if he ever wants to get up, but it doesn't ever seem like it so the come and go kinda cycle continues until it's dark and Jackson's stripping messily out of his jacket and pants to go to bed - all nightly rituals forgone for today due to the big deal. And there's Jooheon, still propped against the bed, watching him out of the corner of sleek eyes, pale thighs a creamy contrast against the dark wood of his floor and jackson's plodding over on bare feet, squatting again for a last time, patting lightly at chubby cheeks as Jooheon props his head up to smile at him and Jackson's like "...I'll be going to bed now"

And Jooheon's plain smile only continues, nodding a little as Jackson begins slipping under his covers, and of course Jackson can only sit there, warm and suffocating in bed as he watches Jooheon's dark head lay back down against the corner of the mattress, legs still coiled against the cold hardwood floors - and it its him, he hasn't given permission yet. So then he's throwing back the covers, and scooching to the edge of the bed and cradling his palm under Jooheon's cotton soft cheek again, lifting the pet to look up at him and there's little red wrinkles of sheet imprints against Jooheon's round cheeks and jackson's heart twinges w such a sore ache he doesn't know how to reach out without immediately forcing himself onto the pet and scaring him off. Jooheon just blinks at him, brown eyes liquid and hazy with sleep, almost pouting indignantly. and Jackson, just reaches the same hand through his hair, smoothing back rumpled bangs, over and over again, scratching lightly at the pet's scalp as Jooheon's neck arches in his grasp and he's wiping a thumb over the red marks on Jooheon's face as he whispers "Sleep with me?" patting lightly at the silk clad body of his bed. Jooheon's cocking his head for a few seconds, staring at Jackson with soft open eyes and the older man is almost scared he wasn't understand - but then there's a sleeved hand pulling around his arm and he's automatically hauling up jooheon by his waist, the light weight of arms looping around his neck as the sweet scent of warmth and strangely dried flowers blooms through his nose. Jooheon's cradled in his lap, smooth legs curled up over his tanned own and jackson looks wonderingly down at his hands, practically melting into the curve of Jooheon's waist (Ref: https://ton.twitter.com/i/ton/data/dm/920418165968003077/920418148964212736/eph4Vr04.jpg:large ) All curled in Jackson's lap, wisps of hair brushing against the other's cheek Jackson is casually just holding Jooheon, feeling the way a warm soft body is shifting against his and of course Jooheon is still clad in the "uniform" of the other pets a plain loose white dress shirt and a pair of fine silk shorts. He's roughly fingering the edge of said shorts, looking over when a breathy whine comes past his cheek and he hikes the pet up higher in his lap, securing both hands around his waist and asks slowly, calmly "what kind of clothes do you like Jooheon?" He's receiving that same tilted stare again, eyes slit in an unreadable moment of consideration and jackson finds himself stroking casually at the pet's flank, some kind of strange reassurance he supposes. (like even getting a pet in the first place was only a power play, but now that he has one that's so soft...he's not sure how to handle him) Then there's a rounded finger poking, tracing down his bare chest and he has to stop himself from reacting at the sudden thrill that runs through him, following the pet's lidded gaze towards his own bare chest and he can't help but sigh, even as he tightens his grip around the other's supple waist like "You really don't talk, do you?" but the finger keeps poking, insistent, and there's a high whine reverberating at the edge of his cheek as Jooheon adamantly pushes up against Jackson's bare chest and Jackson really doesn't understand, no clothes? His chest? Naked? But then frustrated, a little huff of breath tickles along the column of his neck and the finger turns to point at the scattered pile of loose t shirts on the back of a dressing chair at the other corner of his room and Jackson tentatively tries "...My clothes?" and suddenly there's a happy coo of approval, sliding like silk over his collarbones and Jooheon's dark head of hair is bobbing eagerly as he re-situates himself back into the cradle between Jackson's legs. The next morning Jackson is pulling a droopy Jooheon by a limp wrist over to his closet and opening the entire thing as he gently pushes Jooheon in front of him  and he's stating calmly into Jooheon's ear, lips brushing past wayward curls, pressing the center of his palm into the small of the other's back like “Choose whatever you want" and then there's a small sound of wonderment in the back of Jooheon's throat and he's carefully approaching the vast closet. Pushing and pulling things aside so slowly if Jackson closed his eyes he wouldn't be able to hear a thing, but he waits, patient, watching as he carelessly rifles through his own suits and pulling a pair on. But when there's finally a soft pair of footsteps behind him, he looks over to see Jooheon clad in one of his old, ratty oversized winter sweaters, collarbones entirely on show, still bared neck too vulnerable in the warm morning light. The hem of the sweater is most definitely too long, falling midway to bare thighs that all jackson can see is leg and more leg, he gets the cocked head look for the third time since the bargain, and all he can focus on is the long stretch of skin at Jooheon's neck. The only thing he can do to distract himself from Jooheon's suddenly more scandalous choice of fashion, is to draw the pet close, wrapping the callused skin of his palm over the other's dimpled cheeks as he mutters "We've got to get you a collar soon." in which he receives a purring sound of approval sleeved fingers come up to clutch gently at his wrist, keeping his hand there as Jooheon presses himself happily into Jackson's grip.

Outside perspective: Word spreads fast that the boss is entirely enamored, even obsessed, with his new pet. Kihyun notes the daily gossip with a blank face and open ears. He can’t refute it; Jackson practically brings Jooheon with him wherever he goes - regardless of societal propriety.

You like sweets?:

He needs glasses: probably kihyun again?

A pet for a pet: kitty

“You really don’t talk, do you?”: probably the whole “jackson” “master” thing

What else would it be used for?: kihyun being mean

“I need to be careful tonight - for you”: the party

--- cowritten with and conceived with the brilliant @deardystopia

Blind/mute magic au

in one of those fantasy universes where everyone happily coexists and the humans live well in the world w/ other magical creatures

and jooheon's just your typical neighborhood witch

but what if he was cursed somehow when he was younger and so he's blind

but he still manages to get around well enough and every week there’s a delivery boy to help get him materials and to send off the charms he makes

its like a quiet and domestic life but what if his usual delivery boy gets switched for someone else

because they're doing their new spring reshuffling thing so older employees get a new route and the new ones get to learn the old ones

and so changkyun is one of the new delivery boys and its one of the few jobs he feels safe enough doing w/ his disability - he's deaf

and so the old delivery boy knew about Jooheon's disability and knew how to work with that, knowing which wards on the door he should purposefully set off to let the witch know he was there

RIGHT LIKE IM JUST IMAGINING jars with dried flowers and crystal sunlight filtering through open windows as jooheon makes some tea for ck

ok so like usually jooheon's used to the right wards going off and so the delivery boy will just leave the package and then take the already pre-wrapped and pre-set charms to ship off

but like this time it feels completely different and so he gets up to go an d check

so like ck standing there awkwardly cause he doesn't see a doorbell and decides to knock on the door but then it swings open on its own to reveal the owner of the house

i kinda think jooheon would wear like soft browns and whites, like a white turtleneck probs

and changkyun probably layers w/ a ton of jackets and plaid and jeans?

that’s what i was thinking

like this kinda look w/o the kiddy stuff for jh and ck's hairstyle for that too

ck would totally wear a ton of hoodies and loose jackets

this hairstyle w/ the middle part for jh

soft flower witch jooheon

omg yesss

yeah the middle part is what i was thinking

and like a simple silver necklace or smth w/ a little bee charm

or a flower i honestly can't decide

i think it'd just be really cute to have a scene where jooheon gently feels around changkyuns face to get an image of him and he doens't realize he's kinda looking directly into ck's eyes and is a little too close

i totally want them to go for a walk together on a rainy day

and jooheon puts a charm on their umbrella so nobody gets wet

its cute and ck taps against his wrist to guide him away from big puddles

and whispers lowly because he totally wants to describe how pretty it is outside to jooheon even though he doesn't usually like to speak cause he doesn't know what he sounds like

delivery boy outfit totally needs a snapback

dude but like what if ck always wears a ton of layers and pulls his hat down low cause he always feels so unsure of himself w/ his disability and tries to shield himself w clothing

but after meeting jooheon

and seeing how open and happily he lives w/ his disability, always smiling and never hiding his eyes even though he can't see

he kind of starts gaining his own confidence

like one day he comes and like jooheon always physically greets him to makes ure its the right person and he's like "oh, no hoodies today?" cause the fabric under his hand is usually thick, but today its just bare skin

and changkyun just smiles shyly and taps out "yep" against jooheons wrist

THIS IS THE TEA JOOHEON MAKES FOR CK IN THE OTHER AU WITH CRUSHED PETALS OR SMTH, And Changkyun s like asks you're blind and yet everything you do is so beautiful

Jk wait that's too early

Like "the tea and the cup match so well" and jooheon just laughs tapping blindly at Changkyun s head and just says "witch senses", the words flowering beautifully across Changkyun’s charmed board as jooheon settles down with his own cup, AND FLOWERS TOTALLY RESPOND WELL TO HIS TOUCH AND IT WORDS SO NATURALLY HE JUST STICKS TO THAT AREA

Like turning up their faces just subtly everytime he walks by, Responding naturally to him and it's very easy for him to use flowers, more so than any other material

Ck would totally be able to see all this sitting at a table and he's just so lovestruck watching the flowers crowd adoringly for Jooheon's attention, Omg what if he usually makes packages of homemade tea with some simple spells integrated to help w sleep or relaxation, Yeeeesssssss but they work really well so he has a good customer base

And also KIHYUN helps design an online page and process Orders

And takes a ton of sample photos to put up on the page

Also in the like about section there's a cute pic of jooheon doing a peace sign w muddy fingers next to some flowers and that's like the only pic of him ever, And there’s definitely an online group dedicated to his tea, like freaking out when a new sample comes out

And also like screaming about how there's only one pic of him but definitely a confirmed cutie bc there handwritten notes that are shaky and messy but super sweet in every package

Ok but like what if minhyuk was blessed w the gift of visual arts so of course he draws

But he also loves running his aesthetic blog and he posts artsy pics of his drawings and cafes and shit

And like one day there's a pic of him and at the corner is boy with softly curled hair and a pink sweater, facemask pulled below his chin as he cups both hands around his cup of coffee, sipping it through a straw as he looks blankly to the side, And his fans are like ???!?!?! And someone is LIKE OH FUCK THAT’S JOOHEON YO

And then minhyuk’s secretly laughing about how adorable jooheon looks and didn't know he took a pic

When his phone suddenly is just like blowing up w alerts, And jooheon sighs "hyung please check your alerts"

And minhyuk is like wtf is going on

And he's getting DM s like

OMFG THATS JOOHEON

YOU KNOW JOOHEON?

PLEASE POST MORE WITH JOOHEON

And then minhyuk Fits the phone against Jooheon's palm, And jooheon can feel the phone continuously vibrating like not stopping at all and he's like "hyung what's going on"

And minhyuk just chuckles at the lost look on his face and says "my followers love you"

And it's the 2nd time he's only ever seen jooheon this red

Followed only by the first time minhyuk had teased him about that new delivery boy and his oh so deep voice, And so jooheon face bursts into flames as he squeaks out "what!!?" before snatching his hand away and desperately sucking at his coffee adamantly ignoring minhyuks guffaws

jh would have this phone case

When Jooheon gets knees deep in fresh spring earth he of course has to change into more suitable clothes. He doesn’t actually know the material or (ha) color of those nice sweaters Minhyuk always forces him to buy, but they’re beautifully soft against his skin. He wants to keep them that way, and as much as he loves the press of wet dirt under his fingers, his sweaters probably wouldn’t appreciate it to the same degree.

So one day Changkyun comes on his usual delivery route, and there’s a note left in Jooheon’s blocky script, I’m out back! with a round creature resembling a bee drawn at the bottom. He finds the witch completely kneeled on the ground on all fours, dressed in tight leggings and a black hoodie, as he digs at an already  significantly deep hole. He taps lightly on the ground with his foot, alerting Jooheon of his presence.

“Changkyun?” Jooheon immediately looks up, eyes blindly flickering towards his general direction. The delivery boy hums lowly and taps again in affirmation, and Jooheon’s smile widens even more, eyes crinkling shut into thin slits, the indents of dimples forming like two shadowed ponds on his cheeks.

Once he’s sure of the right person, the witch turns back to the task at hand, fumbling for the shovel as he starts digging again. The pit’s deep enough Jooheon has to sink his upper body forward, raising his lower half in the air in a meager attempt to keep balance. Changkyun’s eyes are inevitably drawn to his pert bottom, tightly clad in leggings he’s never seen before.

He shuffles over and sits down next to Jooheon, clearing his throat as he prepares to speak. “I’ve never seen you wear this before,” he comments casually as Jooheon pauses to pay attention to his words. “That’s right,” the witch ponders, and the shape of his mouth corresponding with the letters scrawling across Changkyun’s charmed board. “I don’t usually wear this kind of….” he grimaces, searching for the right word, “tight clothing?”

He sighs, ruffling dirt crusted fingers in his hair and Changkyun watches, scrutinizing as the wet earth sticks adamantly to shining locks. Their disabilities make them sensitive towards certain forms of contact, and brushing the other’s cheeks clean of dried earth would definitely be a violation of Jooheon’s comfort zone. He keeps his fingers clenched and still against his lap.

“My friends alway watch out for me, bringing me clothing and such. This one,” he gestures at the lycra stretching over his legs, “was from a friend who modeled for an exercise brand. I guess he thought he would send me some to try…” He plucks at the fabric, letting it snap back against his skin, laughing nervously. “It’s not really my kind of thing, well as much as possible to figure out what “my thing” is, but at least it's good for dirty labor?”

Changkyun laughs at his vaguely apologetic expression, the sentence ending itself on his board with a question mark, and he nods sagely in response, tapping once to show his agreement. “You look, you look good.” he forces out, his voice catching tightly in the middle. He doesn’t need to look at his board to understand Jooheon’s reply, all of it completely apparent in the pink in his cheeks and the “o” of his mouth before fumbling quickly into a “thank you.”

Like "you look amazing in pink" and jooheon sighs "I don't know what it even looks like" and minhyuk just flounders to describe it "it's just light, and soft, and....pink??" He ends up stubbornly pushing a pile.of sweaters into Jooheon's hands anyway

Maybe like cursed when he was still in the womb or smth

Cause eventually I want like a scene where he and Changkyun are hanging and he just realizes how happy and comfortable he is w the other and he blinks

And the next moment piercing rays are flooding his eyes and it hurts so much he hides his face in his hands as tears leak out uncontrollably

I need a good reason for why he got that kind of curse put on him tho

Then he gets to match a voice to a face when Changkyun urgently asks, "are you okay"?" leaning over to grasp his wrists

Pink lips pressed into a worried line and almond eyes gazing directly into his own tear stained ones, jooheon can't help but cry even harder

Changkyun flails in panic, wrapping an arm around his back, trying to soothe him as he asks again "what's wrong?"

His board stays empty for a few moments more before they fill with 3 words that leave him perfectly stunned

“I can see.”

Changkyun immediately goes to draw away, some part of him panicking at Jooheon's newfound sight

But the witch turns and immediately lunges to embrace him, both of them landing harshly against the ground as the other hides his face in changkyuns neck

I want to like do something where ck gets to hear like they're made for each other and them being together breaks it but hmmmmm. Changkyun stays still, relaxing his body as Jooheon shakes against him. His neck is wet with tears and its soaking through to his jacket, but he only pulls the other man closer to himself, wrapping both of his arms around the other's middle. Suddenly, something is filtering into his brain, the ever static silence interrupted by pin pricks of hiccuped cries. It can't be, he panics, hands leaving Jooheon's middle to cup around his ears. He can hear the echo of sound against his palms, and curls up, completely overwhelmed. Jooheon sits up confused at the sudden shift of the body below him, and sees with his newfound sight, Changkyun's face scrunched in pain as he turns away from him. Jooheon hurriedly wipes away the gathered moisture, before leaning over to shadow over Changkyun's prone form. “Changkyun, Changkyun-ah! What happened?” He whispers urgently, completely forgetting the other’s charmed board. Neither of them realize it for a moment, when Changkyun looks up at him, comprehension immediate in his eyes.

“I...I can hear,” he stutters, hands dropping incredulously as a world of sounds flood through his ears; the chirp of birds, the whistle of the wind, but most importantly Jooheon’s shocked gasp as he sits up, toppling back onto the ground.

The witch presses a hand over his mouth, muffling any other sounds that could unwillingly escape his throat. It’s silent between them, but for Changkyun it’s more than he’s ever heard all his life.

Jooheon waits hesitantly, before asking as quietly as possible, “Is...is this real?” His voice, light and almost whiny, fits perfectly with the curved script that had written itself across Changkyun’s board many times.

“It,” he chokes at the low rumble of his own voice, “it is.” The shock sets in for the both of them, Jooheon still squinting furiously at all the colors and shapes passing rapidly through his retinas, and the echo of sobs still bouncing in Changkyun’s ears. They lock gazes, newfound senses tingling with every movement, and it’s not definite who moves first, but they simultaneously meet in the middle, bodies crashing in a locked embrace.

[bluebookbadger-blog]

The Price of a Life - Chapter 12

Title: The Price of a Life Fandom (s): Fullmetal Alchemist/Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood Summary: I always thought waking up in another world would be a lot more…interesting. At least slightly exciting and terrifying, but it really wasn’t. It was more of a sudden and underwhelming event, that landed me in the company of fiction and its ignorance to modern physics. I thought it was a dream. Boy was I wrong. Characters: SI/OC, Maes Hughes, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, etc. Rating: PG-13

The next week sped by in a blur, every little inconvenience bringing tears to my eyes. I literally cried over spilled milk. Twice. But, despite the heavy cloud hanging over my head, I had made some headway in my plans. With Gracia, I visited the bank, and relearned the process of making a withdrawal, the banking system quite similar to the one back in my world.

However, on Friday, when I was officially declared well enough to be without crutches and had my stitches removed, was the day of Miss. Reich's funeral. The wake would be held in a funeral home on the other side of the local cemetery.

I didn't tell Camilla or Gracia where I was going, but from my black dress that the Fuhrer had given me and the thin shawl over my shoulders, they could have easily guessed.

The walk felt much longer than it had previously, the hot sun making the stiff black clothes unbearable. My mind drifted to the idea of the wake. Would there be a priest? Would there be a lot of family there? Would I even be allowed to attend? I thought about the last funeral I had attended in my world.

It had been for the old German spinster who lived across the street from us. Me and my siblings always called her Omama. She was strict and would always yell at us for trampling her tulips or letting the chickens free range on her lawn, but the old woman had a softer side.

We would go over to her houseafter finishing our school work to eat some of her famous spritzkuchen, which were like doughnuts. She would help us with our Latin homework, or at least she tried to, her explanations wandering into German. Omama was single, and was the youngest in her family that came to America. All of her siblings had died, and despite her snappiness and angry grumbles, our family had become hers.

My mother had known her when she was younger, and even then my mother would bring her boyfriend of the month over and eat popcorn and watch a movie. Afterwards Omama would take one last look at the guy, and tell my mom he wasn't the right one. My dad was one of those guys, but I think that was the only time Omama was ever wrong about something. Or at least the only time that I know of.

Her funeral had been about a year before I left my world. It was unexpected, or at least as unexpected as the death of a 104 year old woman living alone could be. Ironically, I wasn't even that sad. All I could think about at the wake was all the New Year's Eves spent huddled around her little tube television with a mouthful of popcorn, and all the times she threatened to cook up one of the chickens for eating her tomato garden.

But this wake was going to be very different, judging by Hughes' funeral. It would most likely be curt, professional, and silent. Though I still blamed myself for what happened, some of those self loathing feelings had ebbed. Perhaps she and Albert were destined to die. Maybe someone else had died, somewhere far away, and maybe their death's were simple coincidence.

Somewhere my subconscious dismissed those thoughts as wishful thinking, but they gave me some relief from the weight on my conscience.

The funeral home was small, with vines growing up the brick and mortar sides. There were a few cars and buggies parked haphazardly on the road in front of it. I was frozen standing at the steps, the questions returning.

Just as I was about to turn away, social anxiety clawing at my insides to go back to the apartment, the door creaked open. A man stepped out, a freshly lit cigar between his lips. He wore a top hat and suit reminiscent of one you would imagine in a Jane Austen novel. He had dark hair, by evidence of his twitching black mustache. His eyes stood out the most: bright, clear, blue eyes. Blue eyes that were staring at me.

The man blew a puff of smoke, motioning with the cigar in his hand.

"Ye can go in y'know," The man said, his accent strange compared to the clear and enunciated speech of most Amestrians to which I had spoken. Now that I thought about it, Amestris had almost no variety of dialects, at least not in Central. I suppressed a smile, recalling my cousin Morgan's conclusion that, 'You Nutmeggers have an accent - the accent of not having a damn accent' the same could be said about Central. No slurred consonants, emphasized vowels, or abbreviated words - they spoke as if they were reading from a dictionary.

"Hey, ye okay lass?" The man's gruff voice stirred me from the brief moment of thought. I nodded numbly, all of my fears and sorrow regarding the wake dissipated. I had attended at least a hundred funerals in my time (related to old age and illness, though I believe there may have been a car crash or two in my extended family at some point). This one would be no different. This would be executed with the same solemn, collected, finality that Hughes' funeral had, and I would be just fine with that.

I stepped inside the quaint building, greeted by the homey, slightly smokey scent of the funeral home. Seeing a guest, book, I approached and read the names.

Reich...Reich...Reich...

All family, except for me. I scribbled my cursive name and followed the faint sounds of voices. Everything was strangely muted, my own breathing and uneven steps muffled by the carpeted floor and atmosphere of the hallway. I soon found a small room filled with people who stood in groups of three or four, mumbling quietly to each other.

Suddenly feeling unwelcome, I turned to leave but found my feet unwilling. I had to go in there.

I took a deep breath, and took a few steps into the room. No one even noticed me.

'Finally,' I thought, maneuvering between groups. 'My wish to become invisible had been granted,' At last I was beside the raised casket, the top portioned opened to reveal the body inside. I swallowed a lump in my throat at the sight of her. She looked so peaceful, as if she were asleep, but her stillness was too unnatural and broke the illusion.

Unlike the wakes I had attended previously, there was no kneeler for me to say a few prayers on, not that I was capable of doing so without rekindling the pain in my side. I stood there quietly for a moment, my hands folded before myself for a few whispered prayers. When I finished, I felt the urge to turn and run, before the crowds noticed my presence.

Stronger than that urge was the habit of tradition. I brought my hands to my neck and undid the clasp of my mother's golden necklace, the attached rosary and earring clinking quietly as I lifted it from my chest and laid it in the coffin beside Mrs. Reich.

It was a tradition of my family to put a small token of oneself in the coffin. Some caskets would be stuffed with books and wine glasses, other bedazzled with jewelry and small statues. I considered Mrs. Reich to be one of the few people I knew as family in this world, so the gift was justified. Keeping my eyes trained on the ground, I weaved my way back to hallway.

Stepping softly back into the warmth of the city, but the bright sunlight seemed colder now. I was not going to sit through the funeral, however brief it may have been, just to be alone in a crowd.

Back at the apartment, all was quiet. It seemed the Grace, Camila, and Elicia had gone out for the day, leaving me to my schemes. I limped to my bedroom, exhausted by the long walk. Stripping off the dress, I threw on a loose blouse and some comfortable pants before getting to work. I changed the sheets on my bed, neatly folding every corner, before emptying every drawer and packing it into the bag I had been given.

Once satisfied with my choice in attire, I closed the bag and hefted it onto my shoulder and exited the room. I stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering what I was doing before shaking myself from the doubts and heading to the door.

Quickly placing on the table a previously composed note expressing my wishes to leave, I left the apartment. I moved robotically, I can barely remember even leaving the apartment. My thoughts were elsewhere, wandering the expanse of my life that had led to this cowardice.

That's right, I was a coward. I was just running away from these people and this place. And I was just fine with that. I wasn't even supposed to be here, let alone involve myself in the lives of the people here. It wasn't my place to play God and decide who lived and died, and as of late, I no longer had any power in such matters. And that was okay.

I continued walking until I found the bank, keeping my eyes low as I withdrew some money from my account, receiving hostile glares and suspicion from the teller. I then realized I wasn't wearing a hat, and that I must have appeared mightily foreign to the teller. I didn't care. They couldn't get me arrested for taking money from my account. Well, maybe they could call the police, but what harm would that do? I gathered up the cenz and paper money and threw it into my bag before strutting arrogantly from the bank. I didn't care what they thought.

Night was falling as I made my way farther from the center of the city, the dilapidated flats and closed store buildings becoming more sinister as darkness fell. The lights here were not electric, and it seemed only a few had been lit out of necessity. The exhaustion from the day was making me weary, but the dark alleys and the less than pleasant looking residents of the slum were enough to keep me from lying down in a side street to rest. Still, I needed somewhere to sleep for the night, and I wasn't about to risk any of the parasites or diseases that lurked in the apartment buildings.

So I continued walking towards my destination. I was tired, yes, but fear is a damn good motivator. And currently, I was quite afraid. Afraid of the man who has been walking behind me for a few blocks now, afraid of the prospect of sleeping in some alleyway, afraid of sleeping without a weapon - there was plenty to fear on a night like that.

The man following me was my greatest concern in that moment, his dark silhouette barely illuminated by the flickering streetlamps. I had walked around a block a few times to make sure I wasn't being paranoid, but the figure was definitely stalking me.

It was unnerving, especially considering the only weapon I had was probably in a plastic evidence bag somewhere in Central Command. I guess I could have grabbed a kitchen knife, but it would be too awkward to carry around, and butcher's knives didn't have a handle to keep you from cutting yourself if your hand slid forward. I had no other choice except to keep moving. I could sleep when I inevitably died.

The footsteps disappeared into one of the dilapidated buildings, but my anxiety did not let up.

The slums gave way to the outer ring of the city, populated by the tents and shacks of the homeless. A few fires burned here, the only source of light in the dreary landscape. Most of these fires were encircled by cloaked figures, their tired red eyes trained on the flames and their dark lips speaking in hushed whispers. I kept to the path, but avoided these areas. I may have trusted them in the day, but night made it difficult to discern friend from foe. I doubted even my likeness to the Ishvalans would grant me automatic acceptance in these dark outer limits of the city.

The pathway I walked on was raised above the haphazardly constructed shacks, which sat in low ditches carved into the sandy earth. The path would branch into grids that outlined the square ditches. I imagine that it must have looked like some complex computer chip from the air, with the scrap metal rooves reflecting the silver light of the stars and the fires pin pricks of gold.

I continued walking until I came upon an abandoned fire, the red embers still giving off enough light to be seen from my distance. I began walking towards the dim light, the secondary pathway narrow and ill defined from its surrounding ditches. I somehow managed to maneuver through the maze of pathways without falling down the steep incline to the shanties below. The people who huddled around the fires watched me with unblinking eyes. I could not tell if curiosity or wariness was the cause of their stares, so I avoided meeting their crimson gazes.

I kept my own maroon eyes fixated on the nearing embers. This ditch was slightly larger than the surrounding campsites, but the hovels were more numerous and smaller. I cautiously slid down the incline, the gravel and sand scraping my hands as gravity pulled me down. All was quiet, with the exception of the muffled crackle of the embers. The faint glow revealed several sleeping forms, and I had to push away the urge to continue walking. I needed to rest for a little while, and the chill of the autumn air was numbing my hands.

Stepping gingerly over the slumbering beings, I crouched by the embers and tried to warm my hands. Using a nearby charcoaled stick, I stirred them to life, and reveled in the heat they gave off. The flickering lights illuminated the sleeping forms to reveal children, who huddled together for warmth. It pulled at my heart strings, seeing their thin shivering forms wrapped in rags. Some bore pale scars on their dark skin, evidence of the cruelty such small children had already endured.

I counted them, noting that there was no one in the huts. In total, I could make out at least sixteen children. I wondered where their parents where for a moment, before the memory of the war resurfaced and I once more felt intense pity for the children. Homeless orphans, from my best guess. I shrugged off my jacket and laid it over a boy who wore only a pair of tattered shorts.

Using my bag as a pillow, I laid my head down and looked at the stars. I could never properly see them in the city, where the glaring lights obscured them from view. Here, however, they were bright and clear, sharply defined against the inky indigo abyss of space. They were not familiar at all. No Ursa Major or Andromeda were visible, the scattered lights uncoordinated with any familiar constellations. Another reminder of how out of place I was. Another reminder of this alien world.

At some point in the night I had drifted off, but only briefly, as the first grey lights of the morning sun startled me awake. Well, more than the light, the rumble of engines woke me. The children from the night before were gone, their shabby blankets missing and the only evidence of their existence being the footprints in the sand. My eyes followed the prints to find that they led to the shacks. Before I could investigate further, a truck rolled to a stop above me.

"Hey!" A voice called, a young Ishvalan waving to me. "You want work?" I thought for a moment. Did I want to go on that truck to who knows where for possible 'work' which could be less than desirable? Not really. Did I want to stay here and wait to be confronted and forced to go somewhere else? No. Creepy truck it was!

I nodded, and picked up me bag.

"You won't be needin' that," The man said, motioning to my satchel. I looked at the huts and sighed. Hopefully the children would know better than to rifle through my things. I walked to the nearest shack and placed my things just inside the 'door' which was no more than a sheet of ragged fabric. I took a quick inventory of my clothes, the pants and loose shirt concealing anything that might dissuade a job offer that involved intense physical labor. My boots would hopefully have enough support to keep my ankles from giving out if this 'work' involved being on my feet all day. It was harvest season after all, and the only land outside of the city that was not modified Hoovervilles was farmland from the looks of it.

I scrambled up the incline to the road, where the truck was waiting. I hopped up onto the bed of the truck where the Ishvalan man clapped a hand on my back.

"So, you're new 'round here I'm guessing," He said with a chuckle as the vehicle roared to life and began sputtering down the narrow path away from the city.

"Yes," I responded quietly, hoping not to sound foreign to the man. "What kind of work are we doing?" I asked softly as the truck slowed to a stop, more Ishvalans boarding the truck. Most were young men, strong and shirtless, but a few women boarded as well, their silver locks tied up in braids to be kept out of their faces.

"The Meyer Farm, nice folks, nothin' you need to worry about," He said, moving over as more people crowded the truck bed. "The work's hard though, sure you up for it? You look a little pale," I ducked my head, forgetting that I had no hat to hide my features, which must have been quite conspicuous even in the dim morning light.

"I can handle it," I responded firmly, though I did not meet his eyes. Perhaps I could handle it, perhaps I could not. My hip was quite sore from the long walk the other day, but the pain was manageable compared to the pain when I first received the injury.

The truck continued its stop and go until we reached the edge of the shantytown and the dry sandy earth faded into ranch land. The man spoke with the other riders in a language I did not recognize, at least from the series, which made me nervous. Perhaps I should have stayed with Gracia.

The vehicle thundered to a stop, shaking my worried from my mind as the people got off the truck and immediately set to work. We had stopped at a small farm house, the faded blue paint peeling to reveal the half rotted wood beneath. I followed the crowd, realizing more trucks full of people where off loading their cargo. I followed the man who had invited me, his broad shoulders cutting a pathway in the crowd for me to follow behind him.

I avoided meeting the prying eyes of the other workers, and focused on the man in front of me. He was young, in his mid twenties at most. But scars where raked across his left shoulder, a peppering of bullets that could have killed had they been a few inches lower. I swallowed involuntarily, looking away from the scar tissue. I kept forgetting that these people lived through a war.

Tailing the man, I collected several baskets, each about half a meter in diameter and in depth.

"What are we picking?" I finally asked as we boarded another truck.

"So he can speak!" Exclaimed one of other workers above the engine, an older man with a neatly combed ashen beard. I gave a nervous smile as they gave a small laugh of amusement at my meek demeanor. "It's sugar beet season son,"

"It's Harvest Day, the boss expects frost tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if we're picking greens today," The man I had followed responded, I listening intently. I had picked sugar beets when I worked on Mr. Solosky's farm back home, but I preferred picking greens. Parsley, basil, cilantro, dill, watercress - Solosky's was mainly a bean farm, but we had small fields of greens where most of the girls worked, simply because it was not as labor intense as corn and cucumber harvesting.

"Naw, there won't be frost, my knee isn't aching like it would if there be frost on the way," The older man replied, patting a knee that was barely held together with sinew and stringy muscle. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from asking why there was no automail to facilitate his walking, which must have been impeded by the war injury.

I looked over the edge of the truck, avoiding the current debate over the connection of body aches and weather predictions. The neat rows of vegetables and vine plants spanned much farther than I had ever worked. Where I normally picked 100 yard rows of tomatoes, there was at least a mile of squash and gourd plants. The other side of the road was lined with golden wheat fields that shivered in the wind.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I reminiscence my own time on a farm. Sure the days were long, the sun was hot, and tomato plant tar never came out, but it paid well, and it was a pretty good learning experience. I had to manage small ragtag teams of workers that varied day to day and coordinate with the boss on what and where and when tasks could be completed. Working the register at markets was the customer service facet of the job, laced with irrational demands and crying, impatient children.

This work seemed different though. It seemed as if today would be filled with more monotonous, repetitive picking and less human interactions, which I was completely fine with. I still was not quite ready to throw myself back into the lives of complete strangers, not yet at least.

The truck rumbled to a stop, and I lifted my head to see an endless sea of green rows. The man whom I would be tailing for the day, I am going to start calling him...Roger, because I know it would be rude to ask an Ishvalan their name for their religious reason and whatnot, beckoned me to follow him. I eagerly kept pace with him as he led me to a row of plants that had the faintest scent of beeswax and freshly cut grass - watercress.

Roger plucked some from the moist earth, the morning dew not yet evaporated.

"Pick it just like this," He said, demonstrating the roots still clotted with earth. He then threw it into the basket, and met my eyes for a moment. "Can you do that?" I nodded and set to work, using both hands to grab handfuls of the herb at a time. Roger walked away, satisfied with my pace and began on his own row.

I was wrapped in nostalgia as I worked, the rhythm to the labor setting in as time drew on and the sun grew hotter. I was falling behind, and it began to irk me as Roger passed me despite starting long after I had begun. For a little while I drove myself harder, trying to work fast enough to keep up with the others, but quickly gave up and returned to my previous pace. I was going to burn myself out trying to work any faster than I already was.

My mind wandered in the simmering heat, the sun seemingly too hot for the chill I had felt just hours ago. I worried about being paid, but could not really care for the money. So long as the Ishvalans didn't kick me out of the little camp, I could make due with sleeping under the strange stars.

Wiping some sweat from my brow without looking up, I thought about the children I had stumbled upon. A worry gnawed inside me that they had gone through my belongings, ripped up my Certificate of Honorary Whatnot, and had spent what little money I had on candy. I was swift to dismiss the thought. I could have some faith in them. Until they proved me wrong.

The sun was high in the sky when I finally noticed why I was so much slower than the other workers. Where I picked all six independent rows of Watercress, they went down one side of their row, collecting only half so as to get the rest on the return trip. I looked down the row, seeing that a small gathering was taking place with the truck. All of the workers had completed their half a row.

I assumed they were resting, the shade from the many trees that bordered the field. I licked my lips, realizing how thirsty I was, but quickly went back to the task at hand. I could drink when I finished, and it would take too much time to walk all the way down there just to drink. And so I kept working, my hands black with fertile earth and blistering from the rough handles of the basket.

Memories of Mr. Solosky's farm returned as I found my rhythm again and got back to work.

I could feel the weight of my jeans as I weaved my way through patches of weeds taller than I was to find the last few rows of wax beans, heavy with fruit and hidden from man and beast alike. Anya, Mr. Soloksy's daughter, in her ankle length skirt and flattering t-shirt hard at work in the wash station with piles of sweet potatoes in the sinks. Vitaly and Vladimir would always joke about who would win my sister's heart, only to be shocked by Mary's disinterest in men, and marriage in general. I found myself smiling at the memory of my meek, shy older sibling coming to Harvest Day bonfire with her first, and admittedly only ever, girlfriend.

It took some time for Roger's voice to register, the hum of my own heartbeat and breathing lulling my into a trance-like state of dogged work.

"Kid, 'ey, you all right?" I looked up, sweat beading on my eyelashes making it difficult to focus on the identity of the speaker. I rubbed my face with my elbow, the sleeve of the blouse coarse against my skin. I met Roger's worried red eyes and nodded confidently. He gave an unconvinced smile and handed me a canteen that looked as if it had fallen out of a WWII movie. "We all gotta drink, don't over work yourself,"

I took the canteen and drank, the water cold and refreshing. I'm not sure if everyone can relate, but I took those long, deep, gulping mouthfuls of water you take when you're in a hurry or have just eaten a ghost pepper sandwich. Smiling sheepishly, I handed the now empty canteen back to the man. Looking around, I realized that an entire crowd of workers were standing behind him. Some watched the exchange intently, others sat in the green grass and talked amongst themselves. I had finished my row entirely.

It took a great amount of effort to keep from throwing my arms in the air and flopping down in the tall grass and taking a victory nap. Instead, I shuffled the heavy basket onto the grass and carefully lowered myself to the ground, knowing the hypnosis of work would fade away, leaving pain and aches behind. At least Roger seemed amused. He, with one hand, easily hefted the near full basket onto the bed of the truck, which had acquired a few barrels of water since I last saw it.

"Well, take a rest for now, you deserve it kid," I took his words to heart, but merely nodded and watched the other workers.

Men and women mingled, but none were treated with disrespect. If anything, the people seemed to have some sort of reverence for each other. The older one was, the more respect they commanded, the deeper the nods, the longer the conversation. It was pretty darn strange to me for some reason, which made watching them as I relaxed for a few moments even stranger.

Most of them did not sit down, only the elders took such a privilege. Those who stood did not stand still, they shifted their weight from foot to foot, as if they were still in the fields working to the rhythm of some unsung song. Their respect seemed so unnatural compared to what I had seen in my own world, making me feel somewhat guilty for my place in the grass. But I couldn't have gotten up if I wanted to.

My hip throbbed as though a separate heart had been transplanted there, hot blood rushing through my veins. I must affirm that it was not close to as painful as when I first received it, but Lord almighty did it hurt. I took a moment to pray it was not infected before watching the people again.

Suddenly, they began walking back to their half finished rows. Perhaps the sun had shifted a little or the air had cooled a degree or two to notify them that they all should get back to work, but I could not detect it. Roger walked up to me, and offered me a hand.

"Back to work, brother," He said softly, I doing my best to hide my faltering steps from him. "You can help the Brother," Roger pointed at the old man with the crooked knee, who struggled to stand. I had to resist lifting an eyebrow. The Brother made it sound as if...I answered my own question, realizing most of the monks would have been killed in Ishval, and the probability that this man was the only monk who worked here would make sense.

Roger gave a stiff clap on my shoulder, urging me to go help the man. I glanced back to see he had already traveled back to his own half finished row and had resumed work. I walked over and held out a hand to the Brother, who looked up at me with eyes that sparkled with laughter.

"Child, I have not lost myself quite yet," The man shakily stood, and I felt anxious at the sight of his trembling hands. I could almost see him collapsing into a pile of ash, his fragility disclosed as he regained the strength to take a step. However, once he gained some momentum, the Brother and I shuffled along at a brisk pace to the end of the half picked row.

It took me a moment, but I found the task of carrying the basket to be sufficient in aiding our almost agonizingly slow pace. We trailed behind all other workers, not because we were doing twice as much more, but because it took twice as much time for the stiff, shaking hands of the elder to gather up the greens. It was quite annoying to be honest.

I think those few hours, of just wanting to move a little faster for the sake of finshing the task and getting on to the next really tried my patience. I realize that he was old, and frail, and his age was to be respected, but I came from a world of high speed internet and online shopping. I felt a little entitles to immediate reward, in other words, an empty row behind us. But there was nothing I could do but hold the basket and walking behind him, watching the workers become more and more distant.

I held the basket in my arms, its weight growing with every plant the man added, but I could not complain. Clouds had overcome the sky, blocking the sun from sight. They brought with them a cool, dry wind that smelled of distant apple orchards. This was much more comfortable to work in compared to the blazing heat, but that itch of impatience still compelled me to constantly judge the distance between us and the next hill crest that would let me view the end of the row.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon as we finished, the other workers patiently loading their baskets onto the cargo wagon and standing quietly by the truck. With the final plant of the row plucked from its dusty niche, I hefted the basket around the man and headed for the cargo wagon, which was drawn by a thin mule behind the truck. I nestled it among the countless others, which were carefully balanced in a neat pyramid.

I trudged back to the truck, where the Brother and the workers had already clambered onto its bed. I yawned as Roger helped me up, his hands covered with dirt and slick with sweat. He chuckled at my sleepiness.

"Long day?" I nodded, my back and feet sore and my still healing wound now aching with pain. He gave a half smile and ruffled my hair, the action gaining him a cross look from myself. That right was still reserved for Gracia, and now my hair was dirty and I had nowhere to shower.

The realization then dawned on me - I had no shower. Roger must have observed my face contort with terror at the thought. I was no germophobe, but I needed to shower at least every other day to keep my tangled mane from becoming a feral mass of matted hair. The idea left a sour feeling in my stomach. Perhaps I couldn't move away from Gracia quite yet.

The truck stopped at the farmhouse, and we all sort of staggered off the vehicle best we could and headed to the following mule drawn cart to offload the greens to the safety of the storage sheds. I somehow managed to drag a basket of what appeared to be Romaine lettuce to the shed, a meager contribution compared to the two or three baskets most of the workers carried at a time.

I could not have cared less at that moment. You probably can related to the bone tiredness of pure exhaustion that had glazed over my eyes and sunk into my bones as I sat there being useless while the other workers gathered around the farmhouse porch. Somewhere in my mind I had an inkling that they were being paid, and that I would not get my share if I didn't crawl over there, but the aching of my joints and the throb in my side kept me still.

I had money, and so long as I was welcome in the Ishvalan slums I would not need to spend any of it anytime soon. Well, if my money was still there when I got back. After what seemed like forever the crowd of people shuffled back to their respective mode of transport, Roger climbing up onto the truck and helping the Brother up before coming to sit beside me.

"You didn't get your money," I nodded, the swirling reds and violets of the sunset mesmerizing. "I would have brought it to you, but Mr. Meyers doesn't even know you work for him, not yet," I nodded again.

"Not all of us rely on money for pleasure, child," The old man spoke up, watching Roger with half lidded eyes, "To be close to Ishvala by working with the earth is all some need to find true happiness," Roger bowed his head, a student corrected by the teacher.

"But all of us need money to buy food," I said quietly, looking at the Brother to see his response. The Ishvalan religion had always intrigued me in its ambiguity. The only points made clear about its teachings were that names were considered sacred, and alchemy was strictly forbidden as it was arrogant and perverse in its nature.

"And should not our brothers provide for us?" The Brother asked in response. I was too tired to process the words then, but in retrospective this question was probably a bit of a test for me after I challenged his words.

"One cannot depend on others to provide for you, you must toil for your wheat, and share the excess it with others, that they may plant fields of their own, until all are satisfied," I said, trying to put together a cohesive sentence from the foggy catacombs of church catechisms and Sunday homilies.

"And why don't you share all of your wheat with others?" I gave him a hard stare. We were all tired, it was getting dark, the truck had only one headlight and he wanted to go all Socratic Method right this second?

"I don't know," I said with a sigh, "Probably 'cause you gotta make some bread to eat so that you don't drop dead," This roused a small laugh in the Brother.

"True, my child, quite true," The truck thundered to a stop, I for the first time realizing I was at the camp where the children sat around the fire. I shakily climbed down off the truck, squinting up at the dark figures still left.

"I'll see you guys, have a good night," I bade with another yawn, skidding down the embankment. The children around the fire parted for me, my unopened bag holding a place for me.

It unnerved me a little, the circle of kids sitting around a fire just waiting for me to get off the truck and join them, like some dark cult awaiting the sacrificial lamb. The small boy who now wore my jacket scooted closer to me, eyes alight with curiosity. One of the older children, a young girl who must have been nearing her teens finally spoke up.

"We didn't go through your things, sir," Her voice trembled slightly, but her red eyed stare met me with unexpected intensity. "But where are you from?" The other children began to speak up, questions rising cacophony.

"Where did you come from?"

"How did you afford this coat?"

"Why are you here?"

"Who are you?" That last question hung in the air a moment longer than the other, the child who spoke it recognizing the taboo of its answer. I could only look out tiredly, sleep calling me. I could not help but answer all of them, the routine of my introduction coming reflexively in my exhausted state.

"I'm from Drachma but I have an honorary citizenship, I had a job in the city that paid well, but I lost it, I'm here to work on the farm, and my name is Irish," I said, laying down in the sandy earth. My bag was under my neck, the support easing my aching spine.

I could hear the new questions arise, but the words escaping me. A deep voice commanded silence, and all fell quiet. As curious as I was to its source, I dared not sit up. My hip felt as though the bones were chafing away at each other, and any movement only worsened the damage.

I stared up at the dark sky, the stars blurring as I fought to look up at the beauty for a few moments longer. For a second I thought I glimpsed a familiar belt of stars, but they disappeared as I drifted into unconsciousness.

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